The Lipstick Chronicles

Dana Stabenow Guest Blogs

"You Don't Scare Me, Kindle."

by Dana Stabenow 

Kindle. eReader. EZReader. The Alex. The Que. The Nook, iRex, Plastic Logic.

Every time a new e-reader debuts, the book world hurls itself into a panic. " . . . publishers are distracting themselves by fretting over the price of eBooks, without eBook released so as not to cannibalize hardcover book sales, and watching helplessly as their businesses erode," Reuters quoted Forrester analyst Sarah Rotman Epps.

So. Is this the end of the book? Am I about to be out of a job? Man, I was just getting started here.

I'm bucking the trend. I don't think so.

The October 25 Sunday New York Times writes, "Amazon says Kindle owners buy 3.1 times as many books as they did before getting one." Sony says its e-book users are also inspired. "You are going to see very significant growth rates," said Jeffrey P. Bezoes, the head of Amazon.

Of course, they add, "Publishers had doubts. 'Do you really believe that people are going to be reading more because they can get in on a screen? I don't see the scenario," said John Sargent, MacMillian's chief executive.

All due respect to Mr. Sargent, who is after all my publisher, but I don't think he's talked to anyone under thirty lately. Gen Xers were raised reading on screens, and that's how many of them are now reading books. Further, I believe that the explosion of online blogs is accustoming many new people to the habit of reading. an e-format book is going to look familiar and reassuring to these folks, in the same way it frightens many boomers.

I myself recently downloaded a Great Books app to my iPhone, and guess what? If I were stuck in an airport waiting for a late plane and I'd accidentally packed my book in my checked baggage (it's happened, and the horror), I could re-read Pride and Prejudice on my iPhone just fine. It scrolls past at a speed I set, in a font I choose, and I've got oever 150 public domain titles from which to pick, including all of Sherlock Holmes and The Three Musketeers, plus both sequels. If I were toting all that around in book form my bag would never fit into the overhead bin. Not to mention what it would do to my back trying to get it there.

So I'm selling my Star Svensdotter novels, long out of print, on Kindle and iPhone.  I have commissioned cover art for the first nine Kate Shugak novels so I can sell them on Kindle, too. And as soon as I get five minutes I'm going to get tech-friendly with uploading all my out-of-print titles, including the Kate Shugak short stories, for sale on all other e-devices as well.

As I was writing this post, I checked the iTunes App store book page. The number one free app? The B&N eReader.  The number two free app? The Kindle for iPhone. As it happens, I don't need either one of them because my app has its own built-in reader. And it and all the books it comes with cost me a magnificent sum of $1.99.  At that price, you think I won't buy more?

Erik over at Pimp My Novel says, "These cheap books might be the death of publishing, book sharing might be the death of publishing, Stephen King is delaying his e-book because e-books are the death of publishing . . . is anyone else bored of this conversation?" and then links to Lit Drift's 5 Reasons Why the Novel is Not a Dying Medium, where they channel Mark Twain in saying that the death of the novel is greatly exaggerated.

Literary agent Nathan Bransford says, "Things are changing, it's going to be an interesting/challenging couple of years as we gradually succumb to our coming e-book overlords, but it doesn't mean the novel is going to disappear or that w're all going to hell in a handbasket. Things aren't going to be worse (at least in the long term), they're just going to be different . . . "

I can do different. My feeling is that the more ways you can read, the more you will read, which is only good news for me. I do not mean to make light of the real changes facing everyone at every level of the publishing industry, from Mr. Sargent way up there to me way down here. Change is always scary.

But change doesn't have to be bad, and in this case, I don't believe it is.

Dana was born in Alaska and raised on a 75-foot fish tender in the Gulf of Alaska.  To learn more about her unconventional life, check out her website. Her seventeenth Kate Shugak novel, A NIGHT TOO DARK, will be published February 16, 2010.

Things I Learned at The 2009 Jeopardy Teen Tournament

THINGS I LEARNED AT THE 2009 JEOPARDY TEEN TOURNAMENT

By Kathy Sweeney, who was there

As many of you know (because I already blogged about it), my daughter Kate and I went to LA in August with Kate's best friend (since Pre-K) Rachel Rothenberg, and Rachel's mother Susan.  We got to see the actual Jeopardy Teen Tournament  - live.  This week and next week, the Tournament is finally on TV.  We still can't tell you what happens next week, but I can tell you some things I learned from this fabulous experience:

1.  Timing is Everything.  If you watched any of this week's quarter final games, you know that most of the kids knew most of the answers- you could see it in their madly bumping thumbs and in the expressions on their faces. These kids are scary smart, and many of them compete regularly in the high school Quiz Bowl competition, which also uses buzzers (just FYI, Rachel has never done Quiz Bowl).  The thing about the buzzers on Jeopardy is that you have to jam your thumb down at exactly the right moment to get a shot at answering the question - or in this case, providing the question for the answer.  You CANNOT ring in until Alex finishes the clue.  If you do, you're locked out for half a second.  That seems pretty fast, but in fact it can be an eternity - just ask any Olympic athlete.  If you hesitate too long, you give your opponents the chance to buzz in first, where most of the time, they will answer correctly.

2.  Men and Women are Different.  Seriously.  We all know this, but we saw it in living color during the tournament.  If you watched this week, you know that the boys outscored the girls by a significant margin.  Is it because they are smarter?  Bite your tongue.  It's because they are more aggressive.  Hear me out on this.  I sat there for hour after hour watching it happen.  The clue came up, and the boys focused on hitting the buzzer, almost regardless of the topic.  You could actually see the girls' eyes as they scanned the clue FIRST, before deciding to ring in.  Maybe it's simply testosterone, or maybe it's sociological, but it is real.  

