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I've Amassed Masses of Mass Markets! Have you?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: My grandchildren were here for the weekend, and one thing I can never get over is how much fun it is to see them read. This is a great photo of my stepson Paul with and our grandson out by the pool. Reading. Books.

(Isn't it adorable?)

 

Now I know they are by the pool, so that may change the rules a bit. But they are both reading paperbacks. Not mass-market paperback, but trade paperbacks, the bigger prettier more expensive ones. When I moved inside, though, everybody still was reading paperbacks. Josh reading Rick Riordan, Paul reading Colson Whitehead, Elijah reading Freakonomics. Their mom was reading a textbook for her teaching program, but still, it was a trade paperback.

 

Again, it's summer, and no one wants to get sunscreen on a hardcover.

 

But when I went upstairs to get my book, I saw on our guestroom shelves… masses and masses and masses of mass market paperbacks. So many many many mass-market paperbacks that they are double and triple on some of the shelves.

What should I do with those? I can tell you, I bet I won't read them again. I can also tell you, with some embarrassment, that the second and third layers back I don't even know what books are there! So why why why am I keeping them? Because I adored them all at some point, and some I could never ever part with. 

Do you read mass-market paperback? I guess even more important --do you still buy them? The mass-market paperback of Say No More comes out at the end of August, and I am thrilled about that! And I know when I do events at libraries, people often buy the entire set of Jane Ryland paperbacks. So can't go wrong with that, right?

They are so nicely tuckable into a purse, and takable to the beach and pool, and they are light, and if you lose one, you can just buy another one, right? And be happy that some lucky person gets the book you forgot.

How do you feel about mass-market paperbacks?

Do you buy them? Keep them? What do you do with them? Why do you like them….Or not?

Do you believe they are soon going the way of the transistor radio? If I give a mass-market paperback to a lucky commenter, would that be a good thing?

Or would you just sigh and wonder, what am I going to do with another book? Tell me what you think! And also tell me if you want to be entered for a free paperback.

I'll pick a winner or two from the brave ones.

Being funny

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

I have come to a sad realization: Meg Langslow, heroine of my series, is not funny. Neither is her husband Michael.

The books, I hasten to point out, are funny. At least they're intended to be, and I think they succeed. But that's because Meg is always surrounded by her family. Her relatives are eccentric, stubborn, contrary, rebellious, sometimes even crazy—but funny.

Meg has a sense of humor, of course, and that shows in the way she narrates each story. So does Michael. In fact, I suspect having a well-developed sense of humor is the only thing that keeps both of them from being driven around the bend by her family.

But Meg and Michael are also logical, well-organized, and . . . well, sane. Left to their own devices, they could probably manage to avoid the kind of crises her family tends to involve them in. Their lives would be productive, calm, peaceful, orderly, rewarding, and quite happy. But not very funny.

(This, incidentally, is why I have never written a story about Meg and Michael's honeymoon. They have never even revealed to a single family member where it took place, and I'm not telling. They enjoyed the fabulous local scenery and food; they took in all the beautiful, historical, or interesting sights; and they spent long, romantic hours in each other's company. A break before they were plunged into the ordinary chaos of life with Meg's family. Let's give them that.)

Anyway, when I start planning a book, in addition to coming up with a viable murder plot and some bird-related theme to go with the title du jour, I also have to figure out what Meg's relatives will be up to that drags them into the plot.

Not all of them, of course. After more than twenty books, my fictional world has acquired a rather large cast of characters. If I tried to give them each his or her moment in every book, there wouldn't be much time for Meg and Michael—much less a murder. So I pick and choose, depending on who fits into each plot. Meg's dad plays a big role The Good, the Bad, and the Emus, which is about the search for his long-lost mother. So I set the next book, The Nightingale Before Christmas, in a decorator showhouse, where Meg's mother could take center stage.

In those books in which I take Meg and Michael away from their home town of Caerphilly, I always need to ensure that a critical mass of family members go along. So if, for example, I decided to have Meg solve a mystery aboard a cruise ship, it would have to be a cruise on which many of her family were also going. The mind boggles at the thought of being trapped on a cruise ship with even a small number of Meg's relatives, but someone has to suffer for art. Usually Meg rather than me.

