Cynthia Baxter | Confessions of a Mystery Writer . . . Er, Travel Writer

We’re all entitled to an obsession or two, aren’t we?

One of mine is travel. I suppose it’s because I spent my childhood in the backseat of a car with my sister and grandmother – often a Volkswagen bug – with my parents in the front seat, acting as pilot and co-pilot. School vacation was synonymous with road trip. Since my father was an English teacher in a neighboring school district, he usually had the same days off that we kids did – and so off we’d go.

Our home was on Long Island, in the suburbs of New York, which was a great starting point for traveling all over the eastern half of the United States. The five of us explored New England, Florida, and just about every state in between. (Eastern Canada, too.) We saw the big cities like Boston, Philadelphia, and Montreal; historic towns like Williamsburg, Virginia, and Salem, Massachusetts; and places that were just plain fun like Hershey, Pennsylvania, and St. Petersburg, Florida.

In fact, Florida was a favorite destination for spring vacations. The drive took about three days, including stops at every Stuckey’s and Horne’s we passed along the way (a blast from the past for those of you who had the pleasure of putting those on your itinerary before their demise). Once we were there, we also stopped at every attraction. This was still the 1950’s and 1960’s, so Disney had yet put in an appearance. But we found plenty to do: alligator farms, orange groves, Cypress Gardens, stores selling everything that could possibly be made with seashells, and the glitzy hotels of Miami Beach, where we strolled through the lobbies and pretended we were wealthy enough to stay at them.

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Kathryn Albright | A Rose by any other Name…

Traveling about the United States has always inspired my writing. I guess that is why, when I have the time, I prefer to drive places rather than fly.

Besides the names of mountains and lakes, the town and street names catch my eye. For example, my grandparents lived in Buzzards Bay on Cape Cod. Now doesn’t that sound like a great place to set in a story? Other “east coast” names that fascinate me are Nantucket Sound and Owls Head. The name Poughkeepsie in New York just makes me smile. It sounds like fun—and would be a light story. Roanoke and Claymont give away their “stuffy” British backgrounds. The name Nags Head makes me wonder what happened to the poor horse there—or was it about a discontented woman? (Probably neither—but there goes my imagination…) Women seem to get little respect from history as the names of most places related to them are similar to Crazy Woman Creek, Maggies Nipples, or Squaw Hill (all of Wyoming.)

Even old names of streets such as Gallows Road and Persimmon Tree Road start stories spinning through my head. Seven Locks Road—now there just has to be a story about covering up a murder in there somewhere.

My new release, The Rebel and the Lady, is set in San Antonio, Texas and the names of places there reflect the Spanish/Mexican/Indian heritage of the land. Nacogdoches, Cibolo, Gonzales are all surrounding towns. Apache Creek and the Brazos and Guadalupe Rivers are nearby and legends and stories abound of lovers leaps, mad woman hauntings, Comanche raids and buried gold. Dead Horse Gulch, Broken Man Trail, Agua Dulce (sweet or fresh water) all give rise to more story ideas.

Coyote Mesa, Buffalo Trail, Coon Hollow, Whiskey Ridge, Slipdown Mountain—well, you get the picture. Perhaps, as I suspect, only a writer or history buff has this strange affection for names and places. What about you? Do you live near or have you heard of a particular place with an unusual/interesting name?


Kathryn Albright
www.kathrynalbright.com/

Tasha Alexander | Dare to Dream

When I first started writing, I hardly dared to dream. I banged away on a semi-decrepit laptop in my attic apartment in New Haven, Connecticut (yes, really, an attic...servants’ quarters, actually; I kept looking with no success for the butler...), working on my debut novel, And Only to Deceive, with only the briefest someday-maybe-if-I’m-good-and-lucky-this-will-get-published thoughts.

I’d chosen the location for the novel carefully—wanted to use settings familiar to me. Places I’d actually been. I studied abroad in college, living in London, and that seemed an easy starting point. Two trips to Paris had cemented the city in my soul, and a recent visit to Greece had wholly seduced me. I was confident I could capture the essentials of each location.

But what next?

I’d joked for a long time that my writing career was a thinly veiled attempt to justify my travel plans, but I’d never really let myself believe that someday, just maybe, I could be an author and jet about the world on research trips. I kept those thoughts far from my brain, focusing instead on writing. It’s the best thing an aspiring author can do—nothing is more important than crafting the best books possible—while all the while pushing the bounds of what you can accomplish.

And you know? A really funny thing happened. All of a sudden (well, okay, not quite; a few years and a few books later), I found myself sitting on a ferry cruising up the Bosphorus to the Black Sea, watching the colors of Istanbul bounce from the shores of both Europe and Asia toward me. Somehow, through lots of hard work and more than a little magic, I’d made it: two weeks in Turkey, researching the next book in my series. The characters I created in that attic apartment are still with me. They’ve grown and deepened and developed a fondness for Turkish food, and I’ve no doubt I’ll drag them along for many more adventures.

I’m home now, more than a little worse for wear (I blame the two hour cab line in a snow storm at O’Hare for that), fairly confident that I’m never going to entirely regain my voice, but happier than I could have ever imagined. Dreams have a way of catching up with you—and I can’t wait to see what happens now that I’m no longer bent on keeping them at bay.

Tasha Alexander

A Poisoned Season - Available Now

A Fatal Waltz - Coming May, 2008

www.tashaalexander.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.

Carla Neggers | Travel Tales: Writing on the Fly

I'm on the road. I just arrived in beautiful Salt Lake City on not such a beautiful day, but what incredible scenery. It's my second time out west this year. In June, I was in Denver, Phoenix and Las Vegas touring for ABANDON, my most recent book, with side trips to Sedona and the Grand Canyon. In between these two trips west, I've scooted off to Dallas, New York, Maine and Toronto. Fortunately, I can write pretty much anytime, anywhere. I spent the first three hours of the flight to Salt Lake working on THE ANGEL, which is due out in hardcover in late April. I love this story, so it was easy to drag out my laptop, put on my iPod and dive in.

Not everyone can or likes to write on the road, but for me it can be fun and energizing. Some writers I know like to hole up in a hotel for the last week or two they're working on a book. Total immersion. No distractions. It's something I've never done, but I can understand the appeal—especially if it's a nice hotel! I wrote part of THE WIDOW, which is due out in paperback in a few weeks, at the Hermitage in Nashville, one of my all-time favorite hotels.

I've learned the hard way to be very clear about what's trash and what's not trash. I left a print-out of BREAKWATER in our hotel room in Reno two years ago. I'd made about eight-hours worth of handwritten changes—no computer backup. We were on the tail-end of another trip west—we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway from San Diego to San Francisco, then on to Reno and, finally, Lake Tahoe. After so many days on the road, the flimsy gray cardboard box that held my manuscript was very beat up…and out it went with the trash, never to be seen again. Live and learn…

Of course, I take trips when I don't write at all. I like to give my mind a chance to roam. Last summer, we stayed in a cottage on a sheep farm on the southwest coast of Ireland—what an experience. I wasn't doing research or even thinking about an Ireland-related book, but the moment we stepped into the ruin of the coastal stone cottage where my son-in-law's great-grandfather was born…I knew a story had grabbed hold of me. I didn't know what it was or when I'd write it, but, looking back, I realize I started writing THE ANGEL that day.

We're off to Beverly Hills after Salt Lake City. I'll be finished with THE ANGEL and look forward to giving my mind another chance to roam. Who knows what'll happen—maybe I'll just people-watch—but it'll be an adventure.

Take care, and happy reading!

Carla

http://www.carlaneggers.com/