3.  There is Hope for The Species.  Think about the last time you saw a teenager on the evening news.  Chances are very high that it involved some kind of bad behavior.  An attack with multiple witnesses who filmed instead of assisting the victim.  A fight - maybe with guns maybe knives - between gangs.  Some pop tart caught with his or her pants down (or no pants at all).  Rehab.  Mug Shots.  Funerals.  But these kids - and the many thousands like them who took an online test, then went to a live regional audition and competition - they measure worth by brainpower.  No moronic beauty queens who couldn't put together a simple sentence with a LeapFrog game; no cretin athletes who think classes are secondary to sports practice; no pimps or hos in training.  These teenagers are smart and responsible and polite.  (Special shout out to Mary Helen, Will's Mom.  Will is so respectful he called me ma'am in casual conversation.  Great kid.)

4.  It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over.  Some of these games were decided on one Daily Double.  Some on Final Jeopardy. This tournament is only half over.  There are nine spots in the semi-finals.  Five will be taken by the winners of each game this week and the other four will go to the wild cards - the four (non-winners) with the highest scores.  By the end of tonight's game, we'll know. These kids aren't quitters - they were all in it to win.  Never give up - never surrender.

If I sound mushy and hopelessly optimistic to you, let me be.  We have enough things in this world to make us sad - so watch these kids win with intelligence - not brute strength or plastic surgery.  If that doesn't make you hopeful, I give up.

GO TEEN TOURNAMENT!  All these young men and women are worth cheering for -

but I'm writing the blog, so I get to say it: Go Team Rachel!

For more about the Jeopardy Teen Tournament, or to find out how to audition - check out the official web site: 2009 Jeopardy Teen Tournament

Wait - I almost forgot - Happy Birthday, William!  Many, many more.

Priming the Pump

Priming the Pump

by Nancy

After a layoff of a few weeks to get my back fixed, I've returned to writing.  And after a week of spending way too much time polishing off the Halloween candy and basically wishing the %^#! book would write itself without any creative input from moi, I figured it was time to take action.

So I went back to The Artist's Way, a writing program I tried a few years back when I was trying to get the Blackbird mysteries off the launchpad. Paint me surprised when I discovered that Julia Cameron's excellent work is now available online--and free!--for any writer sufficiently desperate---er--hungry for inspiration to seek help on the internet.

(Allow me to insert here that I was also astonished to discover that Julia Cameron was once married to Martin Scorsese. Did everybody know this but me?)

Anyway, I highly respect all the theories and practices connected with The Artist's Way, but the two biggies that work for me are the morning pages (sit down and write two pages of anything, without fail, every morning) and the artist date, which is the weekly act of exploring something artsy that interests you, stretches you, hopefully inspires you. 

Instead of making the date weekly, I decided to take the express train and do something daily so I could get this #$%! book moving.

First, my husband and I went to see the Michael Jackson movie This is It. (OKay, I broke a rule already. The artist date is supposed to be solo.  But my husband loves going to the movies, and I couldn't deny the love of my life, could I?)

  

Lemme tell you, the movie is terrific.  Especially if you have any theater or dance or musical experience at all, the peek at the collaborative rehearsal process is fascinating.  MJ had his problems, but the man was a creative genius. And I say this as a person who can't exactly call myself a fan--certainly not the kind of trembling, tears-glistening-in-the-eyes sort of fan featured in the film--but I recognized that he came up with some toe-tapping tunes in his lifetime.  Now I recognize that he had a lot more than that going for him. He really knew best what would be dramatic and entertaining and compelling to his audience. Maybe he has some trouble communicating his vision from time to time in the movie, but watching and listening to him try is really a glimpse into the mind of a genius.

     

Have you seen the movie yet? Because I'd love to discuss it with somebody else.  My husband and I are still talking about it. 

I came home from the movie wishing I had some collaborative partner to bounce my book around with, but that partner is really inside me, right?  So I tossed some ideas around that evening and even woke up to scribble notes on scraps of paper in the dark.  Next morning, I talked to myself in the shower--always my most creative time. (Left brain is busy with the body and the right brain can roam around freely.) I was my own collaborator after all!  I just wish the result didn't involve going back to Page One on my book, but hey, it'll be a better book for that do-over. (And I can keep most of the pages I'd already written, so no real loss.)

With the artist date working pretty well so far, on Monday I decided to take a more careful look at a book of photos and essays about women and their relationship to their work.  The value of blue collar work is one of the themes of my new series, and another look at this issue was also enlightening.  I made more notes for my character and her friends. I was truly getting off on this artist date concept!

So my next trip was a jaunt to the local museum for a look at dinosaur bones.  Mind you, since I'm still using a cane from time to time (not so much because I need the help walking, but rather because people are so much nicer to a person with a cane!) the trip wasn't exactly jaunty.  But dinosaur bones figure prominently in my new book, and I figured I'd better get some facts and figures in my head to make it all authentic and whatnot. 

 

Andrew Carnegie was one of the first dudes who was big into dinosaurs, and since he was a Pittsburgher, we have an excellent dinosaur exhibit at the museum that bears his name.  What a great trip!  I drew some sketches and made notes and came away with some hilarious (I think) ideas for the book.  The cupcake in the cafe afterwards was kind of inspiring, too.

So I'm enthusiastic again!  Revitalized! Back to work  with renewed vigor.  All because I'm taking time to prime the pump, as we say--letting myself enjoy and absorb somebody else's creativity to encourage my own.

Done anything similar for yourself lately?  Been to the theater? The symphony?  Tell me about it! I want to hear about your cultural experiences!

Personally, I'm on a cultural roll. My mother is coming here over the weekend, and we're going to the movie theater to see the "live" performance of the Metropolitan Opera's production of Turandot.  I haven't been to the opera since college (when my senior seminar was about opera---and I don't remember a thing!) but I expect it to be exciting and stimulating.  With luck, I'll come home and write up a storm.