Gone Gull takes place in Riverton, the fictional Virginia town that was also the setting for The Good, the Bad, and the Emus. Picking up on something mentioned in passing in Emus, Meg's grandmother Cordelia has bought the Biscuit Mountain, former site of the family art pottery factory, and opened a residential craft class center. In the center's initial summer session, Meg will teach blacksmithing, and Michael will run a children's theater class in which Josh and Jamie, their twins, are enrolled. So far so good. But I needed a few more family members to reach a quorum. Okay—her cousin Rose Noire can teach herbology. Grandfather can teach a class on nature photography, with the assistance of Dad, Caroline Willner, and an actual nature photographer. I even found a way to recruit her cousin Horace, the forensic specialist, and arrange cameo appearances by Mother and Meg's brother Rob.

I suspect my editor, who shares my fascination with blacksmithing, was delighted to see that the book actually opened with Meg at her forge, not merely hammering iron but teaching her craft to a room full of students. And incurable romantics, like Rose Noire, will probably be disappointed that Grandfather and Cordelia will not be reuniting and living happily ever after. I think I can manage to keep them from knocking one another off, at least for a few books, but that's about it. And besides, it's funnier that way.

Gone Gull is available in hardback, as an ebook, and as an unabridged audiobook read by the award-winning Bernadette Dunne. And in honor of the latter, just mention in a comment—here or on Facebook—that you're an audio book fan, and I'll enter you in a random drawing to win the CD-set of Gone Gull.

p.s. That other cover? I also have a Christmas book coming out this year. October 24. How the Finch Stole Christmas. More on that later.

 

 

 

Fighting Fire

By Elaine Viets

    "My house is on fire. We are all out safely."
    Mystery writer Jeff Abbott, master of understatement, tweeted that July 8 at 2:31 p.m. Jeff, his wife, Leslie, and their sons Charles and William were all safe. A lightning strike had destroyed their Austin home.

    Jeff and his family have helped so many. Now we get a chance to repay their kindness. Chele Robinette and Marina Bird immediately started a GoFundMe account. Some of the Femmes Fatales have known Jeff since he was known as "Cozy Boy."

     Dean James: I met Jeff circa 1990 at the Rice Writers Conference sponsored by our mutual alma mater, Rice University in Houston. Jeff was not long graduated from Rice and working as a technical writer for a software company. He wanted to be a mystery writer, and soon after this he got his first publishing contract. Do Unto Others, a cozy featuring a small-town Texas librarian, Jordan Poteet, came out in 1994. The book went on to win both the Agatha and Macavity Awards for Best First Novel. As a young man writing cozy mysteries, Jeff quickly earned the moniker "Cozy Boy" and was a big hit at Malice Domestic his debut year. He went on to publish thrillers, leaving the cozy world behind, and has been nominated for a number of awards for these books, including the Edgar and the Anthony, among others. It's been gratifying to see him realize his ambition.

        Marcia Talley: I met Jeff at my first Malice Domestic years ago. Do Unto Others featured a librarian, which I was at the time. I told him I’d read his book and planned to vote for it — we librarians have to stick together, you know. In the early days of Malice, male authors were so rare that we referred to Jeff affectionately as “Cozy Boy.” Do Unto Others won the Agatha and he went on to write three other mysteries about Jordan before breaking into the big time with his best-selling, award-winning thrillers. I was an aspiring mystery writer at the time, and appreciate Jeff's friendly welcome and encouragement. He is always humble, gracious and fun.
        Toni L.P. Kelner/Leigh Perry: I adore Jeff Abbot, even though he is one of the worst people imaginable to be on a panel with. Well, honestly, the problem is following him on a panel. When he was still writing his Jordan Poteet mysteries, we were on a panel together addressing the idea that cozies were considered less realistic and less rough-n-tough than noir or hard-boiled books. Jeff said, “One time I was at a signing, and this guy in a trench coat came up to me and said, ‘Hey, Cozy Boy! How tough are you?’ And I whooped his butt!”
          The audience—and the other panel members—laughed for a solid five minutes. Then the so-and-so handed me the microphone! Yeah, I had to follow up on that. Never since The Who had to follow Jimi Hendrix at the Monterey Pop Festival was there a worse situation to be next up. Thanks a lot, Cozy Boy!
          Charlaine Harris: Jeff is a man I am always glad to see, and a writer I respect. That is why I asked him to be best man at my (fictional) Aurora's and Robin's wedding. Jeff was kind enough to agree, which delighted me.
           Elaine Viets: Leslie Abbott is as hilarious as her husband. When we were marooned at a rubber chicken banquet, Leslie kept me laughing through what could have been an endless evening. In 2004, Jeff came to South Florida to research his thriller Panic. I drove him to Miami in Black Beauty, my '86 Jaguar. Jeff has an amazing car chase in Panic. I don't know if my driving inspired the title. When I had six strokes and brain surgery, Jeff and Leslie made me laugh with their risque get-well cards.
        Hank Phillippi Ryan: I haven't read what everyone else is writing -– but I can predict it. Jeff Abbott is unfailingly lovely. Generous. Hilarious. Talented. Loving. Devoted. Thoughtful. Because that's the unflagging truth. Being a writer is difficult, high-pressure, and time-consuming – it wrests you from your family and overwhelms your life. Jeff has never let that happen. He's SUCH a family guy, from the proud parent photos he posts to the obvious joy he gets in taking about them – and his love of life is completely contagious. And his happiness-disease is one we are lucky to catch. Plus, he's incredibly cool.
       As for his books--they are unmissable. Here I am glued to the new one! I bet you are, too.

