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Not Quantum Physics

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  It wasn't my idea to talk about gifts, but two things. One, yes, it's exactly the tight time for it. And two, today's guest Laura DiSIlverio herself is a gift. A gift to Sisters in Crime, where her tenure as national president was stellar, and where her valuable contributions continue.  A gift to her readers, who gobble up her books as soon as they hit the shelves--her newest, well, there are two. The critically acclaimed dark thriller THE RECKONING STONES, and the next in her charming new cozy series, THE READAHOLICS AND THE POIROT PUZZLE. (How does she do it?) 

And a gift to me,. She's a true, dear,wise, thoughtful and hilarious friend, one of the joys of my life. (Darn, I didn't mean to get sappy.)

So today, Laura faces reality.

And it's

NOT QUANTUM PHYSICS 

    by Laura DiSilverio

Since this is a blog post in December, I feel compelled to write something holiday-related. (I know, I could break the mold and talk about quantum physics, the way men never put items in the fridge back where they belong, or the best new show on television, but I'm going to stick with the traditional.)

Let's talk holiday gift-giving.

Four of you just shut down your computers,  and another half dozen have your fingers in your ears, going "La-la-la-la-la." Presents can be stressful for giver and recipient, regardless of their relationship. Worse, gift-giving practices can vary from culture to culture. And, no, I don't mean how Inuit traditions might be different from Sumatran. I'm talking differences  between the wife's family's gift-giving culture and the husband's. Oooh. Several of you are nodding ruefully.

In my family growing up, presents were actual items under the (real) tree--not a gift card in sight. It was an unspoken rule--giving gift cards or money was cheating. In fact, asking someone what they wanted was practically verboten--you had to come up with a thoughtful, personalized and reasonably priced gift by observation and guesswork. Gift-giving was a test. Extra credit for handmade and creatively wrapped.  Demerits for the wrong size.

When I married Tom, lo these many years ago, I discovered that his family tended to trade checks or gift cards as presents, which made all of them perfectly happy, but which struck me as a sad cop-out. It took several years of marriage before I could accept a gift card as anything other than "you weren't paying attention all year when I pointed out earrings I liked in March and a book I was eager to read in September."  (I did get those earrings one year though--see Christmas morning photo.)

We have solved the problem of hurt feelings (me), befuddlement (Tom), and unmet expectations (both of us), by mostly buying something for us as a couple or a family, like tickets to a show or a weekend away. We have discovered that a shared experience is worth so much more (and remembered much longer) than a wisp of lingerie from Victoria's Secret or a Sharper Image gadget.

 We have discovered that talking--gasp!--helps bridge the cultural gift gap. I can tell him what I want, where to find it, and what size to buy, and even accept a Nordstrom Rack gift card as a sign of his love for me and his knowing that I like to shop on my own and have "guilt free" money that I have to spend on myself. I can give him whatever gadget he wants (even knowing he'll only use it once or twice--if that--and then it will be clutter in the garage or basement), or his 1244th chess book or Civil War tome.

What we give each other every day is more important than what goes under the Christmas tree--respect, love, friendship, laughter and kindness. Dang, I didn't mean this to get mushy. (Yes, this is CHristmas morning…)

So, back to humorous--What was your worst gift-giving disaster (as recipient or giver)? What family cultural barriers have you had to bridge when it comes to presents? Who is the hardest person to buy for--your father who has everything, your persnickety sister, your friend who returns everything you get her?

 HANK: I am still laughing. Laura, send Tom's slightly unused war books to me, and I will regift them to Jonathan. In return, I will send you any number of gadgets, gewgaws and fix-it tools. Hardly used. But we love those  two guys ,right?

As for me, is there any way to give a wild-card gift card? But I always realize I don't need one thing, you know? Not one thing.  So I am the easiest!  But agent, editor, producer? Argh.

How about you, Femmes?

 

Laura DiSilverio is the author of the Swift Investigations and Mall Cop mystery series, as week as the standalone thriller THE RECKONING STONES and the new best-selling READAHOLICS series.

After twenty years as an Air Force intelligence officer – serving as a squadron commander, with the National Reconnaissance Office, and at a fighter wing – she retired to parenting and writing full-time.

Laura says: Spying was easier.

