My Weblog

Novel Business

By Elaine Viets

Your novel is published, the reviews are in, the mad whirl of book promotion, signings, blog tours, and book tours are finally over.

Now what?

Well, if you’re lucky, your novel will take on a life of its own, and continue to strike a chord with readers. That’s what happened with my sixth Dead-End Job mystery, Murder with Reservations, published seven years ago.

Helen and I worked as hotel housekeepers for that mystery, and I learned a lot. I cleaned rooms at a Holiday Inn Express, a pleasant, comfortable hotel. Also, a clean one. I measure other hotels by its standards, and I’ve walked out of hotels I thought were dirty.

When I was a hotel housekeeper, my mustard yellow smock worked better than Harry Potter’s Cloak of Invisibility, and at six feet tall, I’m hard to overlook. But no one sees a hotel maid.

I worked with another maid, and the pair of us made 28 beds a day, cleaned 14 bathrooms and the honeymoon suite. You have not lived until you’ve cleaned chocolate out of a honeymooner couple’s hot tub.

Fortunately, my partner preferred cleaning the bathrooms, so I got to dust and make the beds. After my first day of making beds, my back hurt so bad I went to bed with a bottle of Motrin.

Hotel housekeeping isn’t like cleaning house. It’s like cleaning ten houses. In one day.

Here’s something else: DO NOT USE THE  HOTEL COFFEE POT.

Why? You’ll be sorry you asked, but here goes:

My cleaning partner was a bit absentminded and would occasionally wipe the hotel coffee pot with the same rag she used for the toilet.

And when two men shared a room and one was in the bathroom, the other would sometimes use the coffeepot as a urinal.

There. That Starbucks in the lobby doesn’t seem so expensive, does it?

This is the only hotel coffee maker I will use. Note the paper cups. If a hotel provides mugs, I wash mine before using it.

My biggest tip: $2.38 and a can of peach nectar.

Most people don’t tip hotel housekeepers. I didn’t, until I worked as one. If I stayed in a good room, I figured the maid was making good money. Why should I give her more?

Wrong. If she’s lucky – and most hotel housekeepers are women – she’ll make minimum wage. My cleaning partner told me, "If everyone tipped me a dollar a day, I could stay off welfare and my daughter would be proud of me."

One dollar. How often have you handed that much or more to a street person or the bellman who rolls your wheeled suitcase up to your room?

For a hotel housekeeper, a $2 tip can make a difference.

Murder with Reservations debuted at the Malice Domestic mystery conference, and the people who attended got the message. Nearly everyone there started tipping the hotel housekeepers. When Femme Fatale and sister mystery writer (Daughter of Ashes) Marcia Talley was traveling with two busloads of US Naval Academy midshipmen – her husband, Barry Talley was music director –  she asked those 70 young men and women if they’d tipped their maids. Of course, they hadn’t.

Marcia made them all get off the bus and leave a tip.

I can’t count how many people have told me, "I didn’t tip until I read your book."

Tipping hotel housekeepers makes a big difference in their lives – and helps my novel live on in a small way.

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To win Murder with Reservations, click Contests at www.elaineviets.com

The Worst Buddhist Ever.

It's wildfire season in the crispy hills of California again. Last Wednesday, the monotonously blue sky suddenly turned pinkish-gold, ash started falling like bad confetti, and everyone logged on to the CalFire website to watch the spread and wait for evacuation orders.

It was 75 acres at tea-time and 5% contained (although a fire-fighting friend admits they always say "5% contained" to stop people panicking), 1000 acres by bedtime and 10% contained. The next morning, it was 5000 acres and still 10% contained.

It sounds bad but all it means, when an arid, rugged, inaccessible area of manzanita trees and dead grass is burning, is that the firefighters and dozer drivers have decided where to put the break and they're letting the fire come to meet it.

It worked too. Just like it worked last year. A week later it's 6900 acres and 70% contained. 1800 firefighters, wearing enormous boots, coats and hats in 90f weather, have worked round the clock for six days, and they're winning. Now the worst they have to suffer is being grabbed and hugged by random women in the street when they come down to the town to take a break. (No, not me - I was driving past; I just tooted my concurrence.)