            

Donna Andrews: Twenty years ago I interviewed Jeff for a local public access TV show. We were talking about murder within a family, which he called "the ultimate betrayal in our society." I pointed out that his Distant Blood revolved around a family murder.

And then:
Jeff: That came from my family.
Donna: Oh, my God!
Jeff: I know—isn't that shocking? I should say it was inspired by my family. The situation in Distant Blood is that Jordan has found out he's part of this new family through illegitimate birth. He's attending his first family reunion, and murder and mayhem break out on this island where he's gathered with these new relatives — some of whom are not very happy to welcome him onto their branch of the family tree. I was about sixty pages into writing Distant Blood and I realized one of the driving forces in this family was that there had been a murder no one was willing to talk about.
        When I was fifteen, doing one of those awful oral history projects that you get assigned to do on your family, I found out one of my grandmother's brothers was in prison for murder. This was a big secret because we all thought he was off working in Biloxi or Cheyenne or wherever the oil business had taken him. We would get letters from him at these places. But it turned out he had gotten into a bar fight with a man who had been cheating on him with his wife. He shot him dead through the heart, put the gun on the bar, told the barkeep to call the police. He pled guilty, was tried and convicted of manslaughter—because we're fairly forgiving about gunfire in public places in Texas. And it was seen as a crime of passion, not something he had planned. And he went to Huntsville and the family—my grandmother's family is this big proper Southern family in a very small town. My great-grandmother was in her nineties at that point, this was the youngest of her ten children, her baby, and they did not want her to know that he was in prison.
Donna: So she never knew?
Jeff: She never knew. This circle of silence formed where my grandmother, my mother and some other relatives went to these elaborate hoaxes to hide the fact that he was in prison. I found this out by accident. So they said “Well, you can't let anyone know.” And sure enough my uncle was a model prisoner, was released, and went to go live with his sister and his brother-in-law—who was the sheriff. So that really helped at the parole hearing. “Well, where are you going to live?” “With the sheriff, my brother-in-law.” So the ex-sheriff and the ex-con spent the rest of their days sitting together in La-Z-Boys in front of the TV drinking beer in perfect accord. All the major players in that drama have passed away so I could tap into those feelings of shame and shock. To know someone you care about and have such high regard for can make such a terrible choice is very compelling. There was a lot of embarrassment, there was shame, there was grief that he'd done it. In Distant Blood I took the raw fodder of what my family had gone through and just kicked it up a level and thought “what if this family had kept this secret for the worst possible reason?”

         The Femmes agree with Donna: "The man's a born storyteller. Don't take my word for it. Get hold of a copy of Blame." Find a link here: http://jeffabbott.com/book/blame/
        Jeff posted on Facebook: "My family and I have been overwhelmed by kindness of neighbors and friends. Leslie and the boys and I want to thank everyone who has responded with kind thoughts, prayers, and offers of help. We all got out safely and that is what matters. Long road ahead but we will make it. Thank you so much."
       Here's the GoFundMe link: https://www.gofundme.com/help-our-friends-the-abbotts

Vacation Slideshow

by Toni L.P. Kelner / Leigh Perry

This being summer, the time for summer vacations, I had planned to write about some of my most memorable summer vacations and like all vacationers, I was looking forward to the post-travel slideshow. I was going to scan some snapshots to illustrate some of the many odysseys I've made over the years, starting with my very first vacation trip.

