Denise Swanson | School Psychologist, Writer, and People Watcher

One of the first questions I’m often asked when I speak about my writing is why I chose to write mysteries instead of romances (I assume this is because I have such an innocent, baby face). My answer is simple: after twenty-two years in public education there are a lot of people I want to kill, there are very few I want to have sex with.

Seriously, although I enjoy writing mysteries because I like knowing that the bad guy is going to get caught and pay for his crime at the end, I would like to write in other genres such as romance and fantasy.

On the other hand, I love the sense of justice a well-written mystery brings to its readers. One thing I’ve learned from being a school psychologist for so long is that justice rarely happens in real life, so it gives me a sense of fulfillment to have it happen in my fiction.

Having worked in almost every type of school setting, from the poorest areas surrounding Washington DC to upscale suburban Chicago, and from rural to urban, I’ve heard so many stories and seen so many bizarre situations I’ll never run out of plots.

My Scumble River Mystery series is set in a fictional small town in Illinois, and features a school psychologist-sleuth named Skye Denison. It's got a lot of humor, a bit of romance, and I’ve based many of the stories on my personal experiences—although I've never found a dead body—at least not yet.

When I decided to write a series, one of my goals was to highlight the profession of school psychologist. Most people have no idea what a school psychologist does, or even that they exist. I still get reviews where they call Skye a school counselor or a psychiatrist, both of which are very different jobs.

One of the reasons I enjoyed being a school psychologist is my abiding interest in people. I love studying them and figuring out what makes them tick. This is also, why I enjoy writing. My books are character-driven, and one of the things I like most is examining the relationships. Throughout the series my sleuth is torn between two men, and my readers seem very interested in this relationship. When I do book signings there have even been some skirmishes between readers who have different opinions on which guy Skye should end up with.

Another aspect of writing that is similar to school psychology is that the characters surprise me every time I write about them. In Murder of a Sleeping Beauty, which deals with body image among teenagers, I was surprised by my research when I found a large number of parents living their lives through their kids, as well as by the rising number of teenage girls who think they are only a pretty face and thin body. (Girls should be judged for something besides their looks. For that reason I made Skye a plus-size woman who is comfortable in her own skin. I’m hoping that the teens that read my books will come to understand that people come in all sizes, and weight is just another attribute, like hair or eye color. Skye shows that whether a woman looks like a Barbie doll or a Rubens painting, she can do anything and experience life to the fullest.)

In Murder of a Barbie and Ken, Skye’s then boyfriend, Simon’s mother appeared out of nowhere. I had thought she was dead up until that point. In Murder of a Smart Cookie, nearly all my characters surprised me, especially Simon.

In my newest book, Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry, Skye’s current boyfriend, Wally’s father comes to town and reveals their family secrets.

--Denise Swanson writes the Scumble River mystery series published by Penguin/NAL/Obsidian. Her books have been nominated for the Agatha, Mary Higgins Clark, Daphne du Maurier, and RT Reviewers Choice awards. She is married to classical music composer, David Stybr. To hear some of David’s music go to Denise’s website http://www.deniseswanson.com/

Kimber Chin | What's In A Name?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet". Ummm… okay, Shakespeare. That's why Juliet fell in love with Romeo and not some guy named Fred. Yeah, somehow, I'm not buying the names are meaningless sales spiel.

Why? Because names aren't meaningless. They're important. That's why most parents spend the entire nine months trying to decide on one (I, on the other hand, was named after the toilet paper and one of my brothers was named after a box of tissues). They set expectations, invoking feelings and passions.

For the rest of your life.

I know this first hand. Who do you picture when you hear the name Kimber Chin (or, if you prefer, the Dr. Seuss version Kim Chin)? Perhaps Lucy Liu from Charles Angels and Kill Bill? Or Ziyi Zhang from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon? Or…

I'll stop naming gorgeous Asian actresses now before I get depressed. You see, that's SO not me. Even the top Photoshop expert in the world (i.e. my hubby or so he thinks) can't make me look like Lucy Liu. I had to marry to get that last name. My background is Irish, my two sisters are redheads, and I'm paler than Casper, the Friendly Ghost.

Names are even more important for our fictional characters. I doubt any of the great characters in fiction were named carelessly.

There's the wicked George Wickham in Jane Austen's Pride And Prejudice. I just knew with a name like that, he'd turn out to be a baddie.

What about Elena Michaels from Kelley Armstrong's Bitten? She couldn't be plain Ellen Michaels, no, because there is something just a tad bit off with her. Hhhmmm… like being a werewolf, perhaps?

Dr. Jekyll, from Robert Louis Stevenson's Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is also betrayed by his name. When I hear Jekyll, I think jackal, the animal, the beast. Not exactly good doctor material.

Sisters are extremely interesting. The D'Averette sisters from Margaret Moore's King John series share a surname emphasizing their ties to their land (De meaning of or from). However, they have very different and distinct first names, stamping each character as an individual. Lady Adelaide, with her almost masculine given name, is a woman of strength and bravery. As for the second sister? I've never met a meek Gillian, dull appearance or not. Lady Elizabeth or Lizette, with her amateur theatrics, won't be tied down to a single moniker. Margaret Moore doesn't say so but I'd bet big money Lizette is a Gemini.

In my first novel, Breach Of Trust, quiet, unassuming Anne James has the plainest name I could think of. Or almost does. She isn't a Smith, is she? No. I thought James more royal and, as our hero, the oh-so-French Philippe Lamont, can attest to, Anne can be a royal pain in the… well, never mind. She appears mild mannered (the Anne) but is truly fierce (the James). Contrasts.

What fictional names do you find interesting or amusing (Dumbledore, anyone?)? Do you try to guess the character's personality by his or her name? I look forward to hearing your thoughts!