 

Calendar time

by Donna Andrews

It's time to arrange my 2016 calendar!  By which I don't mean that I'll be dashing down to the local indie bookstores to pore over their selection.  (Sorry, local indie bookstores!) Since I've become an avid amateur digital photographer, I'll be combing through the shots I've taken this year to select thirteen of the best for use it my own custom calendar. (Thirteen because there's space for a photo on the cover in additional all twelve months. Much as I like the number thirteen, I haven't adopted a triskadekaphilic calendar.)

Stage one is to go through all twelve months of photos taken since my last calendar and make copies of the likely candidates in a separate data folder. This year the possibles folder contained 448 photos--which means only 3% of the likely shots will make it onto the calendar! How to choose?

There's no good way.  So I just start grabbing.  This one's perfect for July.  Got to find a spot for that one.

Certain themes recur.  I like sunsets.  Beautiful flowers. Insects on the beautiful flowers.  I spend a lot of time at pools and ballparks and basketball courts with the nephews. I go to interesting places every year with mystery conventions, and sometimes I get time away from the hotel to photograph.  During the winter I try to keep my birdfeeders full so I can paparazzi the feathered customers.

I kick out some photos because they're strong verticals and I want most of the shots to be horizontal.  And some because I've already chosen a similar but slightly better one. (The same line--well, minus the "slightly better" part--we writers so often hear in rejection letters.)  Some because while I love them, they're a little quirky for everyone's taste.

The calendar's done.  I think.  I might tinker with it before ordering the final. But here are a few more shots that didn't quite make it.

(And if you'd like a chance to win a copy of the calendar--vote on your favorite also-ran photo!)

 

Adel-icious

Unless you've been hibernating under a particularly commodious rock the last few weeks, you have probably seen some mention in social media of British singer Adele. Her latest release, Adele 25, came out this past Friday. In less than a week, it has already become the fastest selling album in history. In less than a week, it is the biggest-selling album of 2015. Experts say it could hit 3 million sales by this Friday.

Though reviews for Adele 25 have been mixed, Adele's fans have been eagerly awaiting her first release in four years, since Adele 21. The first single, "Hello," not to be confused with the Lionel Richie hit of the same name, has also been explosive on the charts.

I was one of those fans who was eagerly awaiting the new album. I've listened to it several times, and I really like it. Overall I don't think it has the full impact of 21, but that would be a tall order for anyone. I had never heard of Adele Adkins until 21 came out, I have to admit, but one listen to 21 hooked me.

I love her voice and the often raw emotion in it, but I admire and respect Adele for standing firm on who she is and what she represents. Unlike anorexic pop princesses like Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber, Adele is a full-figured woman. And she's gorgeous. She has said in interviews that she doesn't spend much time thinking about body image, nor does she feel the pressure to be a "skinny-mini" or wear revealing or "hyper-sexual" clothing. (A lot of the women on the red carpet could take a few lessons from Adele, in my opinion.)

I say brava for Adele. Listen to the voice. Listen to the words. Focus on the music, because that's what's important. As a plus-sized person myself, I admire Adele for being who she is and not worrying about what other people think of her size. Finally, if anyone was ever a femme fatale, Adele with her voice and talent surely is.

Eating my way home.

Twice in the last two days it has hit me that I really am at home here now.

I was in the supermarket yesterday and the thought struck that I could pick up the ingredients for the green bean casserole.

(Yes - she said airily - I am entrusted with the green bean casserole for Thursday, since you ask. I know it's not the star of the show but it's a step up from the Martinelli's duty where I started. And anyway, I agree. I don't think a foreigner should get to mess with the turkey, cornbread stuffing, sweet rolls or candied yams either.)

Anyway. As soon as I thought it, I wheeled around, got a huge bag of beans, two wee stockings of pearl onions, a pound of mushrooms, a quart of cream and a box of French's fried onions. I even knew where to go for the fried onions. I didn't need to phone anyone, Google anything, or ask a nice lady to help me.

(What's that? Campbell's cream of mushroom soup? I said I was at home here. I didn't say I'd mind-melded with Betty Crocker. Blech.)

Changed days. The first time the green been casserole gig was dangled in front of me I asked "What are pearl onions?" and very nearly had it snatched away.