I'd probably taken other car trips before then, but those would have been to visit family. This trip was from our home in Gulf Breeze, FL all the way to Key West and back. If you're not familiar with Florida geography, that's from the northwest corner of the state down to the very tip. And in a twist that that still amazes me, by "we" I mean my mother; my three sisters Connie, Brenda and Robin; our neighbor Mrs. Biggs; her three kids Janet, Sharon, and Billy; and me. That's right. Nine people in a station wagon.

It was an amazing adventure, and if there was a tourist trap we missed, it wasn't from lack of trying. We went to Weeki Wachee, which had live mermaid shows. We went to Silver Springs, which we rode in glass bottom boats and fed live deer. We saw a diver in Tarpon Springs searching for living sponges. We stayed at a resort and went horseback riding. (And I learned what it means to be saddle sore.) We went to Circus World, an attraction that no longer exists, but where we saw the stuffed skin of poor Gargantua. We saw Mitzi, one of the dolphins who appeared on the TV show "Flipper." My sister Brenda swam with Mitzh, and my sister Robina and I rode in a boat she pulled. At some attraction I can't remember the name of, we encountered a dolphin who was so happy for us to take his picture that we ran out of film snapping photos. And when we made it to Key West, we took a bus tour and ate key lime ice cream.

Each night we'd stop at a motel early enough to hit the pool for a while, and then shared two adjoining bedrooms. It was two to a bed, and I took turns sharing with either my sister Brenda and Janet Biggs or my sister Connie and Sharon Biggs. (I confess that I'm still touched that neither pair minded having me squeezing in.) We'd try to find restaurants that (1) could accommodate our crowd, (2) we could afford, and (3) had food that picky children would eat. One time we showed up at an restaurant that scrambled to get tables pushed togethe and set up, but when my mother and Mrs. Biggs looked at the prices on the menu, we had to turn around and leave. (To the restaurant's credit, they didn't even give us dirty looks when we left.)

I have so many memories of that trip, and I really did intend to post some pictures, but I don't seem to have any. Of course, I was young, maybe four or five, and didn't have a camera of my own, but I know pictures galore were taken. We probably have a full roll of film of that starstruck dolphin. Probably there are some photos or slides in my parents' house or maybe the Biggs have some, but I don't have a single one.

And yet my memories are so clear. So I guess we all luck out. I can enjoy my vacation memories, and you don't have to sit through a slideshow.

Summertime!

Catriona writes: I'm soaking up the last days of my guaranteed summer here in California, before heading off to Edinburgh at the weekend, where all bets are off. So I decided to ask the other Tuesday Femmes for their thoughts on [Will Smith voice] Summatiiiiime.  

 

What's the best and worst thing about summer for you?

 

Hank: There is nothing as inspirational is a beautiful day, right? So when you walk outside and all the flowers are blooming, and the birds are singing, and there are butterflies and a breeze… That is gorgeous. (Sadly we have about two of those per summer in Boston. Right now it is about 90°, and a million per cent humidity and we are all dragging around.) Still, no matter that I work all the time, summer still feels like vacation.  And here in Boston, we are so used to bundling up that it is a pleasure just to be able to walk outside into gentle weather.

 

And oh the food! To have fresh corn, and peaches, and rose wine.  And grill outside. And lobster. And beaches. And the ocean. And the fragrance of sunscreen. And lots of daylight. Sitting in our backyard, with drinks and appetizers, and just watching the garden.  (Here's the garden. It has started to pour now, sheesh.)

 

 

 

Laura: The best thing about summer, for me, is the weather. We live in Colorado, so summers are sublime with sunny days, usually in the 80s, but occasionally creeping into the 90s in late July and August. There's low humidity except when the monsoon rains sweep across the Front Range in the afternoons and evenings in late summer. I adore sitting on my deck when the rain clouds are stacking up on the western horizon, smelling the approaching rain, cooled by gusts of wind. It's even more perfect when I have a good book and a glass of wine. Like Hank, I enjoy the outdoor cooking and the long, long evenings, the blooming lavender in my garden, and the hummingbirds. We have a hummingbird feeder on the deck and I love how territorial those little birds are, how they chase off encroachers, and how the way they fly is pure miracle.

 

I guess the worst thing about it is that I'm less productive in the summer. Some would see that as a plus, I guess! I find it harder to focus on my work in progress with the kids home and the lure of hiking. Of course, with a fractured foot in a boot, as it is at the moment, outdoor activities don't hold their usual allure.