Kimber Chin
Author of Breach Of Trust (Champagne Books)
http://businessromance.com/

L. J. Sellers | Taking the Plunge

At the end of last year, I decided that 2008 would be different. I had several goals:

1) start a new novel

2) work on my novel first thing every day, even if I had to get up an hour earlier

3) find or create paying work that I enjoyed more than what I was currently doing to earn a living

4) sell my detective series to another publisher

By March 1, I had accomplished the three things I had control over—although not the way I expected to. January first, I began to outline my new Detective Jackson novel with working title, SECRETS TO DIE FOR. I began getting up at five o’clock to write for an hour before I went to work. At the time, I worked as an editor for an educational publisher, a demanding job that left me too mentally exhausted at the end of the day to feel creative enough to fill blank page after blank page (which is how a novel comes into existence).

Next, I started sending out letters to agents, publishers, and writers, announcing my services as a fiction editor. And I contacted some corporate clients and magazines about nonfiction editing as well. Then I took the biggest step: I asked my employer to let me cut back on my hours at work, thinking it would be long slow transition to self-employment. They promptly laid me off.

Thank you very much.

Terrified, but joyously liberated, I plunged into a new routine: Write for three or four hours exclusively on my novel first thing every morning, break for an hour of exercise, then freelance edit for others. And the work poured in—enough to pay the bills. Now in the evenings, instead of trying to squeeze in a little bit of uninspired writing, I have time to network and market my novel that's currently in print, THE SEX CLUB. Most days I’m at my desk from six in the morning until ten at night, but very little of it feels like work.

I love my new life! My bathroom is perpetually untidy, dinner is often an unimaginative freezer-to-oven meal, and there's laundry backed up everywhere. But yesterday, I passed page 150 on my novel, so who cares? My husband says he's never seen me so happy. It's the first time in my life that I've put my personal writing first. Making a living, raising kids, taking care of extended family, and keeping the house together were always a priority. These things are still important, but they are no longer most important. (Don't call child services; my kids are adults now.)

My goal is keep it going for as long as possible—because I finally feel like my real self. I know that not every writer is in a position to make this kind of change, but I heartily recommend it if you can.

L. J. Sellers

http://thesexclub.net/

Jane K. Cleland | Jane’s Time Management Strategy: Just Say No to Cookies

For many years, I was the official "cookie baker" for my family’s holiday get-togethers. Chocolate chip cookies were my specialty, but I dabbled in sugar, chocolate, apple, creamy fillings, and other gourmet styles, too.

As the years passed, and I became busier at work, I grew less entranced with the prospect of baking dozens of cookies under enormous time constraints. In fact, to me, baking cookies for the holidays became a duty, not a pleasure. Then came the year when I was up past midnight completing the task. I was irritated and snappy. The next day, I grumbled to my husband that this had to stop. “I’m too busy to bake all these cookies!” I complained. And, cleverly, I thought, I asked him to call my mother and tell her that I was no longer going to bake cookies. He declined.

The next year, as cookie-baking time approached, I girded myself, picked up the phone and said, “Ma, I’ve made a decision. I’m just too busy. This year, I’m not going to bake cookies. I’m going to buy them instead.”

I’d expected a long, sad silence, followed by, “All right, dear,” or some similar, kindly worded phrase that left me feeling inadequate and guilty. Instead, do you know what my mother said? “Sounds smart!”

And in that one flash of a moment, I learned an important lesson. I learned that what I’d perceived as an obligation had never, in fact, existed at all. My family thought I liked baking cookies. And I did! I just didn’t like having to bake them. I’d volunteered once, then a second time, then a third, until finally it became an expected part of family get-togethers. I could have stopped any time, but I didn’t think I could The sense that it was a non-negotiable duty was all in my own head.

I recall that story a lot when I’m struggling with time management issues. I really, really want to spend my time doing things I value—not doing things other people value—or doing things because I think other people value them—or doing things that have become part of a tradition simply because they’re been done in the past.

That’s pretty unconventional thinking, I know. Most people value traditions for their own sake. I don’t. I value traditions for the deeper meaning they convey to me at that moment in time. And those deeper meanings shift as my circumstances and needs change.

For instance, I used to decorate like a wild woman for every holiday. I don’t anymore. For Halloween, as an example, I used to suspend paper skeletons from the ceiling in front of windows, adding backlighting so they’d glow eerily as they fluttered. To say nothing of the spiders and cobwebs and jack-o-lanterns! Now I put a few mini-pumpkins on the fireplace mantle and call it a day.

Why the change? I liked my big-time decorations—a lot. It was fun to do and fun to live with. I don’t do it anymore because I don’t need the joy the decorations provided to fill a void and I’d rather spend my time doing other things.

During the period when I’d decorated every nook and cranny of my apartment, I was enduring a tough time in my life—my mother had died, my brother had died, my beloved cat had died, and I’d gotten divorced after a 20-year marriage—all within a year or so. Decorating provided joy during a joyless time.

Things are different now. I’m happily remarried and doing work I adore. For the moment, all is well in my world.

In the Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries, my protagonist, Josie Prescott, is an antiques appraiser who uses her knowledge of antiques to solve crimes.

Josie likes to cook. She uses the recipes her mother wrote out by hand in a leather bound book as she lay dying, part of her legacy to her beloved daughter. Josie likes it when the recipes take time. She doesn’t want to hurry when she cooks. To her, multiple steps and complex instructions mean that she gets to spend extra time with her mom.

That’s luxury! To be able to spend time as you choose.

All of Josie’s mom’s recipes are on my website: www.janecleland.net/. (There are oodles of fun, free elements on the website in addition to the recipes, including several autographed book give-away drawings, an opportunity to pit your antiques appraisal skills against those of the experts in What’s It Worth? You Be the Judge, text and audio podcasts of excerpts, and book club discussion questions... and more. Sign up for the free newsletter, too!)

Time—we all have only so much of it. If you’re like me, you strive to spend it wisely, by your own definition of "wise."

But if you bake cookies for the holidays, may I please have one?

Your thoughts? I’d welcome your comments.

Jane K. Cleland

ANTIQUES TO DIE FOR, available April 2008.