Today, though, was the clincher. I made a trip to Pedrick Produce - my local fruit stand - to stock up on a wonderful local fruit at the delicious height of its short season.

I love love LOVE persimmons. (To anyone who hasn't tasted one, they're quite like fuschia berries. I know that might not help.)

But here's the thing. This time of year has always produced my favourite fruit. Ever since I was a wee girl I've gorged on fruit in season from Halloween to Christmas. BUT . . . it used to be pomegranates.

Oh, the pomegranates of home! The pale-yellow, pink-seeded, sweet, luscious, Indian pomegranates that are imported to Scotland. They are the food of the gods.

When I moved to California and saw those humungous red pomegranates coming into the shops, I thought they must be the food of bigger, better, brighter gods.

Then I tasted one. The growers call them 'sweet-tart'. That's like saying something terrible is 'good-bad', or something tragic is 'happy-sad'. It basically means 'they'll glue your tongue to your teeth with the astringency and they should have a health warning-but we want to sell them anyway'.

They even look evil. Tell me this thing doesn't belong on a fruit plate in Eraserhead:

For the first few years here, I mourned pomegranates and consoled myself with persimmons.

Today, I didn't even think 'pomegranate' until I was back in my car, breaking into the bag of persimmons for one to eat while I drove home. And what I thought was 'these are so much better than pomegranates, because you can just chomp right into them without any prep work'.

And that's not all. On balance, while I still miss russet apples, I'd rather have russet potatoes. After due consideration, I think crispy bacon is better than floppy bacon. All else being equal, on the street, after midnight, I'd rather buy a burrito than a kebab from the back of a van.

Some people think there's more to a culture than just food. They might be right. And maybe after another five years I'll understand American football. But for now, and just in time for Thanksgiving, I think I've eaten my way home.

Have a happy holiday, everyone.

(And if you've got any tips for the perfect green bean casserole, please let me know.)

 

WHAT I’VE BEEN READING

I’ve read innumerable Mrs. Read novels this past week, because they are some of my go-to stress relievers. For those of you who’ve ever wondered what it would be like to be a spinster schoolteacher in rural England in the previous mid-century, these are the books for you. Before I buried myself in Mrs. Read, this is what I had on my night table:

Elliott James’s book Charming is an interesting take on fairy tales. John Charming comes from a long line of men dedicated to protecting the world against evil by killing monsters. But John himself is considered a monster by his own organization, and finally flees to make a life for himself in Virginia. He’s outed there, and basically, must fight or glee. His decision is easier to make when he meets a beautiful Valkyrie.

Follow Her Home is a grim crime novel. Juniper Song, an LA gal, is steeped in noir novels. Phillip Marlowe is her hero. Since she doesn’t have enough work to fill her time, Juniper is ready to accept the challenge of her friend to get to the bottom of a situation. Luke thinks his wealthy dad is supporting a mistress, and he wants Juniper to find out if this is true. With few qualms, she accepts the challenge, but it lands her in very deep trouble, and forces her to face some facts in her own life she’d been dodging.

Margaret Maron has received almost every award a mystery writer can achieve, and deservedly so. Long Upon the Land is the last Deborah Knott novel, in an esteemed series that began with Bootlegger’s Daughter. If you have never sampled these fine books, start at the beginning and read all the way through. They are satisfying mysteries and also a wonderful story about a woman both enjoying and separating herself from a dubious legacy.

Is there anyone who doesn’t know that Robert Galbraith is J.K. Rowling? This is her second detective novel featuring the one-legged Cormoran Strike and his assistant Robin Ellacott. Cormoran is hired to find missing writer Owen Quine. His wife is perhaps the only person who wants Quine found, since he is an insufferable ass and a terrible writer. But Cormoran persists, and despite the tumult of his personal life he manages to discover the whereabouts of Quine. It’s no surprise that the novelist has been murdered, and the field of suspects is rich. Robin wants to make her own mark in the case, and tries to reconcile her fiancé with fact that she’d rather be trailing a suspect than working in a nice office. An engrossing read.

The Walk is Lee Goldberg’s short novel about one man’s journey when the big earthquake hits Los Angeles. Marty Slack, a TV executive – one with a job no one can quite pin down – is caught on location in downtown Los Angeles when the worst happens. He has to get home to his wife, on the far edge of the San Fernando valley. It’s a journey fraught with danger and fear, and Goldberg makes us care about a basically rather unlikeable man and his success or failure.