 

Catriona: Oh no! I was going to give in to a big envious huff and you've ruined it. But honestly, Hank has the Atlantic and you both have the possibility of summer rain. Am I bitter? Yes, I certainly am.  It's brown season here now in northern California, triple digits day after day and yet the sea is too cold to swim in. Not a great combination. But the seeded watermelons are in: the size of toddlers and so juicy you need to eat them outside and bent at the waist. And hummingbirds. And you can always get your washing dry.

 

 

So what do you think of the other three seasons, since we're on the subject?

 

Laura: I like 'em all. I love the flowers and sense of peace in the summer, the colors and crispness of fall, the snow and cold in winter (which helps me feel cozy all tucked up in my office writing), and the renewal of spring.

 

Catriona: I think I like them all too: I love long dark nights and I adore Christmas. Spring here is the main gardening season, when the roses riot and you can't eat enough to keep up with the garden. And autumn is relief from the heat. My parents visit for a month then and all the pumpkins and cornstalks make me feel happy. I like how America goes nuts for Halloween - great fun. 

 

Hank: Yes, Halloween is great--it's such a community thing.  Oh yes, I love summer. It feels so relaxed. But in spring all of our flowers bloom, and that is such a treat. Fall in Massachusetts is completely beautiful--crisp and colorful and invigorating. Winter here is hilarious! A couple of years ago we had 100 inches of snow, 100 inches!, and we could not open our back door. Let alone drive. The sidewalks were piled with snow higher than a person. Parked cars were invisible. Seriously. I have to say I was kind of fascinated by it. And as a general assignment reporter, part of my job used to be covering the weather… I had to be stand outside and be live in the blizzardy snow to tell our viewers it was snowing. (Don't you love that?)

So I guess I can see the positive in all of the seasons. 

 

 

 

Anyone willing to admit to anything that makes her crotchety?

 

Laura: Wind. I hate wind. I can tolerate icy cold, burning hot, blizzards, torrential downpours and more, but I hate wind. Which is a tad unfortunate since Colorado, at least the Front Range, has a lot of wind. It's worse some years than others. We visited Iceland earlier this year and saw lots of signs proclaiming it's the third windiest spot on the planet, and not many people live in the first two. I can't even imagine!

 

Catriona: I'm not a  fan of when you leave your metal bucket outside by mistake and have to put oven gloves on to go and fetch it. And not being able to go barefoot because the ground's so hot. I burnt my hands on a gate recently when the cows busted out of their field and I was trying to make quick repairs.  You shouldn't be able to burn your hands on a gate!  You shouldn't ever eat a tomato off the bush and burn your mouth!

 

 

Hank:  A gate and the cows? Um, we have, um, some wild bunnies and chipmunks. But now cows. Anyway, rain. Whatever season it is that it rains. We have huge stretches of rainy days here, so much so that sometimes people just give up  and get wet. I'd much rather have January  snow than March freezing clammy unpleasant rain. When I was in college, there was a stretch of winter we called the January flats, because it was so bleak. As a writer, though, I don't mind bleak.

 

What about everyone else? Do you love summer best of all?

 

 

 

 

 

Time out

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

This weekend I went to my third ever writing marathon--co-sponsored by the Mid-Atlantic chapter of Mystery Writers of America and the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime, and made possible by Josh Pachter, who teaches at the Loudoun branch of the Northern Virginia Community College and very kindly arranged the space for us.

I freely confess that I attended the first of these writeathons not because I had any keen inclination to give it a try, but because I wanted to support the chapter's program. People had told me how useful they found writing marathons. I suggested it to the chapter, pointing out that it was something new and different and free. I asked around for a venue until Josh volunteered one. And I arranged for it to happen in January because I figured if we had a bad snowstorm on the day it was to happen, a writeathon would be a lot easier to handle than a scheduled event at a hotel or restaurant. As long as the college was open and Josh was able to get there, anyone who felt like braving the weather could just show up. (And thank you again Josh!)

To my astonishment, I found I liked the writing marathon. I was in dire need of some serious planning work on the book I was working on at the time, and the writeathon gave me exactly the right kind of space in which to do it. Hard to explain, but somehow knowing that other writers are all around you, diligently writing away, exerts a sort of positive pressure that I can find useful. Call it good energy. I counted the words I wrote, because that's what I do—2500 or so. But they were 2500 words in my outline for the book I was then working on, so I was delighted.