Emilie Richards | Finding Nemo

Nemo came into our lives the way the best ideas for novels often do. One morning my husband and I had no dog. We had memories of two who had aged and died, dogs we had loved for years and mourned with a startling intensity. We also had vows that we would not get another pet while our lives were so busy. Then we got the phone call.

"Mom," our oldest son, the lawyer and country gentleman began, "we found a puppy dying in the grass off our road. Jim–" their neighbor, "nearly ran him over with a bush hog. If I hadn't stopped to talk to him, and he hadn't turned off the tractor. . ."

We didn't need a dog. "What kind of puppy?" I asked, because like any mom I wanted to keep the conversation going. "Who knows. Spotted, starving and sick. I'm not sure he'll make it."

He did make it, of course–or why would I tell this story? My son and daughter-in-law carefully nursed the foundling back to health. Then puppy came to visit one afternoon and simply never left. I couldn't bring myself to name him for days, not until my husband returned home from a conference and saw the baby blue tick beagle with his own eyes. "Nemo," we decided together, because our dog had been lost, then found.

Tonight Nemo is sleeping in his bed beside me. Months later, he is thirty-five pounds of healthy energetic adolescent. He's adored and adorable, the quintessential happy ending. But it occurs to me that Nemo came into my life the same way my idea for a new mystery series did. I had other plans. I knew what was best for my career. I knew from experience that one impulsive detour would take me so far from my planned route that I might never find my way back. And somehow, none of that mattered.

That's how my series arrived. I was happily writing women's fiction, one book a year, then wham, out of nowhere, an idea about a minister's wife who finds murderers appeared at my doorstep. I told myself I was too busy. I told myself this was too far removed from what I was known for. Apparently telling myself anything is a waste of time.

The Ministry is Murder series for Berkley Prime Crime debuted in 2005, and in November of 2007 the third book, Beware False Profits made its debut. I've given up worrying about how sensible an idea is or how much attention I should pay to it. If it wags it's little tail and licks my hand, I'm hooked for life. I've learned that the best books, and the best dogs, are found in the least likely places. They are the gifts we aren't expecting, the joys we only have to reach out and embrace. Nothing else is required.

Please visit my website at http://www.emilierichards.com/ for more information on both my Ministry is Murder and my Shenandoah Album series. And watch for my updates and the new blog coming sometime later this month. Nemo will appear, I can guarantee it.

Emilie Richards

Blaize Clement | Why Pets Are In the Dixie Hemingway Mystery Series

The first time somebody asked why my Dixie Hemingway Mystery Series includes pets, I was a little taken aback. I mean, Dixie Hemingway is a pet sitter, for gosh sake, so there had to be pets. But when I thought about it, I realized it had been my choice to make the pets equal in importance to the human characters. Not with human characteristics or psychic abilities or super strength, but just regular pets like regular people have. So I gave it some thought, and finally came up with an answer.

Every culture has mythic tales of a golden age when humans and animals lived as friends. In The Illiad, when a warrior was killed, his horse hung his head and wept. In The Ramayana, an army of brave monkeys rescued Princess Sita from an evil kidnapper. When the Buddha left his father's palace to seek enlightenment, his horse wept too, when he had to return to the palace alone. And then there's that serpent in the Garden of Eden who told Eve the truth about eating of the tree of knowledge.

In all those old stories, animals represented wisdom and courage and loyalty, and the friendship between humans and animals was one of unconditional love and sacrifice. As humans distanced from that connection with animals, I think we lost a connection to the best part of ourselves. So that's the real reason for putting pets in my stories. It's my way of trying to reconnect with the best part of humanity's story.

The third book in the Dixie Hemingway Mystery Series was published last week. It's titled Even Cat Sitters Get the Blues. Like Curiosity Killed the Cat Sitter and Duplicity Dogged the Dachshund, it has several animal characters that are important to the story. You can read more
about all the books at www.blaizeclement.com/ and at my blog, Kitty Litter (http://www.dixiehemingway.wordpress.com/)

Blaize Clement

Hank Phillippi Ryan | Keeping Mom Happy

My mother is so mad at me. She’s in the midst of reading Face Time, the newest Charlotte McNally Mystery. It’s just been named a Book Sense Notable Book, and it's on the Boston Globe Best Seller list.

I say: Hooray. And I expected the same reaction from my mother. But Mom, who has only read the first ten pages or so, actually said: "I’m sure that’s lovely, dear." You have to imagine the "Mom" tone. Maybe you've used it a time or two yourself. Or perhaps, you've heard it. I'm thinking all daughters have.

Turns out, Mom is unhappy with Face Time.

To be sure: Mom is terrific. She’s almost 80, and is absolutely beautiful. An artist, a reader, a wonderful intellect. (She doesn’t have a computer, so she’s not reading this.) I’m her oldest daughter, and any psychologist will tell you that can cause some friction.

So anyway. Why is Mom mad? She thinks I’ve “used her for art.”

It’s true: Charlie McNally’s mother in Face Time is a bit—persnickety. She’s opinionated. She thinks, for instance, that Charlotte might want to give up her very successful 20-year TV career to marry some tycoon and become a tycoon wife. No matter that Charlie is happy with the personal life (pretty happy, at least, for a 46-year-old single woman who is married to her job) and happy with her professional life (pretty happy, at least, even though she’s fearful she’s going to be replaced by someone younger).

Mom also thinks Charlotte (she refuses to call her Charlie, saying, “nicknames are for stuffed animals and men who play sports”) might want to visit the plastic surgeon for some face time of her own.

Now Mrs. McNally is not, I repeat, not, my mother. But in these days of controversy over whether books that are purported to be memoirs are actually true—I find myself fighting to convince her that my book is truly fiction.

It’s ALL MADE UP, I tell her. Yes, Charlie has a Mom, and I have a Mom. But I’m not Charlie and she’s not you.

Silence on the other end of the phone.

“Of course it’s me, dear,” she finally says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

So I’m wondering, do any of you have a problem with this? Do people “recognize” themselves in your books—and you have to convince them it’s a fictional character they’re recognizing? Would you “use” someone for “art”?