He Already Has a Fur Coat

By Elaine Viets   

Would you buy a bassinet for your Chihuahua – a "snuggly plush cradle" with eyelet lace netting?

How about elf slippers with turned up toes?

When I researched "The Fashion Hound Murders," my new mystery shopper novel, I wandered into the world of dog clothes.

I was appalled. But then I’m a cat lover. My cats wear nothing but their own fur and they kindly coat our couch with it.

Dressing dogs like little people makes me queasy. Maybe I’d buy a warm sweater for a short-haired dog in winter. Even boots for those snowy sidewalks. But the bucks stop there.

Josie and her friend Alyce debate this issue in "The Fashion Hound Murders." In this scene, Josie mystery shops a mythical pet boutique for a dog she doesn’t have:

"I was looking for a dress called Strawberry Delight," Josie said. "I saw it on your Web site."

"That’s in our little dog clothes section," Patti the manager said. "It’s on sale."

She led them to a round rack with doll-sized dresses on plastic hangers. "What kind of dog do you have?" Patti asked, as she pawed through the clothes.

"A Chihuahua," Josie lied.

"What size is she?"

"Small," Josie said. Weren’t they all small? she wondered.

"We have small and extra-small sizes for our little dogs," Patti said. "How much does your dog weigh?"

"About five pounds," Josie said.

"And what’s her length?"

Josie held out her hands about six inches. "But that doesn’t count the ears."

"She’s probably an extra-small," Patti said. "But if the dress doesn’t fit, you can return it in thirty days, no questions asked." Patti pulled out a red-and-white dress dotted with strawberry appliques. A big gingham bow was planted on the back. Josie wished she’d had a dress like that for her daughter Amelia when she was a baby.

"You get the dress and hat for only $21.99," Patti said. "Don’t you love Chihuahuas? You can buy such cute clothes for them."

"And they come with their own fur coats," Josie said.

Alyce cleared her throat to remind Josie she was supposed to be a mystery shopper, not a canine critic.

"Look at this harness with angel wings." Patti pulled out a dog harness with floppy white cloth wings.

"Amazing," Josie said.

"We have an excellent selection of sports wear," Patti said.      

"Thanks, but she’s not athletic," Josie said.

"What is your little girl’s name?" Patti asked.

"Amelia," Josie said, dredging up her daughter’s name.

"Lovely name," Patti said.

"We’d better get home to your fur child," Alyce said, nearly dragging Josie out of the store. "She’ll be wanting her lunch."

They made it to Josie’s car before they collapsed into their seats, laughing. "Good thing you gave your daughter’s name as your ‘little girl,’ " Alyce said.

"I don’t think Harry the cat would look good in gingham checks," Josie said. "They’d clash with his stripes. I can’t believe I just paid twenty-two bucks for a dog dress. These cutesy-poo clothes make me sick."

"That’s a little harsh, Josie."

"No, it’s not harsh," Josie said. "Little kids are going hungry this winter and shivering in the cold. Buying dog dresses is obscene."

"It’s harmless," Alyce said.

"Dogs should be dogs, not child substitutes. It’s useless and cruel."   

"Josie, why are you so judgmental?" Alyce asked.

"I’m not sure what you mean," Josie said.

"Many people think declawing a cat is cruel," Alyce said.

"But we gave Harry a good home," Josie said.

"And cut off his toe joints to save your couch," Alyce said. "You didn’t even try a scratching post first. Not that I’m in a position to criticize. I’m addicted to kitchen toys. The money I spend on high-priced slicers and dicers could be used to feed the poor."

"But you’re not a saint," Josie said.

"Neither are you," Alyce said. "We’re just trying to live our lives. So are the dog lovers. Give them some slack."

***

What’s your opinion, TLC readers? Should pets put on the dog (and dog clothes) or go naked as nature intended?

Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Please

By Sarah

I don't know what's the matter but lately I've become a one-woman confessional. This happened to my mother, too, around my age. I remember strangers sitting next to her waiting for a seat a restaurant or on the T in Boston regurgitating their life stories, their battles with children and nasty bosses, the phone company. Back then, I assumed it was because my mother had been a reporter when she was sixteen for the Boston Herald American and that this amazing Lois Lane ability, honed in her youth, had carried forward to middle age. But my mother disputed that.

"It's because I'm every woman," she said, patting her L'Oreal 8 1/2 ash blonde hair. "Everyone thinks they know me and no one remembers who I am. I could work for the CIA."

The CIA part sounded sexy though the rest was kind of blah. Except for the dyed blonde part. I wanted my mother to go bright, bright blonde like Mrs. Sapporito, but that was a pipe dream. Anyway, the point is I'm where my mother was - middle age, dull blonde, widening in the middle. In short, everyone's mother.

Butchers cut me deals on beef. Mechanics don't charge to remove a nail from my tire. When they are lost, it is to me small children turn in the grocery store. And guys I might have once considered threatening step aside when I approach on the sidewalk. It's not bad. Sometimes I long for the wolf whistles or the knowing glances, but not too much, really. There's a lot to be said for respect.

But there is a downside. Because I am so trustworthy in my old Honda Pilot and sensible winter mocs, people tell me stupid shit. For example, last winter I took the train to New York and two women whom I'd  never met before confided secrets not even their husbands knew. They wanted a divorce. He was boring. They were turning fifty and feeling on top of their game. I sat and knitted and listened, curious and yet perplexed. Why me?

It's become worse. Just last week alone, strangers have divulged their husbands' anger problems or how they no longer believe in God. They've moaned to me about their weight and various, odd infections. Their disturbing smells.