These are all books I liked, to a greater or lesser degree, because I don’t talk about books I didn’t enjoy, at least not publicly. So if you have a free hour or two during these holidays, pick up one of them and give them a try. You can say I sent you.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Charlaine Harris

Book Reviews for November

 

by Mary Saums

 

Here are a few mini-reviews of good books I've enjoyed so far this month - 

 

 

 

THE OLD SILENT by Martha Grimes

It has been far too long since I've read a Martha Grimes book. What a treat to re-discover how much I love Richard Jury and all the wonderful characters in this series. Most striking after reading just a few pages was the deep comfort of sinking into a master writer's brain. Beautifully worded sentences. Characters who are appealing. Who move the story. Old-fashioned proper paragraphs. Aa-a-ahhhhh. :)

Jury is off-duty and staying at an inn where he witnesses a murder. Though it's not his case, he is intrigued by the woman who shot her husband and then calmly sat down to wait for the police.

This is a re-read series for me. I like the print/e-books best for reasons given above. However, if you prefer audios, do the abridged versions. Tim Curry narrates and they're fantastic. 

 

 

 

 

WORKING FOR BIGFOOT by Jim Butcher

This one I HAD to get the audio. I am crazy about the Harry Dresden, professional wizard, books. But why settle for print when you can get the same great stories PLUS have them read to you by James Marsters? He's perfect as Harry. And as the other characters too. In this case, as you can see by the title, that's a mighty tall order.  

WORKING FOR BIGFOOT is a set of three long short stories in which Harry is hired by a big tall hairy Sasquatch named Strength Of A River In His Shoulders. He's worried that his son is in trouble. Who you gonna call when you're a bigfoot? Dresden, of course. 

Well done and very entertaining.

 

 

 

 

A NEW HISTORY OF LIFE: The Radical New Discoveries about the Origins and Evolution of Life on Earth by Peter Ward & Joe Kirschvink

Full of wonders, shock and awe on the science of all that is. I liked the audiobook and plan to get the print book also. Essential reading for all humans.

 

 

 

 

ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES by Charles Darwin

I'd never read this before and thoroughly enjoyed it. Besides the charm of Darwin's 19th c. English, this audio version was narrated by author/scientist extraordinaire Richard Dawkins. A wonderful look into Darwin's mind. Next I must get the notebooks from his travels.                     

 

So, that's me. What's new in your reading world? 

 

 

A White (Meat) Thanksgiving

By Elaine Viets

In my family, Grandpa always carved the Thanksgiving turkey – and we kids were thankful.

Sure, we had to sit at the kids' table. Yes, our parents told us, "Children should be seen and not heard." But Grandma was a stupendous cook. "Even the water tastes better at Grandma's," my brother used to say.

And Grandpa would sneak us white meat when he carved the turkey.

Back then, turkeys were not diet food. They were the centerpieces for major feasts. We ate turkey twice a year, at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

The white meat, the turkey legs and wings were reserved for the grownups at dinner. But when Grandpa carved the turkey, he would wink and say, "Oops, I dropped some" and make sure each grandchild got a slice of white meat.

Grandma and Grandpa lived in a two-bedroom bungalow with a concrete statue of the Blessed Virgin and a family of plastic ducks on the lawn.

On Thanksgiving Day, their house was perfumed with homemade pumpkin pies and roasting turkey. Grandmas' pickles and cha-cha were displayed in a zillion cut-glass dishes, the Parker House rolls were dotted with butter, and the lima beans were bubbling in cheese sauce. In the living room, the men watched the football game.

In the kitchen, Grandma whipped up creamy cloud-soft mashed potatoes while my mom and aunt set the diningroom table with the best china and crystal and a real lace tablecloth.

At least eight grandchildren ran, toddled, sprawled, crawled or cried in the small house.

 But once the turkey was ready for carving, we kids quietly gathered in the kitchen. The great brown bird was waiting on a platter on the kitchen table, and Grandpa fired up the electric carving knife. He was a short, dapper man with dark hair who loved good stories, good beer and good food.