Or if you’re a reader, do you assume fictional characters are real people just put on paper?

And as it turns out—as Mom will find out if she’ll just persevere and get to the end of the book—it’s not only a mystery, and a romance, but kind of a love story between mothers and daughters. My editor said she had tears in her eyes when she read it. One reviewer told me she downright cried at the final scene. (Which is odd, you have to admit, in a murder mystery.)

Yes, as authors we take elements of reality. Then we polish, and tweak, and exaggerate, and accessorize. But the fun is making up something completely new. Creating a new world. New characters and new relationships. And it’s ALL MADE UP.

Okay, Mom?

Do you have a contentious relationship with your mother? (or daughter?) Do you understand each other? I'd love to hear from you--just check my website. And let's chat.

With love to all mothers and daughters...

Hank (okay, it's Harriet but you must never reveal that...and of course, it was Mom's idea.)

PS: And oh--being a reporter myself, (www.hankphillippiryan.com/) I do have news! PRIME TIME, the first Charlotte McNally Mystery, is a Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice nominee!

And there's more: AIR TIME, the third Charlotte McNally Mystery, is now scheduled to be published in the next year or so, followed soon after by DRIVE TIME. Here are some hints: Someone has a baby. Someone leaves town. Someone decides NOT to get married. Do you think you know who?

Enter Hank Phillippi Ryan ONE DAY ONLY BLOG contest TEN WINNERS!!!!

Sheila Lowe | Between the Lines – Forensically Speaking

Are you a CSI buff? Do you watch every episode of Cold Case, Forensic Files, Law & Order and all the spinoffs? Then you are one of the people who have turned forensics into a hugely popular field. These days, DNA, fingerprints, and all that technical stuff makes fantastic (or more correctly, realistic) fodder for fiction. So what better time to introduce a new kind of forensic expert?

I’ve been in the field of handwriting analysis for forty years and occasionally, I testify in court cases as an expert witness. My practice includes working on cases of forged wills, anonymous letters, and all sorts of legal chicanery, as well as behavioral profiling. And my clients have never been as savvy or as interested in what their handwriting says about them as they are today.

At the same time, there are some who believe that in an age of Ipod, BlackBerry, and text messaging, handwriting has lost its relevance. But the truth is, your handwriting–chicken scratch though it may be–remains an important form of personal expression, and it paints a true portrait of your personality. The way you arrange your handwriting on the page, the style you use, and the rhythm as it “moves” across the paper, reveal social graces (or their lack), thinking patterns, behavior, fears and defenses, and much more. Studying this highly complex interaction between brain and hand helps the expert glean important information about what makes the writer tick.

So, after analyzing more than ten-thousand handwriting samples over my career, I was ready to kill someone. Not literally, of course. As a big fan of mystery novels since childhood, and the author of non-fiction handwriting analysis books, I’d always wanted to write a mystery. So, the Claudia Rose, forensic handwriting expert mystery series, came into being [ISBN: 978-0-451-22369-2]. Working closely with LAPD Detective Joel Jovanic to solve a series of unspeakable crimes, Claudia delves deep into the trail of ink, jeopardizing her safety to uncover the secrets of personality in some very high-profile suspects.

Although most of the cases that come across my desk are fairly prosaic, from time to time I get calls that lift the assignment well out of the ordinary–like the former FBI agent who wanted to get me involved in a Satanic cult, or the detective whose client had disappeared in the Middle East and was feared dead, or the scumbag attorney who had perpetrated a huge fraud on an unsuspecting group of investors, or the one about Elvis... (yes, really!) Those are the kinds of cases that form the basis for Claudia’s adventures, beginning with Poison Pen, which asks the question, Can handwriting be faked to make murder look like suicide? Read the first chapter at www.claudiaroseseries.com/

One thing I’ve learned over the past forty years of practice as a handwriting analyst is this: you may be able to change your looks, your tone of voice, or your body language, but regardless of what you show to the world, like DNA or fingerprints, handwriting always tells the truth.

To learn more about handwriting analysis: www.sheilalowe.com/

Clea Simon | Kitty Cornered

What is scarier than losing your pet?

Okay, I guess I should have put that question in context. There are many things scarier than losing your pet. Losing your child or your spouse. Losing your own life. Colonoscopies. Spiders. But for me, for a period of about two months last year, I had to face one of my own particular fears. What’s worse, I had to make that fear come to life for my heroine, Theda Krakow, her pampered and beloved housecat, Musetta, and for any reader out there.

You see, I was working on what became my third Theda Krakow mystery, “Cries and Whiskers,” and I wanted to ratchet up the tension and suspense. But it had to be on my terms – for my readers. And my readers love their pets. So although I have long promised my readers that I would never hurt or kill any animals in my books (humans don’t count), I needed to put Musetta at risk. I needed to have her disappear into a blinding winter storm. And I needed on suspicious phone call to hint that maybe that disappearance wasn’t entirely voluntary.

So what’s the problem? Well, Musetta is based on my own pet. And so I had to put myself in the mind of my heroine. I had to imagine the panic I’d feel if I came home on a freezing sleet-spitting winter night and found my pampered house pet missing. I had to imagine searching in a frenzy. Checking and re-checking all her hiding places, and then, finally, dashing out in the storm to start the hunt in earnest. I had to re-learn everything I know about searching for a lost pet, everything I know about trapping and signs and microchipping. And I had to imagine how I’d cope with all of this in the middle of a wild winter storm, in my panic, with loss creeping up on me like the icy wind.

To be honest, it was harrowing. My real Musetta sleeps on the chair behind my desk most days, but maybe she picked up my tension because several times while I was working on this part of “Cries and Whiskers,” she “went missing.” Not far in her case – I could usually find her in one of her regular spots, her “cave” at the back of the closet or her shelf by the window. But for many long minutes I’d find myself holding my breath, holding back my panic – all until I was holding my own cat, once again.

I’ve been lucky. Readers have responded to the real emotion I put into “Cries and Whiskers,” much as they have to my first two mysteries, the series opener “Mew is for Murder” and last year’s “Cattery Row.” And a recent skim through some new numbers has shown me why.