Don't get me wrong. I love discussions like this and as a women's fiction author kind of depend on them to keep up to date. So when I list the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell, Please" recommendations below, cross me off. Tell me. I wanna know. But as someone who could open shop as a crappy priest/therapist, let me just say that there are some things you should not ask about - nor should you tell. 

Therefore, a quick guideline to the Top 5 topics of conversation people should never discuss with strangers.

Don't ask, don't tell about...

... Your Marriage

When it comes to dissing about your marriage, take into confidence only your closest friends. And even then be wary. A marriage is an entity onto itself, to many a sacred bond. To others a prison sentence. Either way it's the most vital contract in your life and when it involves children a whole mini culture. We've all been guilty of trashing spouses either for fun or, well, fun, but doing so leaves both the listener and the teller feeling dirty at the end. Plus, once it's said the listener will never think of your spouse the same - even when you feel differently.

--- Your Awful Kids

Same logic. Your kids are sacred and divulging their vulnerabilities to strangers might offer you temporary relief on the street and long term regret late at night. Do them a favor and treat them like precious treasures, fragile and easily scuffed. You don't need to brag, but you don't need to rip them apart either. No one benefits from hearing how poorly your son does in school or how your daughter's a slut. Only makes everyone uncomfortable.

----Your Sexist Boss/Workplace

I've done this and have rued the day. It requires superhuman strength to keep from bashing a former workplace, especially when they treated you like a serf. Plus, in my case, a lousy workplace provided fertile humor material. But sooner or later someone who loves your former boss or is IN love with your former boss will hear your trash talk and wreak vengeance. It's not worth it. When people ask why you left your job or snoop around to find out if you were fired, frame it in the positive - you wanted to explore new opportunities and keep them guessing.

----Your Sex Life

I swear to God, women tell me about their sex lives. Why is that? Mostly, it's the complaint - that they don't want to do it anymore and he does or the other way around. Often, though, it's specific, as in what act they performed the previous night. As if I care! This leaves me with a mental image I can't get out of my mind which would be fine if all parties involved were fit and trim and stunning. But they're not. They're kind of fat and old and I keep seeing them....Ugh. Just don't, okay? Do us all a favor and keep your mouth shut. In more ways than one.

And, finally, don't ask, don't tell please about...

----Your Spirituality

I can't think of anything more important during your stay on Earth than to develop your spirituality. Whether you believe in Jesus, Mohammed, the buckeye tree out back, this is what's going to carry you through the dark days on your death bed. But the fact is there is no way to bring up your spirituality and fully explain it to strangers without sounding nuts. Think about it.

Let's say you believe that in a previous life you were a child in India - one of my personal theories - and that you died young and were reincarnated, luckily, in this fabulous Western country during an era of modern medicine and wealth with a mission to learn some valuable lesson before slipping off and reincarnating again. Hopefully, not as a witch in Medieval times. Even if this is profound, it sounds crazy. Keep it to yourself or your closest buddies. 

So that's my short list. I'm sure you guys could add many more and for that we who sit next to you on the Row 31 of our next Continental flight say, thanks!

Sarah

I'mNotReady.com

I’mNotReady.com

by Harley

 This summer I was sitting around with one of my sisters as she bemoaned her single state. “Is there no one out there for me?” she asked.

 3 months later, she’s planning her wedding, for Thanksgiving weekend. How did this happen?

  Match.com.

 My friend Antoinette, recently divorced, is also into match.com. She’s posted a large chart on her wall to keep her dates straight, esp. as a disproportionate number of them are named Michael. When the Michaels call her cell, away from the wall chart, it gets tricky, but otherwise, Antoinette’s having a ball. “You need to do this,” she tells me. “Now, before you’re collecting social security.”

 My friend Lucy also found someone on match.com—for me. “Harley, he lives in L.A., he’s our age, and he writes mysteries. He’s your soulmate.” Except that I already know him. Over coffee, he fills me in on his own match.com adventures. Which he recommends. As does an old boyfriend of mine. “You need a social life,” he says. Meaning parties that don’t involve bouncy houses, restaurants that don’t give out crayons with the paper menu.

 “It doesn’t have to be match.com,” my niece tells me. “There’s OtherFishintheSea.com, which is free. Or SugarDaddies.com, where . . .” Yes. Where you end up in Florida with someone your grandfather’s age, a character in one of Elaine’s books.

 But why stop there? There are sites that specialize in millionaires, Mormons or Muslims. Book lovers, beefcake, or bigger bodies. Do you want fishermen, firemen, fetishists? You’ve no idea how many different kinds of kinky there are—a cover for every pot, as Grandma used to say. And bless their hearts, but I wanted to bathe my computer in Clorox after a cursory tour of one site.

 You’re not single? No problem. There’s LonelyHousewivesMatchOnline.com and the gender-neutral NotCommitted.com, which is “Dating for People Not Interested in Committment” (or spelling.) “1000s of Members.” (no comment.)

 And for spouses of the above, there is Catch Cheating Lovers: let the Expert Investigators Help (www.secret-intelligence-agency.com)

 But back to me: Here’s my profile, rough draft.

 Age: 52, but I look 45 except when I look 70. Depends on the light, the angle, and whether I’ve had a nap. For best results, view in candlelight, minimum distance four feet. Profession: Mom and mid-list author. My dream evening: going to bed early. Favorite Restaurant: Any. I’m a teetotaling vegetarian, and even iHop has Caesar salad and diet coke. Dealbreakers: I have 2 large dogs that will bark at you for the first five years, and 3 kids who will—frankly, I have no idea what they’ll do. But you must love them all madly, or pretend to. (You can buy their momentary affection with raw meat, ice cream, and iPhones.) Disclaimers: I don’t really have time for a date, let alone an affair. That said, if we fall in love, you will end up in my novels. If we don’t fall in love, you will end up in my novels.