The evacuees are back in their houses, nothing burned down except one outbuilding, and all the country dwellers who mump about our extra fire tax - $117 a year! - have presumably canned it for a while.

But I had one hairy half hour this year. On Friday afternoon I looked out the window and saw this:

It was a long way south of the break and pretty close to my house, at least when fires can spread 4000 acres overnight.

Now, I *knew* as long as the people and animals got out, the rest of it shouldn't matter (and I'm the only one of my neighbours without horses, cows, sheep or llamas to evacuate). I calmly put birth certificates, passports, and greencards in the car, set a Tupperware tub and a scoop next to Lucy and Desi's aquarium, shut the catflap and lined the carrier with a clean towel . . . and then looked around at oil paintings and antique mahogany and flying-duck lamps and Beswick Circus china and Coronation tea-caddies and that plastic salt and pepper set in the shape of a 1950s telly and the table my husband and father made from a eucalyptus tree and my sister's schoolbag that I still use as a lap-top case and the jewelry box lined with barkcloth from my Granny's MacDonald's peg-bag.

For the first time in my life I really wished I was a minimalist who bought beige stuff from Ikea. I tried to get my mind to bend to the idea that possessions are just objects, that I could detach myself from all my tchotchkes, break the connections and drive away with memories intact. I failed. Even with the rainbow leis from this year's San Francisco Pride I failed. This year. If I had evacuated I might well have thrown them in the car and taken them with me.

But CalFire rode to the rescue. Half an hour later the view was this:

I put the documents away, fed the goldfish, let the cat out and spent the next few days wondering what to do about the fact that I'm so attached to the things in this house. (Not to the house itself; it's no secret that I live in The Ugliest House in California. It was built in the 70s by someone whose rugged western individualism was at odds with the notion of hiring an architect.)

In the end I decided minimalist emotions aren't my style. I'm going to carry on loving my ridiculous collection of stuff too much and, if my house burns down one day and I lose the plastic telly salt and pepper and the rainbows leis from SF Pride 2015, I'll fall apart. Maximally.

 

HAPPY FOR PLUTO

There are lots of television news stories that make me sad or invoke a real depression about the state of humanity. But let me tell you, I’m happy as all get-out when I get to see a planet so remote I cannot even imagine it. And though poor Pluto has been downgraded, it will always be a planet to me. The recent photographs of it have delighted and fascinated me.

Pluto is a world so remote I cannot even imagine what it looks like . . . until I see a picture of it. When I looked at the recent shots of Pluto, I was absolutely in awe – not only of the place itself, but of the achievement of human beings in reaching out to look at it. My awe expands along with my awareness of my own tiny pinprick of an existence in the enormity of the universe. This is a timely bit of perspective.

I know there is a certain amount of controversy about space exploration. There are many people who feel the money spent on looking at other planets should be better spent on providing food for the hungry. I can’t argue with feeding people. Who would? But when I see the pictures of far-away worlds, this seems like the most noble and necessary expedition of all.

Surely learning about our solar system and the planets that float (whirl, orbit, whatever) within or beyond it is a worthwhile pastime. If science fiction writers and some scientists are correct, we may need to find an escape hatch in the future. The more we know the better. If that seems too fanciful for you, think about the knowledge we will gain by learning about those amazing places. I don’t think there’s such a thing as too much knowledge.

The search for life in other galaxies is a fabulous quest. But the pleasure of exploring planets that do not have life – as we know it – is just as worthy. Though I am the least scientific of people, and probably have a very limited understanding of the data we collect in this exploration, I am so excited and enthusiastic with each new quest that you’d think I was going to try to colonize Mars. Are you as stunned with amazement as I am over these achievements?

Charlaine Harris

Treasures on My Shelves #2

I have written many times about the influence of Nancy Drew in my life, and Nancy was the first series character whose books I collected. Before I encountered Nancy Drew, I don't recall having the impulse to own books. We had shelves full of books at home when I was growing up, but they were books my parents purchased. Only after I met Nancy did I feel a burning desire to choose books myself to add to those shelves.