As silly as I sometimes feel – after all, not only do I write mysteries with cats in them, I’ve got kitty paraphernalia all over my office – it seems I am not at all alone. According to the American Pet Products Manufacturers Association (yes, there is such an organization), nearly half of those of us who cohabit with cats – 49.2 percent – consider our cats to be members of our families. (Dogs are even luckier: 53.5 percent of dog owners consider their pooches to be family.)
The more I think about it, the more I suspect the real numbers are even higher. After all, it’s only recently that we’ve been finally ready to admit that we do love these little creatures. But now that we’ve brought them into our homes, we’ve also welcomed them into our hearts – and according to that same APPMA survey, we’re willing to spend on their health, comfort, and safety, too, to the tune of more than $40 billion that we spent this year on our 88.3 million cats, 74.8 million dogs, 13.4 million reptiles, or that odd 24.3. million category simply called “other small animal.” We want them to have as long and as healthy a life as possible, a life that they’ll share we us, and we’re finally ’fessing up to that fact – and trying to make it happen. Which is why housecats are now living into their 20s and even the larger dogs are now enjoying longer play-filled lives.

And why not? I mean, with all the uncertainties in life, especially in the middle of winter when the weather outside is truly frightful, isn’t it wonderful to come home to that one sweet face, with its purrs or wagging tail? Cause no matter how much we spend on our pets, we’re really taking care of ourselves.What more could we want, on a long, cold winter night, than the warm, soft bulk of our best animal friend, curling up beside us?

purrs!
Clea

Cries and Whiskers
Now Available

Homepage: www.cleasimon.com/

my blog: cleasimon.blogspot.com

Clea Simon is the author of several nonfiction books, including “The Feline Mystique: On the Mysterious Connection Between Women and Cats” (St. Martin’s) and the Theda Krakow cat mystery series, “Mew is for Murder,” “Cattery Row,” and the brand new “Cries and Whiskers,” all published by Poisoned Pen Press.

Nancy J. Cohen | VANILLA SPICE

Did you know that vanilla is the only edible fruit of the orchid family? It’s an extremely valuable crop. Vanilla rustling has always been a concern to growers Thus beans may be branded when they are still green. While the plant stock is native to Mexico, beans are also grown in places like Indonesia, Madagascar, and Tahiti. Variations in soil and climate account for the differences in flavor.

Legend says coffee originated in the Land of the Resplendent Moon. The ruler was blessed with a beautiful daughter, who dedicated her life to serve the goddess of crops. One day while gathering flowers in the forest, the girl came upon a young prince. They fell in love and ran away together. The priests caught them and beheaded the doomed couple. In the spot where their blood spilled, a bush grew. A vine sprang from the earth and twisted around the bush like a pair of embracing lovers. Orchids sprouted on the vine, and when the flowers died, slender green beans developed. Thus vanilla was born from the blood of a princess.

Ninety-seven percent of the vanilla used today is synthetic. Vanillin is the organic component mimicked in synthetics, but natural beans contain additional elements that cannot be duplicated. Thus natural vanilla has a much richer smell and taste. You can tell real vanilla extract if the label says it contains 35% alcohol. Vanilla bought in other countries may be synthetic and/or contain unknown additives.

The current annual demand for natural vanilla is for 2200 tons. Besides playing a role in the food industry and in perfume making, vanilla has industrial applications. It makes medicines taste better and covers the smell of tires, paint, and other household products. So next time you have an upset stomach, sip a cola drink. These contain vanilla, which calms the digestion.

Amateur sleuth and hairstylist Marla Shore discusses the vanilla industry with a grower in KILLER KNOTS, my cruise ship mystery available in stores now. Please look for a copy if you want to read more about this fragrant spice.


Nancy J. Cohen

http://nancyjcohen.com/
http://mysterygal.bravejournal.com/

CJ Lyon | Help a starving writer!

No, I’m not going to ask you to buy my book—you couldn't even if you wanted since it doesn’t come out until March.

I need a different kind of help—the kind of help only readers can give.

First, let me introduce myself. I’m CJ Lyons and I’m a pediatric ER doc turned medical suspense author. My first novel, LIFELINES, will be published by Berkley on March 4, 2008.

I love my new job as a writer—not only can I go to work in my pj’s, I also get the chance to meet lots of interesting people and ask questions that no one else would dare.

I mean, how many 9-5er’s get to visit the FBI academy at Quantico or talk to crime scene experts about the “best” way to kill someone and get away with it?

And no beepers, trauma alerts, or 3am calls to deal with—for the first time in 17 years, I’m finally getting some sleep!

But there is one thing about being a writer that I’m not too happy about. It’s ruined me as a reader!

All my life I’ve been a voracious reader, following my favorite authors blissfully into the worlds they created for me. But now that I’m a writer and know the “tricks of the trade” I no longer travel blindly into these fictional realms.

Instead, I now proceed with eyes wide open, taking note of what works and what doesn’t. I dissect technique, scavenge evocative word choices, flag areas where the pace lags or the characters feel contrived.

I no longer can accept that a character does something “too stupid to live”—like going down into the basement when the lights are out and there’s a serial killer on the loose—unless they have a darn good reason to do so—something more than simply the author needing another action scene. Romances where the only reason the hero and heroine remain apart is because they don’t stop sniping long enough to actually talk about their problems smack of melodrama. And thrillers where the main goal is simply racking up a body count rather than changing or saving the hero’s world seem lackluster.

Yikes!!! Now instead of reading 3-5 books a week, I find myself starting 8-10, quickly casting most aside within a few pages, setting the rest down and never feeling compelled to pick them up again.

I long for the days when I would pick up any book in any genre and devour it like candy. Now I’m left with an often fruitless search for literary sustenance.

But then I’ll find that jewel—that precious gem of a story that draws me in, introduces me to characters I not only understand but care about, makes me feel that saving their world is as important as anything going on in my own.