 But my real dot com qualm is that online dating means no Meet Cute.

 The Meet Cute, or Cute Meet, is my favorite movie gimmick. It’s how Harry met Sally, how Jake Gittes met Evelyn Mulwray, how King Kong met Fay Wray, Jessica Lange and Naomi Watts. These people did not meet online. Moreover, it’s impossible to imagine James Bond joining match.com. Or Captain James T. Kirk, Henry V, Batman, Travis McGee, Joe Pike, Jack Reacher, Albus Dumbledore, or Vampire Bill.

 I may wake one day screaming, “I haven’t had sex since the 2^nd Bush Administration,” and desire something more interactive than original Star Trek episodes. But for now . . .

 Happy Monday!

Harley

Get Ready to Howl for "The Fashion Hound Murders"

 

By Elaine Viets

Hot dog! My new Josie Marcus Mystery Shopper mystery is published this Tuesday. I start signing books the next day. No more moping around the condo in a bathrobe, typing at my computer. I get to meet my readers.

In "The Fashion Hound Murders," mystery shopper Josie is hired to look at little puppies. Josie’s boss, Harry the Horrible, tells her it’s an easy assigment. She gets paid to look at cute puppies. But Josie discovers a big box store is selling puppy mill pets. When a frightened employee turns up dead, Josie realizes this case could bite back.

I promise "The Fashion Hound Murders" is fun, funny, and calorie-free, a cozy read for mystery lovers and animal fans. You can check out the first chapter at www.elaineviets.com

Enough with the book. Let’s get back to my readers. The kickoff signing is in Delray Beach, Florida. Then I fly to my hometown, St. Louis, where I have three signings and some radio interviews, including one at Friday morning at 11:45 on KWMU, St. Louis Public Radio's "Cityscape" at 90.7 FM.

I’m doing two benefits, one for St. Vincent Home for Children, and one at the Humane Society of Missouri. You’ll recognize me at the Humane Society. I’ll be the tall person covered in dog hair.

Hope to see new faces, plus our TLC regulars at these signings. Maybe Alan P. and Molly will bring the Princesses. And Storyteller Mary will bring her friends.

If you can’t make the events, I also have a virtual signing so you can get autographed copies of "The Fashion Hound Murders."

Here’s the information for the signings, in person and online:

(1)Wednesday, Nov. 4, Kickoff Florida signing

Time: 7 PM

Place: Murder on the Beach Bookstore, 273 Pineapple Grove Way (NE 2^nd

 Street) in Delray Beach

Phone: 561-279-7790.

We have treats for pets and people. I’ll bring some nibbles, plus inter-species snacks that can be enjoyed by dogs and humans. Josie eats them in the book and I’ll have one during the signing.

Plus, everyone who buys a copy of "The Fashion Hound Murders" will get a free copy of my nonfiction hardcover, "How to Commit Monogamy." You can’t beat a deal like that.

(2) Friday, Nov. 6, Edwardsville, Ill. signing 

Time: 7 PM

Place: Piece of Mind Books, 109 N. Kansas St. in Edwardsville.

Phone: 618-656-7277

This independent bookstore is a booklover’s delight, with every subject from cooking to sports. You’ll also meet Index, the bookstore cat.

(3) Saturday, Nov. 7, signing to benefit St. Vincent Home for Children  

Time: 2 to 4 PM

Place: Ladue Barnes & Noble, 8871 Ladue Road at 170 (the Innerbelt).

Phone: 314-862-2948.

Help children in need – and help yourself to good reading at Barnes & Noble Ladue.

Every book you buy that Saturday – even if it isn’t mine – will help St. Vincent Home in Normandy, Mo. This signing is an easy way to take care of your Christmas shopping early. I’ll personalize every paperback for you.

(4) Sunday, Nov. 8, signing at the Humane Society of Missouri to benefit the animals

Time: 12 noon to 2 PM

Place: The Humane Society at 1201 Macklind Ave., St. Louis

Barnes & Noble will sell books at this event, and a portion of the proceeds will go to the Humane Society, which helps rescue puppy mills animals as well abandoned pets. The Humane Society has cool gifts in its shop for you and your animal companions. And don’t forget to bring your dogs – I’d love to meet them, too.

(5) Can’t make the events? You can still get an autographed copy from Mystery Lovers Bookstore.

Order your autographed copies of "The Fashion Hound Murders" direct from one of the largest mystery bookstores in the nation. For orders over $10, MLB shipping is free. Go to http://tinyurl.com/yfah94w

Why Men Talk Backwards and Other Mysteries

TLC welcomes, as our Halloween offering, the wonderful Mark Arsenault. Mark is a Shamus- nominated mystery writer, a journalist, a runner, hiker, political junkie and eBay fanatic who collects memorabilia from the 1939 New York World’s Fair. His new novel is LOOT THE MOON, the second book in the Billy Povich series that began with GRAVEWRITER, a noir thriller praised for a fusion of suspense, humor and human tenderness. With 20 years of experience as a print reporter, Arsenault is one of those weird cranks who still prefers to read the news on paper. His Web site is: www.markarsenault.net

    Why Men Talk Backwards and Other Mysteries

    The younger of my two brothers called me from his car a few years ago and said in a hollow voice, “I’ve just been diagnosed with testicular cancer.”

The words clamped like a giant hand around my neck and squeezed. Cancer had ravaged our family for 40 years.

I had two seconds to come up with a reply, and I knew that whatever I said would set the tone for how we dealt with this news.

Using my driest voice, I deadpanned: Well, Ryan, it takes a lot of testicular fortitude to admit something like that.

My actual verbiage may have been a little less polite.

It was the rudest and most inappropriate thing in the world to say at that moment, and that was the point.

He said nothing for a second.

Then we both laughed.