I can't recall after all these years which book in the series I purchased first, but I do know that, among the books in my Nancy Drew collection, are copies that I have owned for well over forty years. I also gave copies of the books to the Elizabeth Jones Library in Grenada, and the last time I visited the library a few years ago, they still had some of those books I donated on the shelves, obviously heavily used over the years.

At first I simply wanted to have a copy of each book in the series, but at some point I discovered that for some of the titles there were different versions. Some versions were over 200 pages long and had 25 chapters; others were under 200 pages with only 20 chapters. What was going on here? That's when I discovered that the books, beginning in 1959, were being revised. After all, Nancy first appeared in 1930, and by 1959, the technology and the attitudes in the original books were outdated.

To the budding collector, however, this meant that I had to have copies of each title in both versions. By the time I started reading and collecting, the revision process had been going on over 10 years, so there were about 15-20 books that existed in both versions. (The revision process continued into the mid-1970s, when the last of the original 34 books with 25 chapters was revised.) Along the way, of course, I discovered other series, like the Dana Girls, Judy Bolton, Trixie Belden, the Hardy Boys, and the Bobbsey Twins, and I started collecting those series, too.

But Nancy has always had pride of place in my collection, and after 40-plus years, the collection has grown to 300 or so volumes, including foreign editions. Nancy was translated into numerous languages, and I have some in French, Norwegian, and Swedish. In France, she is Alice, and in Sweden, Kitty. I also have editions from the UK and Australia, but by no means do I have a comprehensive set of the series in any foreign language.

Eighty-five years after her first appearance, Nancy seems to be going strong still. There are newer series of the books, but to the true series collector, the first series of 56 volumes is the anchor of any collection. Occasionally I pull one of the books from the shelf and enjoy re-reading and spending time with Nancy and her chums. It's great fun to step back into the past -- into Nancy's as well as into my own -- and enjoy the adventure all over again.

 

    

Is it Real? Or is it...

HANK PHILLPPI RYAN: It's the biggest unsolved mystery in Boston--what happened to the art taken in the Gardner Museum heist? And adding to the mystery--who in the wold might have the Rembrandt and the Vermeer and all the other treasures? Who could display them? I mean--you'd have to tell people they're copies. Right?

The desire for art treasures is the stuff not only of movies and novels--it's the stuff of real life black market commerce. And --not only in Boston, greed begets--well, let the talented Sarah Wisseman tell you a story of a controversial antiquity--or is it?-- that's confounding the experts. (And then read on--to hear about her fabulous new book!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           ART FORGERY

           LEADS TO MURDER

              by Sarah Wisseman

 

    The label says “artist unknown” and a date of “about 530 B.C., or modern forgery.” What is it? A Greek statue of a young man, or kouros. It’s a statue, purchased by the J. Paul Getty Museum in Malibu, California, and the center of an international controversy. Was one of the richest museums in the world hoodwinked by paying a cool nine million for the statue in 1985? Or does the Getty possess one of the best-preserved examples in existence of Archaic Greek sculpture?

Nobody knows. After art historians examined it and pronounced it a pastiche of sculptural styles and “too good to be true,” the statue was whisked off display for further tests. After geologists typed the marble and dissected the patina on the statue’s surface, scholars from all over the world gathered in Athens, Greece, to debate the kouros’ authenticity. The verdict was surprising: experts were split down the middle, half of them deeming the statue an original Greek sculpture, half believing it is a forgery produced in Rome. Unlike many museums that hide suspect art in their storerooms, the Getty had the good sense to put the statue back on display with all the art historical and scientific argument so the viewers can absorb the evidence and decide for themselves.

The Getty kouros story fascinated me because it’s such a great example of how art historians and scientists can work intensively together and still not produce a conclusive or desired result. It also inspired my latest novel, Burnt Siena (Five Star, June 2015). In this book, the beginning of a new series, young conservator Flora Garibaldi takes her first professional job with a renowned firm of painting conservators in Siena, Italy. But instead of doing the advanced repairs and in-painting she’s been trained for, Flora finds herself doing menial tasks such as mixing gesso for picture frame touchups. Then, her colleague and roommate Ernst Mann is found dead in the street below their apartment balcony. The Italian police, after ruling Flora innocent of murder, persuade her to spy on her employers. Flora is trapped between the competing demands of the Carabinieri and the Lorenzettis: genial Beppe, sulky Pietro, and hunky and amorous Marco. Flora thinks Marco is being used by his family to divert police attention and generate income by replicating Greek sculpture. Will Marco’s statue be sold as a legitimate, museum-grade copy, or as a Greek “masterpiece?” Flora’s emotional turmoil grows as she works to protect Marco, avenge Ernst, and fight her growing attraction to policeman Vittorio Bernini. 