I'm currently part in draft mode and part in outlining mode. I know some parts of this book well enough to write them. Other parts I still needed to work out. So I was looking forward to the July 22 writeathon. And it didn't disappoint me. I got 2000 words written on the parts I'd figured out. And I made fabulous progress on figuring out the parts that still needed planning. And it was nice to catch up with writer friends, even though we didn't spend all that much time socializing.

In the early afternoon a line of severe thunderstorms began sweeping through the area, and it was particularly nice to sit in a dry, welcoming place, look for a bit to watch the rain hit the windows and then bend over the keyboard again.

All in all, it made a very refreshing time out from my usual writing routine.

When I got home, at 5 or so, nature had decided to give me another kind of time out. The thunderstorm had taken out the power in my neighborhood.

I'd have been less cheerful about the outage if not for the fact that since the onset of the storms the temperature had plummeted from the mid 90s to the mid 70s. The house was a bit stuffy, but not uncomfortable. I used the light from my iPhone screen to find my way to the recliner. I donned a little LED headlamp for moving about the house. And I spent the evening alternating between reading on my iPhone—thank goodness for external power supplies, of which I have several—and thinking about my plot. And then went to bed early.

Sometimes it's hard to notice how reliant we are on power until it's taken away. But I find that after the initial annoyance of readjusting my plans—I had been planning, when I returned from the writing marathon, to cook something for dinner, do a little organizing of my book planning files, watch LivePD on the TV, text a little with friends—I found the powerless evening relaxing. Even a bit restorative.

It helped that I had my iPhone to reach the outside world if need be. And my little LED headlamps for reading paper books and keeping me from tripping over the furniture. And that I have good friends down the street with a generator, who would have taken me in if the night had proved unbearably hot or dangerously cold.

And when I got back to my computer today, I had no problem knocking out the 2000 words I wanted to get done today.

Sometimes the best thing you can do for your writing—or for your life in general—is to take a time out from it.

Looking forward to the next writeathon. Not so much to the next power outage, but I'll weather it when it happens.

Six Tips for Traveling with Your Dog and a Contest to Win Dog Treats

by Joanna Campbell Slan

Broadcasters discussing the 2017 World Series of Poker have noticed a curious trend. There are more dogs than ever roaming the halls of the Rio Hotel in Las Vegas, which is a pet-friendly hotel. According to Hotel News Now, the number of hotels welcoming four-legged guests is definitely on the rise, in part due to the new ease with which dogs are able to fly as therapy animals.

I travel with Jax, my Havanese, all the time. Here are some of the tips I’ve picked up that make traveling with a dog pretty easy:

1. Get a special designation for your dog, if applicable. There are three: Emotional Support Animal, Therapy Dog, and Service Dog. You will need to be assessed by a professional (a therapist or a doctor) who will write a letter that you can present to the airline. The airline will then keep the letter on file. However, for each flight you’ll need to check in 48 hours ahead with the “special needs” department of the airline.
2. Check the requirements of the airline you wish to fly. Their requirements may vary. Generally, the animal must be clean and under control, must fit on your lap, under your seat, or at your feet.
3. Bring with the proper ESA paperwork with you to the airport.
4. Bring a copy of all your dog's vaccinations.
5. Bring a harness designating the dog’s status. (You can take this off the dog once you’ve gotten through the boarding process.)
6. Give yourself plenty of time so you can check in at the ticket counter.

Walking Jax through a crowded airport is a slow process. Everyone wants to say hi. We’ve been approached by wheelchair attendants whose passengers want to pet Jax, by parents whose kids want to touch the doggy, and by pet owners who miss their fur-babies and want to get their “doggy fix.”

Seeing my dog’s effect on other people is amazing. I’ve watched the most stern ticket agents break into big smiles when they meet my dog. Researchers have discovered that the human body actually releases more endorphins when it is near a dog. These hormones make people more relaxed. (Source: www.vamddcdog.com)

So yes, Jax is definitely an Emotional Support Animal. He works a little magic for everyone he comes in contact with.

Have you noticed more animals in airports and hotels? Do you ever travel with your pet? Is this a trend you approve of?