He'd begin carving and we kids would wait for the "Oops, I dropped some." He always dropped enough white meat for all the kids. Then dinner was served.

One Thanksgiving in the 1960s, Grandma bought a Butterball turkey. These turkeys were advertised as having more white meat than ordinary turkeys. They cost more, too. For a whole month, she raved about that Butterball and showed off the big-breasted behemoth in her freezer.

"This year, there will be enough white meat for everyone," she said.

Equality at last.

On Thanksgiving Day, when the Butterball turkey was plump and golden brown and ready to carve, we kids gathered in the kitchen. We could feel the excitement: We weren't eating a regular turkey. We had a high-class brand name turkey.

Grandpa started carving the breast. "Oops," he said, and winked. "I dropped one."

And then another. And another – until all the grandkids had a round of white meat. We giggled and laughed and ate the most luscious turkey ever.

After the first round, we said, "There's still plenty of white meat left."

"Oops!" Grandpa said. "I dropped one."

And egged on by his flock of greasy-faced little turkey gobblers, he kept dropping white meat, until Grandma came by with the giblet gravy.

"Papa!" she said. "What have you done?"

We looked at the turkey. Actually the turkey bones. The white meat was almost gone. Grandpa had given it all to the kids.

The grownups got the legs and the wings and scraps of white meat.

Grandpa had knocked that Butterball right over the platter.

 

                                            ***

Happy Thanksgiving! Win a large print CHECKED OUT for yourself or your library. Click Contests at www.elaineviets.com.

Let's Talk SWAG With Christopher Irvin

Toni/Leigh: We're delighted to welcome Christopher Irvin to the Femmes today, talking about a perennial subject for writers and anybody trying to promote their work: SWAG! I confess I have myself been both overcome by swag lust, picking up items I will never use, and confused by when to press my own swag on people. Chris may have the best answer I've ever heard.

Bookmarks, postcards, business cards, pens… the elusive koozie.

Go to any writing or comic convention and you'll find tables chock-full of the stuff, advertising the latest and greatest from those in attendance. Arrive late and it can be tricky to locate a tiny corner to add yours to the amorphous mass…of SWAG.

Don't get me wrong—I love this stuff, both handing it out for my own books, and chancing upon something new that catches my attention (a horror publisher's 'syringe pen' became a great conversation starter at work). But what does it achieve? These tables can be overwhelming and disorganized, crowded with hundreds of items, and having seen more than a few on the last days of conventions, it's depressing how much of it goes straight into the trash or recycling bin.

Like much of marketing, return on investment for SWAG is difficult, if not impossible to calculate. How can we make better use of these tools? Time and circumstance will differ depending on the event and the audience, but here's an idea that's proved useful for me:

I recently sold books for the first time at a comic convention. I laid them all out on the table along with their corresponding bookmarks and business cards. In contrast, the artist next to me had only books on display. His reason? People who pick up free material are less likely to make a purchase. It gives them an 'out,' a way to leave the table feeling like a transaction has taken place. Will they buy a book later? Maybe, but how many times have you taken a bookmark/business card and actually followed through? For me, the number is very few, if any. Certainly much less than creators would hope for. This artist's contact information was in his books, so if someone truly wanted to support him, they'd have it. It's a half-joke, but also true—if you really want to support a writer/artist, buy a book.

It took me until the afternoon to adopt my neighbor's strategy (I had several interactions throughout the morning in which people expressed interest in my work, only to half-heartedly ask for SWAG before heading back into the sea of convention-goers, never to be seen again.) That afternoon and the following day, I hid my SWAG and only gave it out along with purchases as a little 'bonus.' The surprise from customers at the unexpected, albeit small, gift made for a more meaningful experience.

This strategy, in theory, improves your return on investment by making sure your SWAG accompanies people who have already been exposed to your work, thereby increasing the quality and chance of recommendation by word of mouth.

I'm not here on a campaign to end the SWAG table, or tell you not to drop off bookmarks at your favorite bookstores, but let's be smart and thoughtful in who walks away with our stuff in their SWAG bag.

Christopher Irvin is the author of Safe Inside the Violence, Burn Cards and Federales, as well as short stories featured in several publications, including Thuglit, Beat to a Pulp, and Shotgun Honey. He lives in Boston, MA with his wife and two sons.