At the heart of the story is the age-old dilemma of what market value to place on a “priceless” antiquity or a first-class forgery. Private buyers will pay enormous sums to purchase something they believe enhances their own prestige or that of their collections. Major museums all over the world have bought art works of dubious provenance that turn out to be stolen or faked.  And the most peculiar aspect of the art market is how supply and demand works: as long as people continue to pay ridiculous for hijacked antiquities or classy forgeries, unscrupulous men will continue to rob archaeological sites and fake masterpieces.

 

 

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Sarah Wisseman, a retired archaeologist at the University of Illinois, is the author of four Lisa Donahue Archaeological Mysteries set in Boston (Bound for Eternity and The Fall of Augustus) and the Middle East (The Dead Sea Codex and The House of the Sphinx) and one stand-alone historical mystery (The Bootlegger’s Nephew) set in Prohibition-era Illinois. Visit her at sarahwisseman.com

 

What I'm not reading. Not yet. But soon! I promise!

by Donna Andrews.

One of the great things about hanging out with writers is that you make friends with people who write cool books, and you find out when they have new books coming out. (That's Lord of the Wings, my cool soon-to-be-out book at left.)

One of the not-so-great things about hanging out with writer friends is that you find out about way more cool books than ever before, and keeping up gets harder than ever. Especially since I tend to read less fiction when I'm deep in writing, and almost none while I'm trying to produce my first draft. Which is what I'm doing now. So much as I would love to follow in fellow Femme Mary Saums's example and share what I'm, reading . . . sorry, writer friends! I'm saving you up till the first draft is done.

But I thought I'd share a few of the books hanging around on on my bedside table, waiting till I have time for them. Which means when I either finish my draft or succumb to temptation.

Alan Orloff's Running from the Past (Kindle Press, March) has an interesting publishing history—Alan was one of the first writers chosen to be published through Amazon's Kindle Scout program. In the book, successful entrepreneur Colby Walker takes his family on the lam in an attempt to save his son's best friend from the same kind of abuse Walker experienced in his own childhood. From the bits I've seen—Alan and I are in a writing group together—it's a real nail biter. And I'll get to that biting . . . soon.

 Ghost Image (Simon and Schuster), Ellen Crosby's second Sophie Medina mystery, came out in April. Since I'm also in a writing group with Ellen, I've already read bits of this, including the opening, in which Sophie meets Brother Kevin Boyle, a Franciscan friar who's also an internationally respected environmentalist, who tells her he's being stalked because he's uncovered a botanic rarity that could be worth millions. And shortly afterward Brother Kevin is murdered. Not only do I want to read the book, I'm dying to visit the murder scene—the gardens of the Mount St. Sepulchre Franciscan Monastery in the Brookland neighborhood of D.C. I'll get there—book and garden—when the draft is done.

 I'm a couple of books behind on Allison Leotta's Anna Curtis series, but when she spoke to our local Sisters in Crime chapter last month I won an ARC of A Good Killing (Touchstone, May 2015) and bought my copy of the fourth, Speak of the Devil (Touchstone, September 2014) so I'm ready to play catch-up. Allison draws on her own career as a federal sex-crimes prosecutor to create Anna Curtis's world—and in the latest book, Anna returns to her hometown outside of Detroit to help her sisters, who has been accused of killing a popular high school coach.

I'm not, in general, a big thriller reader, but whenever the latest installment in John Gilstrap's Jonathan Grave series arrives, I am tempted to drop everything to read it that night. Part of it is the human scale. Tell me a book is about saving the world from anthrax/ISIS/neo Nazis/mutant hackers from outer space and I will agree that it's a virtuous and worthwhile thing to do, but may or may not be fun to read about. But John sucks me in by combining thriller pacing with a very human-scaled drama. Saving the world may happen, but there's also usually saving one very specific human being for whom Jonathan and his associates are the last hope. In Against All Enemies (Pinnacle, June 2015), it's a fellow combat vet has gone rogue, whom Jonathan must bet to before black ops assassins take him out. Soon.