Comment by next Friday and Jax will choose one lucky person to get a bag of Zuke Natural Chicken dog treats. https://www.amazon.com/Zukes-Naturals-Treats-Chicken-1-Pound/dp/B000H0ZJHW

 

 

Five Days!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

By Elaine Viets

          Fire and Ashes, my hot new forensic mystery, will be published in five days. I can't wait for you to read my second Angela Richman, death investigator mystery.
          Fire and Ashes tackles an incendiary mix: local prejudice and junk science. Death investigator Angela arrives at an exclusive, gated community as a body is being carried out. She doesn't know yet that the dead person is scandalous Luther Delor, who at age 70 left his socialite wife for a 20-year-old Mexican-American manicurist, Kendra Salvato.                   Local gossip says the old man gave his curvy fiancee two million bucks to wear his engagement ring and promised another two mil when she married him. The community that condemned Luther's bed-hopping unites against Kendra, portraying her as a gold digger who set fire to her fiancé.   Angela has to gather the forensic facts during a firestorm of gossip, and hope cold, hard science can save Kendra.
          Here's how Fire and Ashes opens:

Chapter 1
         Five fire engines, two ladder trucks, a portable light truck, a battalion chief’s van, and what looked like every cop car in Chouteau County were fighting this fire. Death investigator
         Angela Richman knew it was already too late—she was summoned only for death. Tonight, someone had died in that blazing building, choked by the smoke and seared by those flames. Angela oversaw the bodies at Chouteau County crime scenes or unattended deaths. The death investigator reported to the county medical examiner.
       Who was it? Angela didn’t know yet. The detective’s call was cryptic: “Luther Ridley Delor’s house is on fire. One body so far. They’re bringing it out. Get over there now.” Seventy-year-old Luther called himself a financier to take away the sting of how his family made a trainload of money: running a nationwide chain of payday loan companies. People—especially desperate ones—knew the slogan “You get more with Delor.”
         Was the old man dead? Was the victim his young fiancée? Or did a friend or servant die in that hellish fire? Angela prayed there was only one victim. She’d expected this death. This was the third major fire in the county in two weeks. Fear smoldered beneath the comfortable surface of Chouteau Forest, Missouri, the biggest town in the county. Chouteau County was a ten-square-mile preserve for the 1 percent and those who served them, about thirty miles west of Saint Louis.
         The blaze was in Olympia Forest Estates, an exclusive development built five years ago. That made it brand-new compared with the county’s extravagant old-money mansions: robber barons’ Romanesque castles, English country houses, and Bavarian hunting lodges built at the turn of the last century. Olympia’s brick-and-stone houses seemed subdued after those architectural fancies, but they were still luxurious. Thanks to relentless advertising, everyone knew their prices—three to five million—and their amenities.
         Angela, still recovering from six strokes, brain surgery, and a coma at the fairly young age of forty-one, leaned on her cane behind the yellow caution-tape barrier while she tried to spot the best route through the shifting, smoking chaos. She’d trundled her death investigator kit—a black rolling suitcase—across the water-soaked street. Her plain black pantsuit kept her warm in the chilly May night, and her flat, black lace-up shoes helped her navigate the treacherous ground.
         Hastily dressed gawkers had gathered in the cul-de-sac outside the burning house. Angela stood next to a scrawny-legged, bald man in blue boxers and sandals and tried not to look at his pale, flabby chest. She knew him: Ollie Champlain.Ollie lived on stale bar snacks and martinis at the Forest Country Club.
        “Woo-eee!” Ollie said. “You can almost smell the money burning. That’s Luther’s house.”

        Dread seized Angela. Now that she heard Luther’s name, the death was real. The Forest “financier” had created a major scandal at age seventy. He’d left his wife of forty years for Kendra Graciela Salvato, a twenty-year-old manicurist. Luther’s wife was fighting the divorce, but he’d given Kendra an engagement ring with a diamond bigger than Delaware and swore they’d marry as soon as he was free.
         “Don’t be disgusting,” said a worried woman clutching her long, baggy plaid bathrobe. “The smell is horrible.”
           Angela caught the toxic stink of melting plastic mixed with the stomach-turning stench of burned meat and hair. The flames were eating the victim’s body.
           Ollie refused to be shamed. He acted as if the fatal fire were staged for his entertainment. “Look at the firefighters taking axes to that bay window. I can hear the corks popping in that thousand-bottle wine room.”
          “Humph,” Plaid Bathrobe said. “The way Luther drinks, I doubt he could keep a thousand bottles.”
         “He was definitely pissed tonight,” Ollie said. “I watched him stagger home with his little Mexican cutie. Kendra had to help him inside the house. It was fun watching her in that tight white dress. Luther was too drunk to walk into his house, much less run out of it. Jeez, I hope that’s not her burning in that house. What a waste of a fine p—”
           Plaid Bathrobe glared him into changing his crude words. “A fine young woman,” he continued. “The Rhinestone Cowboy’s a shriveled old coot. I hope she gets out alive.”
            The Forest residents secretly laughed at Luther’s garish outfits. The liver-spotted financier dressed like a drugstore cowboy, from his black Stetson with the diamond hatband to his tight, western-cut jeans flared to fit over his handmade Lucchese boots. Luther’s rhinestone-studded shirts sparkled. Angela rather liked his style.
            “I hope they both get out alive,” Plaid Bathrobe said, her tight gray curls bobbing in disapproval.