Over the next few days, through a hastily scheduled surgery, the three Arsenault brothers proved Mark Twain’s observation that nothing can withstand the assault of laughter. Not even cancer.

We got Ryan through his operation with more crude testicle jokes than a busload of teenaged boys could invent in a month. We fought back, one guffaw at a time, and the disease could never catch its breath. The jokes worked for us. (When I was alone I also experimented with screaming in despair into a towel, but I preferred the jokes.)

Which gets to the point of how men talk, and why it’s difficult to make men sound natural in fictional dialogue.

The one thing I didn’t tell Ryan was: “Don’t worry, I’ll be there for you.”

There’d be nothing wrong with saying that. I might say that exact thing to a casual friend or a work acquaintance. But it would never occur to me to tell a close buddy or a brother, “I’ll be there for you.”

Why? Because men speak emotional language to each other in inverse proportion to how close they are.

Men talk backwards.

In my new novel, Loot the Moon, protagonist Billy Povich, an obituary writer, speaks with his close friend Martin about the murder of Martin’s mentor, a respected judge named Gil Harmony. To comfort his wounded friend, Billy’s first instinct is to gently tease Martin about his age:

“You know that a friend of mine is dead.” Martin stroked his beard, discovered crumbs in the whiskers, frowned and brushed them away. “Judge Harmony was my first law partner, back when I passed the bar.”

“I thought Abe Lincoln was your first law partner.” He gave Martin a sad smile.

“He came later. My original mentor was Gil Harmony.”

    “I wrote his obituary for the paper,” Billy said.

    “It was beautiful, so I figured it was you who did it. Did you do the obit for the kid who slaughtered him?”

Is Billy’s response appropriate? Out of context, certainly not. But in context, speaking backwards as men do, he reveals the closeness of their relationship.

Not to give away too much, but Billy agrees in that scene to investigate who ordered the hit on the judge.

And now several years after his operation, my brother—who has since become a father—is in perfect health. We still tease him about losing a testicle.

Ode to a Shower

Ode to a Shower

by Nancy   

After two and a half weeks of post-surgical sponge baths, I was finally given the greenlight to take a shower.

Or, as I like to think of it, a trip to heaven.

Amazing how you miss the pleasure of warm water, fragrant soap, humming a little tune, maybe whipping out the razor to clean up a few unsightlies--when you're forbidden to take a shower.  But the doc removed the staples in my back and said I was ready.  I nearly knocked over my 80-year-old mother to get to the bathroom. The rush of hot water revived me, body and soul. 

If environmentalists declare we must all limit ourselves to 3-minute showers, I may have to move to Canada.  There's nothing like a long, hot shower to make a girl feel wonderful, and sometimes three minutes just doesn't cut it.

I understand completely why the Romans built those beautiful baths wherever they went.  (Have you ever been to Bath?  Put it on your list of places to visit before you need a walker, okay?) Imagine soaking away a day of slaying barbarians in a nice hot pool, surrounded by beautiful mosaic tile and sipping some looted Gallic wine, maybe served by a naked slave named Julius. I just can't figure out why the British waved good-bye to Caesar's legions, promptly built houses on top of those Roman baths and forgot about them.

Long ago, I used to write historical romances.  When you write books like that, you tend to focus on the carnal pleasures and go light on the historical detail.  Like, how many historical romances get into the subject of peeing?  Very few. It ain't romantic. Sometimes you'll read a romance in which the panting couple takes a bath together before the main event, but that wouldn't have been terribly accurate, would it?  Back in the day, bathing was considered unhealthy--even deadly.  I read books about Elizabeth I and marvel at her courage and forward-thinking, but really, how could she stand smelling herself? And those cowpokes who only bathed on Saturday night?  Did they smell like their horses? Because after 2 weeks of sponge baths, I know the neighbor's dog was a lot more interested in me than usual.

Me, I take a daily shower without thinking twice about it. Nothing fancy. My daughter, though, loves scented gels and loofahs, and she keeps a lot of paraphernalia in her shower to suit her moods when they strike. What about you?  Have a favorite bath product? I'm strictly an Irish Spring girl myself, and I tend to use whatever shampoo is on sale. But now that I have a new appreciation for the shower, I'm willing to be open-minded.  Tell me about your favorites.

I once stayed in a house with a shower that had 8 different heads.  Water squirted from all kinds of places.  We called it "the sensuous shower," but mostly it just tickled.  (There was a time when my significant other and I showered together, but that hasn't happened in a long time. Maybe we should revive that practice. You?) I don't think I'd invest in a sensuous shower today.  Not sure it increases the value of a house.

While on leave from TLC and unable to spend my time showering, I watched hours and hours and hours of HGTV. I can now pretty much figure what a house is worth depending on it's amenities like bathrooms and granite countertops and even paint choices.  (Also, I learned to match the color of your new curtains to the color of your wall paint to make the room appear larger.  I think you'd love the new curtains in my living room--ordered from Penney's.  They're silk, lined for warmth, and a bargain, too.) A fancy shower is a good investment, but it seems everybody wants a big soaking tub these days.  We had one in our last house and used it a grand total of 3 times in one year.  I'm not divulging details, so don't ask.

Anyway, during my recovery I also managed to spend some time helping to put the finishing touches on my new website.  (Designed by no less a talent that TLC's beloved Hollygee! Check out her website here.)  Take a look at my new one.  Snoop around.  We're introducing my new series with this site, and there's a lot to learn about Roxy Abruzzo. Go here. 

Meanwhile, I might excuse myself for a few minutes and take another shower.  Blissful. Just don't try picturing me naked.  My surgical scar is a whopper.

 

 

For your pre-Halloween pleasure, check the video. Which is better?

Cousin Rosie Confesses. Sort of.