I enjoyed Tagged for Death, the first book in Sherry Harris's Sarah Winston Garage Sale Mystery, so I plan to pick up The Longest Yard Sale (Kensington, June 2015) soon! Even though I know her heroine's skill in helping people declutter will only make me envious and trigger one of those fits of office cleaning and organizing that many of us writers are prone to having as our deadlines loom. So maybe there's a good reason to keep this one till after I finish the first draft.

Maya Corrigan's Scam Chowder (Kensington, June 2015) is also going to induce guilt, because Val Deniston, her heroine, actually cooks. And mostly recipes with five ingredients. Who couldn't manage that? Well, me, apparently, especially when I'm in the middle of a draft. So I'm going to save up Maya's latest until I've just committed something that resembles cooking, and then I'll read it. With any luck that should happen sometime before the end of the millennium.

Susan Spann, who serves on the MWA board with me, just came back from a cool trip to Japan—I'm having photo envy already, and the craving for a trip to the Land of the Rising Sun will get even worse after I read The Flask of the Drunken Master (Minotaur, July 2015), third in her Shinobi series set in 16th Century Japan. And in case, like me, you're only slightly knowledgeable about Japanese history, “shinobi” is what the Japanese would call those legendary warriors we think of as ninjas. Cool stuff! Which I will get to read . . .soon!

I've also been devouring fellow MWA board member Greg Herren's Chanse MacLeod and Scotty Bradley mysteries and planning to move on to his standalone young adult books, so the release of The Orion Mask (Bold Strokes Books, July 2015) is going to be a tantalizing temptation. (I should confess that I was starting to wonder about Greg when I first saw the announcement that it was coming and misread the title as “The Onion Mask.” Shows what happens when you spend too many hours with your nose to the grindstone and your eyes on the screen.) Orion's much better. Dark family secrets in a beautiful old mansion on the Mississippi—I'm there! Well, soon.

I'm relieved to find at least one writer friend I'm not behind on, since Deborah Blake's Veiled Magic (Berkley) won't be out till November. I've enjoyed the first two books (and novella) in the Baba Yaga series—book three coming out in February—and definitely plan to pick up this new standalone. But at the moment, I'm caught up with her. .Well, maybe with her fiction. Since Deb has written nine nonfiction books about witchcraft, only one of which I've read in part, I guess I am behind after all. Sorry Deb. But the draft calls.

I could go on—these are only nine of my writer friends. I have many more, and I can almost certainly assure each and every one of them that I'm at least one book behind, but planning to catch up. Soon! Soon!

And that's the plaintive cry of the writer on a deadline.

 

July Reviews

 

by Mary Saums

 

I hope you all are having a good summer and finding great books to read! Here's what I've been reading:

 

HELP, THANKS, WOW by Anne Lamott

Anne Lamott is that special kind of writer who delivers great content and touches your heart no matter what she's writing about. In HELP, THANKS, WOW, she takes on prayer. Not in a normal how-to book way, but through her life stories and thoughts on God and the Great Beyond. 

As always, her ability to speak honestly and convey feelings is a wonder to me. It's like listening to an old friend, someone who is trying hard to figure things out, insecure, but also wise and deeply good. And pretty funny at times too.

 

HAUNTED LIVERPOOL by Tom Slemen

 

This collection of ghost stories set in and around Liverpool was, as you might guess, pretty darned Fab. I thoroughly enjoyed it. What I liked best was that most of the ghosts here are on a loop. That is, they tend to reappear over years, sometimes even decades. Like a WWI soldier, in uniform and carrying his rifle, who is seen on a certain train. He sits for some time, then gets up and walks out and into a brick wall. I love it when that happens. :) Will definitely be on the lookout for more from Mr. Slemen who has other ghost titles set in different areas.