"This is a collection everyone should read -- particularly if you've ever dreamed of writing this kind of fiction." - LitReactor on Safe Inside the Violence.

Meet Miss Ruffles--Not SUCH a bad dog, really...

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Well, sure, we had dogs. We lived out in the country, and there was room for everyone. Rusty, the Irish Setter who chased cars with such a passion one ran into her, and we had to –well, she lived the rest of her very long life with three legs. And STILL chased cars!  Penny, who followed my sister Liz when she broke the rules and rode her pony at sunset. That dog, another Irish Setter, darted out into the road barking like mad, and stopped a car from hitting dumb (and lucky) Liz. Roderick St. John Erin Sean, another Irish Setter, who was such a goof ball –he was like Baby Huey. Remember how someone said Pooh was a “bear of very little brain?” That was Rod.

Bailey and Barkley, the  matching English Springer Spaniels, who bounced.,  Maggie, short for Shagra’s Magyar, a Puli. Weirdest dog ever. And Milton, a monstrous Great Dane who’d eat anything that was on the kitchen counter.

We didn’t have them all at the same time of course. And now Jonathan and I have the best dog ever. We are very busy, so we have an invisible pooch, a Wheaten Terrier named Wheatie. I mean—she’s invisible. SO very easy to take care of. And very well trained.

 But the dog of the day is Miss Ruffles. Who “belongs” to the inimitable Nancy Martin. HOW does the fabulous Nancy come up with these characters?

  

 

 

 

 

 

NO BAD DOGS

By Nancy Martin

 

I know, I know—there are no bad dogs, only bad owners. If that’s the case, I’m a really bad owner. In our family, we’ve had a succession of dogs who weren’t exactly the best examples of their species, and it’s totally  my fault.  I tend to pick puppies that have attention issues or hyperactivity, the clown who makes me laugh or the one who chases her tail until she’s dizzy—the puppy who needs a loving home, in other words. But I was a terrible trainer.

Nittany was our first—the puppy you get when you’re first married, “to see if we can handle kids.” Nittany was the runt of my mother-in-law’s first attempt at becoming a professional breeder of golden retrievers, and he was everything a golden isn’t supposed to be.  He was excitable, energetic, not a good retriever. He didn’t like water, but he loved mud. When he was a puppy, I once  came home to an empty house. I couldn’t find him anywhere. It took me twenty minutes to discover he had crawled under a bed and dug his way up into the box spring, where he’d made a kind of nest for himself. Except he couldn’t get out. I had to cut the box spring apart with a saw to release him. He was delighted with himself. We had to barricade all the beds after that.

 If you came to visit my house, Nittany’s nose would be in your crotch in no time, his slobber on your clothes, his tail wagging so hard it could knock your handbag off your arm. If you caught his eye, he’d climb into your lap and drool all over you. Yes, his name was soon shortened to Nitwit. He could understand nearly 100 words, but he couldn’t calm down long enough to obey many commands. The cleverest command we did manage to teach him was, “Go away!” to get him to leave guests alone. He was sweet, but I didn’t have the training skills to make him behave.

To tell the truth, I love bad dogs. Give me a dog with personality any day. One who obediently stays off the furniture, doesn’t bark at the mailman, never knocks over the water bowl? That’s the dog that wouldn’t fit in at my house. Have you seen the dogshaming website?  http://dog-shame.com/  These are dogs after my true heart!

Dinah was our second bad dog. (In between came Dolly, who was never bad.  Except she would not be commanded to do anything. Dolly could be invited to obey, but she had a mind of her own. Dalmatians are like that.) Dinah, also a Dalmatian, loved our big, fenced, wooded lot, and she spent most of her time—winter or summer—chasing chipmunks, digging holes, excavating rocks. Only once did she jump from the pool deck to the woods below (a fifteen foot drop, and yes, she broke her shoulder doing that maneuver!) to chase a deer. The thing I like most about Dalmatians is that they don’t pant in your face. They’re dainty that way.  Dinah rarely panted, except when she was in full hunting mode. 

One day from one of her guarding stations at the front door she spotted a ground hog in our front yard and barked until I—unwisely—opened the door to let her chase it.  But groundhogs don’t allow themselves to be chased.  This one latched onto Dinah’s chest and wouldn’t let go until I went after it with a broom. Once she was released, Dinah and I ran that  groundhog into the woods where it belonged, whereupon she jumped up on me and knocked me into the flowerbed. She panted into my face, obviously delighted with our teamwork.