Cousin Rosie Confesses.  Sort of. 

    Bless me, Margie, for I have sinned.

    Let me just start by saying that I didn’t kill Sister Marilyn, no matter what you might have heard down at the convent.  Not that any of you Mancinis have been hanging out with the nuns (God knows), but still, people talk.  Like the Sunday morning at church when Mrs. Ricci from down the street told old Mrs. LaQuatra that she heard from Mrs. DeLuca, who heard from Mrs. Giordano, that Mrs. LaQuatra’s daughter, Angela, looked like she was having a good time the night before in the last row of the movie theatre with that Nicky Socio boy, and before you could say “Agnus Dei” Angela got shipped off to the convent…

    Oh, wait.

    Right, so anyway, like I was saying.  Sister Marilyn.  I was just over at the rectory having dinner with Father Carm, who is a total Father What-a-Waste, by the way, and we were watching The Thorn Birds, when Sister Marilyn came running over to get Father Carm to break up a fight down at the Bingo game in the Church basement between Joey Romano and Joey Gallo.  She was so worked up about Joey Gallo throwing Mrs. Costa’s rum cake in Joey Romano’s face that before you could say “Drogheda” she just had a stroke and dropped dead right there.  There was nothing any of us could have done.  Honestly.   I’m pretty sure it was Sister Lucy who started the rumor about Sister Marilyn dropping dead from the shock of seeing something going on between me and Father Carm.  Sister Lucy is such a tattle-tale.  Father Carm said it was my own fault for not hiding the jug of communion wine before the cavalry arrived.

    So, now that I’m “out”, this fallen nun thing kinda has its ups and downs.  Mama doesn’t stop with the rosary of course – I thought it was bad when I was a fallen woman going into the convent, it’s 100 times worse being a fallen nun getting thrown out of one.   Some people have been nice, like that nice Steve, the UPS guy you introduced me to, who has been giving me great herbs for my marinara sauce every day, but some people have just been trying to take advantage of a fallen nun.  Like, how you and Cousin Rita have been trying to get me to e-date.  So far every single one of the men have written to me that their favorite book is The DaVinci Code.  Now, I may have been in a convent for ten years, (and without HBO as you like to say), but even I can see through that one.  

    But the best part of being out is that last week down at the deli I ran into little Anthony Marino who was in my class at St. Theresa’s and let me tell you, he’s not so little anymore.  You remember Anthony, right?   Mama might have told you about him.  He was the one who used to pull my pigtails all the time and he was the one who snuck into my locker during swimming class in third grade and stole my underpants and so I had to go back to class wearing a pair of gym shorts from the lost-and-found under my uniform and everyone knew I didn’t have any underwear on and I was so embarrassed.   You probably wouldn’t have been embarrassed by it though.  You and Rita were fast even back in the third grade.

    Oh, right, well, anyway, I was getting some capicolla and Anthony was getting some sopressata and then we both went over to the cheese counter and before you could say “fontinella,” I had a date.

    So, last night, we went out.  We went to my favorite restaurant, Alexander’s, we had peppers and sausage and fried ravioli and a great bottle of Chianti - it’s really so much better than communion wine.   It turns out that Anthony was in the seminary for a while, but he left before taking his final vows because it wasn’t for him.  After dinner, we took a little walk, and we ended up back at the Book Tart office… Rita told me where the key was hidden last week and  I didn’t think the authors would mind.

    There is one tiny little thing though, Margie.  

    I hope you get to work early today, like before any of the authors do.

    I seem to be missing my underpants again.

NOTE FROM ME, MARGIE:

Thanks for being nice to my cousins.  Not that you would be in, like, any danger if you weren't just because my other cousins are checking up on things.  Just saying. Miz Nancy is back on her feet and will blog here tomorrow since Miz Kathy is sick.  Everybody has an excuse around here for missing tons of work, but if I happen to take a long brunch or something, it's like a catastrophe with these women.  Stay tuned for more from the Mancini Family in future blogs!

    

    

Living in a Haunted House

By Elaine Viets

Lightning flashed across the windows. A demented wind shrieked and tore at the old brick walls. Then the door began to close.

Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!

The heavy wooden pocket door slid out of the walls by itself and shut Don and me into our bedroom.

Don got out of bed and checked for an intruder. Nothing was there.

It was our first night in our 70-year-old apartment. I was shivering with fright. Also, with the blasts of cold air coming in from the windows and doors.

We didn’t know it, but we’d moved into the haunted house of Utah Place. Don and I had rented the top two floors of an old two-family flat in South St. Louis. The absentee owner had let the house rot while collecting the rent.

The woman who lived downstairs handled our rental. When Mrs. Fulton told the owner her bedroom’s plaster wall was crumbling, he said, "Can’t you move your dresser to cover it?"

I was a new bride from the burbs, too dumb to understand the mysteries of plaster, insulation, plumbing and wiring. But I loved the apartment’s stained-glass windows, mahogany fireplace and high ceilings. The place had a piano room (we had no piano) and a parson’s seat (no parson ever sat on it.)

The owner gave us $400 for repairs, then graciously allowed us to pay thousands for the rest of the rehab. Mrs. Fulton patiently endured construction noise and dust. Once, she politely asked that I not vacuum the floor at three a.m.

A few months after we moved in, Mrs. Fulton wanted to talk to us. She looked worried.

"Have you noticed anything funny about the apartment?" she asked. "Any odd noises?"

We told her the loose windows rattled in the wind, the doors slammed shut and the floors creaked. But those were old house noises.

"You didn’t see anything on the staircase?" Mrs. Fulton asked.

"Just dust," I said.

"Thank goodness," she said. "The family who lived here before you said the place was haunted. They saw a woman in black on the staircase. She was supposed to be the mother of the owner, and she died of a fall on those stairs. They heard footsteps in the locked attic.