 

 

THOSE WHO HUNT THE NIGHT by Barbara Hambly 

 

Oh my, this is the first of a series I've just discovered. I knew Barbara Hambly was an awesome writer from her Benjamin January historical mysteries. THOSE WHO HUNT THE NIGHT is the first of a vampire historical mystery series. I really like the set up. James Asher is a middle-aged professor at Oxford, known for his inscrutable research powers, and formerly of the turn-of-the-century's version of Her Majesty's Secret Service. 

To his surprise, he's approached by a strange-looking man who claims to be a vampire. This man, Don Ysidro, the oldest vampire in London, believes he and his blood-sucking friends are in danger, since several co-horts were recently murdered. He wants to hire Asher to find the killer.

This is a much darker book than I usually read. But Hambly is so excellent, I'll be reading more.

 

 

A DARKER SHADE OF MAGIC by V.E. Schwab

 

And now, for something totally different .....

Kell is a magician who is able to travel between the parallel worlds of London. There's Red London, his home, where he's an adopted member of the royal family. His job is to periodically go to Grey London, where George III is king, and less often to White London which is very dangerous. Nothing much is left of Black London, so nobody ever goes there.

 

He meets a cheeky cutpurse, a young lady who loves what she does. When she grows up, or saves enough money, she wants to be a pirate with her own ship.

 

The two make a great odd couple. Schwab's writing style is imaginative and fun. I'll be looking for more of her books.

 

What have you been reading? Feel free to share in the comments section. I always love to get ideas for what to pick up next!

 

 

Age Shaming

 
Elaine Viets

The "Beach Body Ready" ads – the ultimate in fat shaming – created an international controversy. Protestors happily defaced them. Above is an example during the women’s World Cup.

Fat shaming is big right now. But I’m seeing another shaming – age shaming. People, especially women, are supposed to be ashamed that they look older.

The problem starts at the top, with gray hair. "The truth is it makes you look older," wrote a fashionista. Gasp! How awful.

 

This woman shows us a photo of Nicole Richie, actress and reality TV star, at a Costume Institute Gala. "Nicole Richie is only 32, but her gray hair ages her."

Wrong. Nicole’s gray hair distinguishes her.  Otherwise, she’s another interchangeable blonde, like her "Simple Life" co-star Paris Hilton.

 

The media is big on advice, urging women to hide their age – usually under layers of clothes. A crepe neck is a shameful sight.

Here’s how one fashion writer advised hiding this embarrassment:

"One of the best solutions is a thin cotton turtleneck, usually white or another light color. If you look on TV (especially on news programs), all the really older women have a thin turtleneck under whatever they’re wearing."

You can also use a scarf so people won’t notice this fashion faux pas. "Women can wear a scarf around the neck to distract from other areas and to hide neck problems. The scarf should be silk if possible, but the most important thing is that their best color is near their face . . .  but, not a solid scarf. Something in a very chic print."

From the neck, ladies, it’s all downhill. "No low-cut dresses, unless the woman has a good cleavage. Older women are better off leaving more to the imagination and making up for it with rhinestones."

Rhinestones? Why not turn your crepe chest into a treasure chest? Drape it with diamonds, my dear. You’ll be surprised how attractive you’ll suddenly become. A shameless display of wealth is queenly.

This fashion advice is a double dipper – fat shaming and age-shaming:

"I like a cardigan occasionally tied around the neck and that's about it for middle-age women," the fat-headed expert wrote. "Although it seems like an ideal layering piece, it is really unflattering for heavier women because it lacks shape and structure so lumps and bumps show. A better choice is a jacket or blazer with some construction (set-in sleeves, seaming, a collar) because it offsets middle-age spread. And whatever you do, don't tie the cardigan around your waist because it never hides hips, only makes them look bigger."

Big hips? Heaven forbid! Why did our ancestors admire generous hips as a sign of fertility?

Older people – particularly older women – should have the decency to cover themselves from head to toe to hide their aging flesh.

While we’re on the subject of toes, sensible shoes can "ruin a perfectly good look  . . . there are too many cute shoes in the market that are comfortable without the clunky soles and features of so-called comfort sandals."

Did you know "mom jeans. Peg-leg jeans with a high waist" are aging? Don’t forget to cover those flabby upper arms. And "carrying an organizer bag (or worse) can add years to your age."

Sure, it’s a perfectly good bag. But it’s making you look like an old bag.