There was also the time she tried to chase a squirrel across our pool cover—except it wasn’t strong enough to hold her. She couldn’t get out of the pool either and floundered around there, nearly drowning, until I noticed and plunged into the water (in February!) to play lifeguard. 

I love bad dogs so much that I finally decided I should write a book in tribute of them.  MISS RUFFLES INHERITS EVERYTHING is about the Texas cattle cur who inherits a fortune from her flamboyant Texas lady owner.  Miss Ruffles is every bad dog I’ve ever owned—lousy at obedience, but big on love.

Do you have a bad dog story to tell me? I’d love to hear it!

 

MISS RUFFLES INHERITS EVERYTHING is a cozy mystery set in the fictional Texas town of Mule Stop---so hot and miserable that the mules died and left the pioneers there to build a town. Now it’s the home of the University of the Alamo, a college surrounded by hot plains and a smattering of hot cowboys. When Miss Ruffles, the millionaire dog, gets kidnapped, it’s up to Sunny McKillip, the dog sitter, to rescue her. If you like romping fun mysteries, this one’s for you!

 

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Nancy Martin is the author of nearly fifty popular fiction novels including the award-winning, best-selling Blackbird Sisters mysteries, and the Roxy Abruzzo mysteries. She lives in Pittsburgh in a currently dog-less household.  Find Nancy on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authornancymartin/timeline/

 

Crime Bake 2015

by Donna Andrews

I'd never been to Crime Bake before, mostly because the organizers are fierce about keeping as much of the focus as possible on authors from the New England region, and as a Virginian, I just don't fit the bill. But this year I was invited, wearing my hat as this year's Executive Vice President of Mystery Writers of America (the conference is jointly sponsored by the New England chapters of SinC and MWA). And I had a great time! Maybe I should start angling to be invited back to teach something. (At left: Hank Phillippi Ryan moderates a panel with Elizabeth George, Paula Munier, Hallie Ephron, and Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson.)

For anyone who's considering attending, it's a well-organized and very welcoming conference. It's held in Dedham, Massachusetts, rather than Boston—thus avoiding downtown traffic and prices. I have no idea how easy or hard it is to get there from the airport, but I didn't hear anyone complaining. Me, I took the train, my favorite mode of long-distance transportation, and the hotel offers free shuttle rides from the nearby Amtrak station. The hotel's nice and the included meals were delightful, even to this fussy eater. (At right: MWA Northeast chapter president Ray Daniel.)

About my only complaint is about the lack of cloning facilities, because all too often I wanted to attend two simultaneous panels, dammit. Friday was given over to master classes in writing, and Saturday and Sunday morning to panels aimed at giving practical information to writers. There are also chances to pitch agents and editors. At the opening reception, Leslie Budewitz, the current SinC president, and I got to introduce the “debutantes”--the writers attending who were celebrating having their first book out. (At left: bondage lobster.  Its precise significance was not vouchsafed to me.)

Leslie and I, along with Margery Flax, MWA's Administrative Director, also got to judge the costume contest—which was hard! Too many good options! (Some shown at right.)

I enjoyed the panel I moderated, featuring Lucy Burdette (aka Roberta Isleib), Clea Simon, Paul Doiron, and Barbara Ross—and a lot of fun reading them beforehand. Good writers all, with thoughtful things to say about how they do what they do.

Many thanks to Ray Daniel and New England chapters of MWA and Sinc for a great time! (That's them at the left.)

And if you're looking for a good writer's conference to go to, I can certainly recommend Crime Bake!

 

And here are a few more photos, while we're at it.

Mo Walsh, official Crime Bake photographer

Cheryl Holton as Poirot

 

Jonathan Shapiro and Hank Phillippi Ryan (aka Dumbledore and Belletrix)

Steve and Toni Kelner

Elizabeth George

Peter Abrahams

Gayle Lynds

Hallie Ephron

Dorothy Cannell

James Benn

Mary Lawrence

QEII and Bruce Robert Coffin

Beefeater and Brian Thiem

Doug White

Mo Walsh again.