_________________________________________________________

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Confessions of a Serial Killer

Yes, I kill people. To date, upwards of thirty. More to come, I hope. And of course I'm sure anyone reading this realizes that I'm writing about fictional characters being murdered. People who read my books already know this about me. There are other things they don't know, however, and I thought I would share one thing today.

Most people these days are aware of the initials "OCD" and what they stand for -- Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I have an extremely mild case of this, not a full-blown one. I looked up the symptoms recently, and I did recognize certain things about myself in them. But my case isn't bad enough to warrant treatment. I suspect many of us have mild forms of this. Most writers probably do, anyway. Here are some of mine.

I don't like starting a book unless I have a title first. I suppose that's because a title gives me an anchor of a sort. I will brainstorm about plot and characters, writing notes to myself, but I don't write a word of the actual book until I have the opening sentence or two worked out in my head. I have to know what those words are before I can bring myself to open the word processing program, create the template for the first chapter, and start typing.

Grammar and word usage are two other objects of compulsion/obsession for me. I was lucky to have excellent English teachers through junior high and high school, and I learned the rules of grammar. We diagrammed sentences every year for six years. I know I occasionally make mistakes, and they are painful when I discover them. I find it difficult to break certain rules, like the rule that one must never split an infinitive. If I do split one, it's usually in dialogue, because that's how people talk. I also have trouble using the plural pronouns "they" and "them" when referring to a single person. So you'll often see the "he or she" in my writing rather than "they." Except in the dialogue of certain characters.

I also have an issue with misplaced modifiers, particularly with gerunds in the wrong place in a sentence modifying the incorrect noun. Here's an example: "Rising rapidly to flood stage, I observed the encroaching waters with alarm." Well, "I" am not rising rapidly to flood stage, the encroaching waters are. But the way the original sentence is worded, it is "I" who is rapidly rising. I can't abide committing errors like this, and they annoy the heck out of me when I find them in books I'm reading for pleasure.

There are numerous other grammatical things I could write about, but I will end with this one. Please repeat after me, "never use an apostrophe to pluralize ANYTHING. Apostrophes signify possession."

Now you must excuse me, because I've got to come up with the first sentence of the next book so I can actually start writing it.

 

 

Are Blogs Going the Way of the Dodo?

by Laura DiSilverio

I am hoping that y'all will indulge my curiosity today.

I had a conversation last week with another author who said that "blogs are dead," that they are attracting fewer readers, and that book conversations go on at places like Goodreads and on Facebook. Another pundit put it this way: "It's not so much that blogging is dead but that other avenues are much more accessible."

I was surprised. I have a couple of book/author related blogs that I visit regularly, and it doesn't look to me like engagement is tapering off.

 

 

 

Still, I thought I'd ask you. If you're visiting Femmes Fatales, obviously you are a blog reader/lurker, at least. Let me take an informal survey:

                - How many blogs do you visit and how often do you go to each one?

                -What are you looking for when you visit these blogs? Information or reviews about upcoming books, a connection with authors, a conversation with other readers, or something else?

                -Do you have your own blog? If so, who are you engaging with? Who do you see as your primary audience?

 

 

 

I have a list of 100 Book Blogs You Need to Read that comes from 2009. Just randomly clicking these links now, at least half of them no longer exist. I don't have time to try them all, but if anyone's up for that, here's the link: http://www.onlineuniversities.com/blog/2009/10/101-book-blogs-you-need-to-read/ .  Who knows, you might find a great new book blog!

Thanks for being a faithful Femmes follower and for commenting today. Tune in on the next third Tuesday (my regular day, in case you haven't figured that out) for the scoop on my September release, THAT LAST WEEKEND, and some great prizes. (The next third Tuesday is August 15th. You won't remember that. Put it on your calendar now.)