Whatever you do, hide those liver-spotted hands – or get your dermatologist to burn off the spots.

According to the age shamers, mature flesh is so offensive, older women have no choice but to wear a burka, like this woman.

Notice it covers her from head to ankle? But she’s not wearing age-defying "cute shoes" and she’s carrying a grandma purse. We still know this woman is old.

Even with that complete coverup, age shamers wouldn’t be satisfied. We can still see women’s eyes. One age shamer cautions us to "refrain from publicly pooh-poohing the things you hate most about aging: eyelids that droop or baggy under-eye circles or the lines that have etched their way from the corners of your eyes to your hairline. You can fix these things in a plastic surgeon's or dermatologist's office." Or use the right kind of makeup.

Sadly, these age shamers are mostly women – younger women. They treat their older sisters as if getting older is a disease. But the age shamers are only hurting themselves.

Some day you’ll be older, too, little sister. But only if you’re lucky.

The Whole Story

by Leigh Perry/Toni L.P. Kelner

One thing that provides endless discussions for fans of books, movies, TV shows, and even games is speculating about about what happens AFTER the story is over. Some creators give us a clue. J.K. Rowling tells that all is well with Harry after the end of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. J.R.R. Tolkien gives us a more melancholy coda when we find that Frodo is not going to live happily ever after in the Shire after the events of The Lord of the Rings. Then there are the conversations about what happened BEFORE a story. What was Nancy Drew like as a little girl, and why was Lady MacBeth so ambitious? The fact is, we never know the whole story in fiction.

We never know it in real life, either. I've been thinking about that a lot today.

I'd originally intended to write about my stint at the science fiction convention Readercon last weekend, describing the  erudite people I was on panels with and maybe telling a few funny stories about the 80's dance party, but I've been thinking of an old friend instead. Back when I was in high school and college, I was part of a science fiction club called StarCore. It was just about as nerdy as you would expect, and it was wonderful time for me to be part of group where I wasn't the only nerd. I wasn't even the nerdiest nerd! And naturally enough, my first date came from that group: Roger. (No, that's not his real name.)

Now this is not a story of first love. Roger and I went out twice, and I think I realized about halfway through the second date that this was not going to be a love story of any description. There was no spark. Presumably he didn't feel one either. Though it was never discussed, we just never went out again.

I continued to be friends with Roger for a number of years, and also with his youngest brother Dick, and most of all with the middle brother, Kent. As time went on, I came to realize that the brothers did not have a happy home life. I don't think I ever spoke more than a few words with their father, but I knew he was domineering and that their mother was kind of a doormat. I knew that the two older sons got out of the house as soon as they could because of that. I knew Kent had some scars, but that as time went on, Roger and Dick got more and more eccentric. Okay, most SF nerds have some issues with social situations, but Roger was incredibly awkward socially and Dick got plain out weird. My parents ran into Dick now and then at a restaurant they enjoyed, and Roger came to one of my book signings, but that was as much contact as I wanted. Kent was a sweetie, though, and we kept in touch long after I moved away from North Carolina. I think I vaguely knew that Kent wasn't spending much time with his brothers, even when they were all living in the same town, but I didn't ask why.

That brings us to this weekend, when I heard that Roger had died of a sudden heart attack.

I got in touch with Kent to see if there was anything we could do to help with arrangements and such, and found out an awful lot of Roger's story I'd been unaware of. I didn't know that Kent had not spoken to his big brother in years. Nor did I know that Roger's children refused to interact with him. In both cases, this was because of Roger's severe mental issues including depression and angry outbursts, all of which were traced back to PTSD from growing up with an abusive father. Yeah, abusive. Not just a domineering bully, but an abuser. And his mother was an enabler. I didn't know that, either. Or that Roger was basically homeless after years of going from cheap apartment to cheap apartment, getting evicted from each for lack of payment and filthy habits, and finally ending up in a nasty room in residential hotel.

I had no idea.

There were some good parts to his story, too. He'd been practicing the martial art Kendo for years, and was a second-degree black belt in the form. Despite his own issues with depression, he'd started working with other depressed people, teaching them mediation and becoming a certified mental health associate along the way. He was interested in Bonsai. I didn't know any of that, either. I didn't even know that he'd attended my high school for a year, though not while I was there.