You know what books I’m talking about—those keep me up all night books. Suddenly they seem harder to find than ever, but once I find one I savor the experience, reading much slower than my usual headlong rush, trying to prolong my enjoyment as much as possible.

So help a poor starving reader/writer out here! What books have you read lately that gave you more than entertainment, that were fresh and different, able to transport you to another world that you were reluctant to leave? Which characters have you fallen in love with lately and why?

I’d love to hear about the books that moved you—and what made them stand out from all the other ones out there.

Thanks for helping this hungry reader!
CJ

Tara Janzen | Book series and automotive infatuation.

One of the questions I’ve been getting asked a lot lately is if my new book, ON THE LOOSE, is still part of the CRAZY series, and the answer is Yes! All of the same characters from Steele Street and SDF, Special Defense Force, are in the LOOSE series of books. We’re still at the chop shop in Denver, dear readers! Much to my surprise, while tramping through the wilds of El Salvador with C. Smith Rydell and Honey York in ON THE LOOSE, I came across another lost chop-shop boy from Steele Street, and his story is told in CUTTING LOOSE, which comes out in January.

So many people who have read the books have fallen in love with the cars, all those beautiful American muscle cars from the sixties and seventies, the ones with engines so big the insurance companies balked at underwriting them. In one instance, they did more than balk. By refusing to insure the cars, they actually shut down production on Don Yenko’s 1969 Chevy Yenko “SYC 427” Novas. Yenko converted thirty stock SS-396 Novas into the barely street legal monsters, before the insurance companies got cold feet. Marrying that much power to something as relatively small and light as a Chevy Nova made a car that even Yenko considered “a beast, almost lethal.” Which, of course, is why I had to have one in the books! She’s named “Mercy,” because she has none, and of course, she’s raced by a girl who blows the tires off everything that goes up against her.

The first car in the books is Jeanette the Jet, a 1969 Camaro with a 383 LT1 stroker under the hood – my dream car. Or so I thought until I met Angelina, a 1970 Chevelle SS 454, Black Cherry with black racing stripes. And then came Coralie, a 1967 Pontiac GTO, Signet Gold with a 360-horse Ram Air 400. She stole my heart – up until I met Charlotte the Harlot, a 1968 Shelby Mustang CJ428, Candyapple Red with white stripes.

So what do you think? What’s the toughest, coolest car to ever come out of Detroit? Or does your favorite rubber-souled machine come from someplace else? If so, let me know. Right now, I’m spending my days dreaming of another 1970 Chevelle SS 454, the rare and wondrous LS6. Can anybody beat that for sheer heart-pounding, automotive infatuation?

Tara Jenzen

http://www.tarajanzen.com/

Linnea Sinclair - THIS IS MY HALLOWEEN COSTUME…

Trick or Treat! I’m disguised as a blogger today. Usually I look like a science fiction romance author, which means I look a lot like a middle-aged woman in rimless glasses, cropped sweatpants, a ratty pink t-shirt emblazoned with MY NAME’S NO, NO BAD CAPTAIN, WHAT’S YOURS?, and lime green Crocs. But today, in honor of Halloween, I’m disguised as a blogger. Meaning I’ve switched out the lime green Crocs for my fuchsia pink ones in the Mary Jane style.

As you can probably surmise, there’s not a whole lot of difference in the costume. Nor the author. You see, for most people Halloween is the one day they get to dress up and be someone else. For me, every day I get to be someone else on paper (or my computer’s screen, more likely).

Authors live in a perpetual Halloween state.

Scary, no?

This past month I’ve been (mostly) Captain Chaz Bergren. She’s a gutsy gal, late thirties, dealing with being court-martialed for a crime she didn’t commit, and dealing with the love of her life being someone—and something—she never expected. She’s making a return appearance in my 2008 release from Bantam, SHADES OF DARK. Those of you who’ve read GABRIEL’S GHOST (my 2006 RITA award winner) met her and Sully as they sliced through the neverwhen in stolen starships. Chaz and Sully are back with a vengeance. So are the bad guys.

When I’m Chaz, I’m wearing soft but solid work boots (the kind that you can run down starship corridors wearing without falling flat on your face. Hence, no heels). Black fatigue pants (need those pockets) and a dark green pullover shirt. Enviro on a ship can be spotty. Space is cold. Forget those skimpy, off-the-shoulder outfits you see on television space shows. You need something comfortable, something you can work in and sleep in, if necessary.

But because I have a book coming out November 27th (Blatant Self Promotion! Check out The Down Home Zombie Blues!) I occasionally have to doff Chaz and become Commander Jorie Mikkalah. She has her own wardrobe and her own set of problems.

For one thing, she’s stuck here on Earth. Florida, actually. Not so oddly, that’s exactly where I am: Florida. So Jorie’s a little less concerned about starship enviro systems (what you and I might call air-conditioning or central heat) and a lot more concerned about blending in with the local nil-techs. Nils, she calls us for short. See, we’re a bit behind her civilization. More than a few centuries behind. Jorie would give anything for a four-seater gravripper in which to zip around our planet. She’s stuck with an aging Ford SUV that couldn’t hit hyperspace speeds if her life depended on it.

Unfortunately for Jorie, it does.

So the costume I don when being Jorie is not just her outfit, complete with technosleeve and attendant gizmos, but her attitude. She’s tough, capable, competent—and totally lost.

Jorie took the book, tapped on her wristbeam, and scanned the first few pages. It would be too much to ask, she supposed, that the entire universe be civilized enough—and considerate enough—to speak Alarsh. "Operating instructions for the vehicle’s pilot." As the engine chugged quietly, she found a page depicting the gauges and read in silence for a few moments. "I think I have the basics." She tapped off her wristbeam, then caught Trenat’s smile in the rectangular mirror over her head. "Never met a ship I couldn’t fly, Ensign. That’s what six years in the marines will teach you.”

The vehicle’s control stick was between the two front seats. She depressed the small button, eased it until it clicked once.

The vehicle lurched backwards, crashing into one parked behind it.