"The family moved because of the ghosts. The whole neighborhood knew. Some girls from Cleveland High School showed up here, wanting to hold a seance. I sent them away.

"I felt guilty renting a haunted house, so I went to the priest. I asked Father if he’d do an exorcism. He said to wait. If you saw anything strange, Father would bless the apartment."

We tried to see a ghost. We wandered the place at weird hours. Nothing appeared. But we did hear thuds and footsteps in the attic. We ran upstairs and found the cat chasing a squirrel.

People continued to claim our apartment was haunted. Repairmen said the third-floor bedroom was "spooky." A guest who spent the night there said he "felt something reading over his shoulder."

Our ghost was rude, as well as shy.

We lived in the apartment for more than 20 years. Mrs. Fulton bought the place, then sold it to us when she moved.

Don and I never saw the Lady in Black, no matter how hard we tried.

A psychic friend said the house had a "presence," but she thought the construction repairs had scared it away – or the cat.

I believe my mother-in-law got rid of the ghost. Mrs. Crinklaw bought us storm windows. They killed the monster heating bills. They also stopped the wind screaming through the windows.

That’s when the door quit sliding open and closed on its own.

Kids and Why We Need to Keep Them Scared

By Sarah

I have a friend  who has a hair across her ass about early Thirtysomethings. She's my age - which is to say late 40s - and her beef is that those between, say, 28 and 34, are overly confident and too certain of their own opinions. Also, smug and self centered with a disturbing inability to poke fun at themselves.

I'm not sure this is a blanket we can throw on that whole generation (Z?). After all, there was that kind of obnoxious show, er, Thirtysomething, back in the 80s and I remember those people as being smug, self-righteous and unable to laugh at themselves. So perhaps it's the age. Maybe when you start having kids and buying your own home, the burdens of the world come crashing down and suddenly you feel like you're the first person ever shoved into DEFCON 4 adulthood.

Or perhaps this half generation below me wasn't scared enough as kids. Here's my logic:

Those born in the late 70s are likely the products of couples who met in the 1960s, the peaceniks and hippies who, come to think of it, were kind of self-righteous themselves. It was okay when they were just doing their own thing, dancing in the mud at Woodstock and smoking a little dope, but when they had kids, that's when we all had to suffer.

Natural childbirth, endless breast feeding, cloth diapers, home-mushed baby food, the return of Montessori and Suzuki and magical childhoods - these people made parenthood suck. Also, having rebelled against their parents' capitalistic values - and, yet, funny enough, riding the boom of the 80s to become richer than any previous generation - they rejected the one true advantage parents have over kids: fear.

I'm referring to the threat of the bogeyman who, back in the day, was Jack of all Evil, the stand in for you parents who were too busy with your younger brothers and sisters to keep your sorry butt in line. The  bogeyman would get you if you lied or if you stole gum from the store. He would find you creeping around the house at night looking for candy or get you if you didn't come home by dinner.

When the bogeyman was off for some much needed R&R, there were medical myths to keep you hopping. Crossing of the eyes? Permanent screwed up eyeballs. Cracking your knuckles? Huge joints. Sitting too close to the television in the dark? Radiation poisoning. Eating raw cookie dough? Worms. And let's just discuss that for a second.

If you got worms from eating raw cookie dough, did that mean you were eating baked baby worms or worm eggs/larvae when you consumed the final product? Just asking. Fortunately, salmonella appeared on the scene to lend some credibility behind slapping my children's fingers as they reached into the bowl. Which brings me to my unabashed use of legitimate fear.

As a new mother of a little girl, it seemed that every headline carried news of a fresh child molester on the prowl for my kid. My daughter was two when Polly Klaas was kidnapped from her Petaluma, California, bedroom during a sleepover and killed. That was enough to do me in for years. Having been raised on fear, I panicked that someone would surely get Anna if she walked the two blocks to school or rode her bike to her friend's house. Limits were set and, admittedly, I scared her to bits. And I wasn't so wrong. 

Shortly after moving into our quiet neighborhood here in Vermont, we learned that the next door neighbor, a teenage boy, was molesting several children in the area. The community wanted to let him stay since he was a "kid himself." A kid who'd been charged with 45 very adult counts of sexual abuse, ahem. But my husband, Charlie, a no nonsense kind of guy, had no truck with that. After confronting this "kid's" mother and getting her to admit that she knew her son had these proclivities and yet she STILL let him babysit, Charlie called the probation officer and demanded a relocation of said family. It was done within weeks.

Political correctness has no place when it comes to this shit. End of discussion. Period. 

Scaring your kids about predators is necessary. Kids need to learn how to scream their heads off even  when it seems silly. They need to know that just because a car slows down and the guy seems nice when he asks for directions does not mean you should go anywhere near him, even if you can't hear a word unless you get closer. Lost puppies adults can find themselves. No kids needed. I taught my kids that, over and over.

Unfortunately, this fear advantage only goes so far. By the time my daughter reached her teens - thanks to me scaring her about child molesters and black ice on the road - she was too old to buy the story about "the claw." Damn. Though I think I did a pretty good job when it came to unwanted pregnancy.

According to my parents point of view, the best thing about scaring kids is that it knocks them down a peg, though that's not to say they believed all fear was good. Fear of the government, tear of asking the wrong question or speaking up in public thereby facing ridicule - just plain stupid. Even harmful. 

But don't go around thinking you know all the answers just because everyone's told you you're precious, darling. Because there are things out there,kiddo, you don't even know about that could get you when you least expect it. That was their thinking. 

Also, let's face it. Scaring kids is fun.

So this Halloween I say scare them before they scare you. After all, it's only a matter of time before they got us trapped in wheelchairs. Might as well use our advantage while we can.

Sarah