If somebody had asked me last week if I knew Roger, I would have said I did, and maybe told a few stories about him being kind of goofy. Like how our first kiss was a miss--he kissed my glasses instead of my lips. But hey, he was a lot taller than I was. I might have mentioned his upbringing wasn't ideal, and that he had two kids and an ex-wife. I might even have told about Roger's elaborate costume from Elfquest, and how he didn't quite pull off the blond wig. So sure, I thought I knew Roger. But the fact is, I didn't know the whole story.

Now, sadly, I know the last part of his story. I really wish it had had a happier ending.

 

 

By the pricking of my thumbs . . .

Catriona writes: I call myself a keen gardener, but this year, in drought-torn California, I've thrown in the trowel. Geddit? Trowel! I'm in "keep the trees and roses alive" mode and boy does it show:

So I'm actually typing this introduction while in a deep curtsey, with my hat doffed, to today's guest, Cathy Ace. On the day Cathy sent this gorgeous post about her garden she had spent five hours spot-watering. And boy does that show too. 

Cathy's garden this summer

 When not making beauty in British Columbia, Cathy writes the Cait Morgan series of traditional mysteries and has just begun the WISE women series, about a Welshwoman, and Irishwoman, a Scotswoman and an Englishwoman, who run an enquiry agency in London. THE CASE OF THE DOTTY DOWAGER is the series debut and it is simply wonderful.

Did I say that Cathy is Welsh? Another reason I love her - her accent is way funnier than mine.

And now here's Cathy Ace, gardener extraordinaire:

I know this quote from Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” (and used by Agatha Christie for her 1968 Tommy and Tuppence Beresford thriller of the same name) should then conclude “…Something wicked this way comes” but, for the purposes of this guest post I’d prefer it to read “…Something lovely this way comes”. Why? Because I’m an avid (okay, slightly obsessive, and certainly over-ambitious) gardener, and I’ve learned over the years that all the best things come as the result of the odd pricking of a thumb.

Cathy's garden in spring

I have one now; I’m sporting two Band-Aids on my right forefinger, another on my right thumb, and both my forearms are liberally plastered with every gardener’s best friend, Polysporin (planting a fifteen-foot Japanese cedar is a dangerous job!). But the results are worth it. Fellow gardeners will know what I mean when I say it’s the best type of work, even though it requires CostCo-style quantities of acetaminophen, and a soak in the hot tub is more of a necessity than an indulgence.

We’re lucky to live in Beautiful British Columbia, and we’ve gradually cleared brambles, removed “weed” trees (alders grow here like weeds, but then so do cedars, so we keep those!) and worked as much plant material into what, in many areas, is horrid clay, so that we now actively garden about three of the five acres we have.

Early days

I think we’re going to clean up the rest of the treed areas, and keep them as they are, allowing for shady walks on hot days, and the joy of feeling the rain dripping from the moss in the winter.

 

I happily admit that weeding is a great time for plotting, pruning is an excellent way to plan a classic denouement, and riding around on my mower allows me to be more clear-headed about realigning any troublesome bits of a book as I work through the first draft and twist the kaleidoscope a little to (hopefully) shift things into just the right spot. Because I worry I might injure myself with more than a little scratch or nick here or there I always have my phone in my pocket, so I leave a message for myself if I have any bright ideas as I toil close to the soil.

Fall

And let’s not forget all the toxins in a garden! Yes, I’ve found the odd plant to be an inspiration, and that’s great fun, but I should point out all the big holes I dig truly are for plants, not bodies.

Winter

I hope you like the photos – I tried to find some of the same general area of one part of the garden in different seasons, and there’s one of my favorite path under the trees. See? By the pricking of my thumbs, something lovely this way comes!

Cathy Ace writes the Bony Blithe Award-winning Cait Morgan Mysteries, and has just launched a brand new series introducing the women of the WISE Enquiries Agency in THE CASE OF THE DOTTY DOWAGER. You can find out more about Cathy and her work at her website. www.cathyace.com or on Facebook at : www.facebook.com/pages/Cathy-Ace-Author or on Twitter: @AceCathy