"Damn!” She shoved the stick again and missed a head-on impact with another parked vehicle only because she grabbed the wheel and yanked it to the left.

Herryck bounced against the door. "Sir!"

"I have it, I have it. It’s okay." Damn, damn. Give her a nice antigrav hopper any day.

Her feet played with the two pedals, the vehicle seesawing as it jerked toward the open gate.

"I think," Herryck said, bracing herself with her right hand against the front control panel, "those are some kind of throttle and braking system. Sir."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I know that. I’m just trying to determine their sensitivity ranges."

"Of course, sir." Herryck’s head jerked back and forth, but whether she was nodding or reacting to the vehicle’s movement, Jorie didn’t know. "Good idea."

By the time they exited onto the street, Jorie felt she had the nil-tech land vehicle under control. "Which direction?"

"We need to take a heading of 240.8, sir." Herryck glanced from her scanner over at the gauges in front of Jorie, none of which functioned as guidance or directional. "Oh." She pulled her palm off the control panel and pointed out the window. "That way."

Fortunately, she has Theo to help her. Florida homicide detective Theo Petrakos. Which meant when writing ZOMBIE, I got to dress up as a cop, too.

Theo pushed the traffic gates shut, then set the Park Closed sign in place. Jorie had told him to go home once the park was clear. But he was not going home until this batch of zombies was dead and that PMaT thing was spewing Rordan’s unworthy molecules all the way back up to the ship.

He turned the lumbering vehicle back toward the ball field, parked it just behind the row of low bleachers, and got out. Jorie trotted toward him, frowning. He leaned on the front of his SUV, arms folded across his tac vest.

"I’m staying."

She glared at him. He glared back. When she flung her arms wide in exasperation and let out a now familiar sounding string of Alarsh curses, he knew he’d succeeded. A mixture of elation and relief washed over him.

Which ended a split second later when a discordant wail erupted from the scanner in Jorie’s hand—and echoed out of one dangling off Tammy Herryck’s hip.

Jorie favored him with one last hard glare—partially obscured by her eyepiece—as if to let Theo know he was now edging his way to the top of her shit list, then she thrust one of her small laser pistols into his outstretched hand.

"Opticals, remember?" she asked, teeth gritted. She swung her rifle around. "And legs. Stay with me."

Opticals. Eyes. And legs. And writhing energyworms and long, flailing, razor-sharp extenders. He sprinted after her to where red-haired Tammy stood, rifle in one hand, scanner in the other, then stopped. Both women’s heads were bent over their scanners but, damn it, no one was looking around. Someone should be. He remembered the green glowing circle, the thing oozing out—impossibly—from its center. He turned, squinting through his sunglasses into the late afternoon light.

Something slammed him from behind, crushing him to the ground. Grass, dirt, and gravel were pushed into his face, and he heard his sunglasses crack. Then, with sickening clarity, Theo realized he could no longer breathe.

Okay, so maybe sometimes that particular costume is a bit scary. But that’s all part of the fun, isn’t it? Something that makes your heart race a little faster. Something that makes your palms a bit sweaty. Even though you know the set-up is a romance. There will be that promised HEA: Happily Ever After. That’s the sweet treat. The extra-crispy dark chocolate crunch bar—a big one—you find when you get to the bottom of your Halloween bag. The one you really savor.

Then you put on your Halloween costume—oops! I mean start writing another character, and go back on the streets (or chapters) for more.

Trick or Treat!

And my latest treat: a 4-1/2 star, Top Pick review from Romantic Times BOOK reviews magazine for THE DOWN HOME ZOMBIE BLUES:

Quirky, offbeat and packed with gritty action, this blistering novel explodes out of the gate and never looks back. Counting on Sinclair to provide top-notch science fiction elaborately spiced with romance and adventure is a given, but she really aces this one! A must-read, by an author who never disappoints.

Now that’s even better than chocolate.

~Linnea

http://www.linneasinclair.com/

Maddy Hunter | Not Your Average Saturday Night

Having been raised in New England, educated in convent school, hired as a church organist at age thirteen, and born into a family that boasted five priests, I suspect the last place you'd expect to find me on a Saturday night is in Amsterdam's red-light district, but two weeks ago, that's exactly where I was.

I write the Passport to Peril Mystery series, featuring travel escort Emily Andrew and her band of quirky Iowa seniors, so I travel the globe looking for exciting places to kill imaginary characters. To date, I've committed murder in Switzerland, Ireland, Italy, Hawaii, Australia, and Scandinavia. With NORWAY TO HIDE due to be released at the end of October, it was time for me to select a new killing ground, which is how I happened to be eating dinner in an upscale Dutch restaurant, opposite two fellow tour members who suggested it might be fun to explore the red-light district after the bus dropped us off at our hotel.

The red-light District? That den of inquity where brothels had thrived for a century? Where people could indulge in hanky-panky while guzzling ardent spirits and smoking something even more potent than Marlboros? Me? Go there? A bit outside my comfort zone, thank you. My idea of a rousing Saturday night is five o'clock Mass and a burger at Culvers.

"Oh, let's," said a third tour member. "I'm game," said another. Even my husband expressed interest. Uh-oh. If I didn't agree to tag along, I'd not only look like a wuss, I'd be a poor excuse for a mystery writer whose credentials included killing people on three continents. I reminded myself that I'd been thinking of letting a couple of my characters -- "the two Dicks" -- run amok in the red-light district in the next book, so I wouldn't be gawking, I'd be... doing research. "I guess you can count me in, too," I finally spoke up, hoping I wouldn't live to regret it, .

After recruiting three more willing tour guests and receiving vague directions, we set off on our adventure like the pilgrims in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales– the New York paralegal, the IRS guy, the UCLA professor, the retired research scientist, the government employee with actual security clearance, the agricultural engineer, two avid Boston Red Sox fans and the cozy mystery writer. We walked in a clump, trying to blend in, but I suspected we weren't tall enough. (Factoid: If you're Dutch, you're really, really tall.) We passed a group of young men on a bridge and I heard the word "American" whispered. (Factoid: I wondered what gave it away? My husband's baseball cap, the IRS guy's Members Only jacket, or the name tags that were still pinned to our clothing?) We tried to determine which pathway we were on– the pedestrian sidewalk or the bicycle path. (Factoid: In Amsterdam there are walkways for people that run adjacent to bicycle lanes. The ground is littered with the bones of American who couldn't figure out the difference.)

"It sure is quiet for a Saturday night," I commented as we followed along a tranquil canal lit by strings of white lights. Amsterdam was spectacular at night with its patrician houses illuminated by sparkling chandeliers behind acres of glass. But the streets were oddly deserted. "Does anyone know where we're going?" asked the paralegal. "This way," said the BoSox fan, and after a left turn, we heard the commotion, which gradually increased to a rock concert roar.

So this was the red-light district. No wonder the rest of Amsterdam was deserted. Everyone was here! People milled shoulder-to-shoulder for as far as the eye could see along a narrow canal. Music blasted. Lights blared. Neon signs advertised products that I'd never find at my local Bed, Bath, and Beyond. A woman dressed in Victoria's Secret lingerie stood statue-still in a storefront window, staring at her cell phone. I couldn't figure out if she was sending a text message or having trouble with her system. "Stick together," the BoSox fan admonished as we wove through the crowd, grabbing onto the hems of each others' jackets.

The ladies of the evening occupied the same kind of cubicles made popular by Hollywood Squares. They were young, gorgeous, and looking for busy. Men gawked. Men whistled. My fictional Dicks would love it here. I was so glad I'd come! I could weave this into a story really well. Our BoSox fan started snapping pictures. "Should you do that?" I asked him. "I read someplace that you're not supposed to take photos in the red-light distract." "I must have missed that," he responded as he continued to snap away.

We walked briskly, losing our grips on each other as we snaked our way through the ever-thickening crowd. On a bridge across the canal I saw a group of brave souls holding up signs that proclaimed, "JESUS SAVES." I sidled looks at the ladies of the evening, my writer's curiosity piqued. Was there one woman who attracted more business than all the others? Did that make the others jealous? Did they ever get together to do lunch or shop? Was this their full time profession, or like in "Pretty Woman," were they only saving money to attend college? How much did they charge for their services? Did they have boyfriends?

The lights and music came to an abrupt end at a bridge and the members of our little troupe straggled onto it one by one. All except our BoSox fan. "Has anyone seen Dan?" asked his wife. We'd all seen him, but not within the last few minutes. So we waited. And waited. And waited.

No Dan. My husband whistled into the crowd. Someone whistled back, which did nothing but prove that two people in the crowd could whistle really loudly. We waited some more. "We should probably go back to the hotel," said his wife after a while. "He'll find his way back."

Go back? But what if something had happened to him? What if he didn't know his way back? What if he'd been arrested for taking pictures? What if he was floating in the canal? This was terrible! (Factoid: On the other hand, it was really great because it was inspiring some great ideas for my next book.) "He's a big boy," his wife assured us calmly. "He'll be fine." I was so admiring of her. If I'd been in her shoes, I'd be frantic. I was really regretting coming here. So we reluctantly shuffled back through the crowd on the opposite side of the canal, constantly looking over our shoulders for Dan. No one wanted to face our tour guide in the morning to tell him that it was only day two of our tour, and we'd already managed to lose a guest.

The eight of us trooped into our hotel with the weight of the world on our shoulders. "What do you want us to do?" we asked his wife. "Should we stay with you, contact our tour guide, contact the authorities?" "I'll give him a couple of hours," she assured us, "and if he's not back by then..." At which point Dan came bouncing into the lobby, bursting with enthusiasm. "I got some great pictures. You wanna see?"

"Where WERE you?" we asked as we crowded around him. "I was right there," he said as he flashed us a picture of a sultry blond. "With the JESUS SAVES people."

Jesus saves. Thank God. (Factoid: Yup. The Dicks were going to love the red-light district.)

Please visit my website at Maddyhunter.com.

Shirley Damsgaard | "Witch" is Better -- Romance or Mystery?

How did a small town Midwesterner ever decide to write about witches?? Well, I’ve always been the type of person who believed if I could read about it, I could do it, so when at the tender age of 48, I decided to write, I bought every book about the craft of writing that I could. The first piece of advice was to write what you like to read, and at the time I was reading a lot of romance. Okay, so we’ll try our hand at romance.

I bought (again) the books I deemed necessary to help me with my quest and set about writing a romance novella. I leaned two things. First of all, I can’t write a love scene to save my life!! And if one is going to write romance, love scenes are kind of important! The second thing I learned is that if you use a password, be sure, and write it down. You might not remember it six months down the road if you don’t. Yes, I pass worded that terrible novella, but forgot what it was! The good thing is—that piece of literature, and I use the term loosely, is forever lost and can never come back to haunt me!!

What to do now?? It was during one of my whines about my lack of skill that my late husband suggested I give mysteries a go. He pointed out I was always ruining movies for him by telling how they would end. He thought writing mysteries would be a more profitable way to exercise my talent at figuring out plots, and leave him alone to enjoy his movies!

Okay, so mysteries it would be, but what type of mystery? Since I have no background in a profession, such as law enforcement, that would lend itself to creating a detective, I knew my protagonist had to be an amateur sleuth. The problem was deciding what type of amateur sleuth. I’ve been interested in the paranormal since I was a teenager, so how about a psychic? What a great idea! It was such a great idea that several, already published authors, had the same thought! I needed a different kind of a hook.

Another interest of mine has always been folk remedies, herbs, old wives tales—it wasn’t much of a leap to jump from folk medicine to folk magick, hence witches. More books about the subject were purchased, and Ophelia and Abby were born! And it’s been fun! I’ve met psychics, real witches, a rune-master, a Native American medicine man, and lots of others who’ve made my life more interesting than I ever conceived it could be. Not bad for a small town Midwesterner who can’t write a romance!

http://www.shirleydamsgaard.com/