Lea Wait's Blog, page 271

Rehabbing the Geek Room

John Clark sharing the changes to my favorite room here at the house. First a bit of background. We lived in our first home for 27 years, doing one heck of a lot of renovation as well as building a new addition that had a real cellar, a big living room with an entire wall of book cases and a computer room Beth and I shared above the living room. This was the first time I’d ever had a room more or less dedicated to my growing love of technology. One of my fondest memories early on when the room wasn’t completely finished was playing the Elder Scrolls Arena on my first PC and listening to the game through headphones. I was clearing a dungeon when I was ambushed from behind by a giant spider. The roar as it attacked was so unexpected and scary that my butt cleared the chair by a good six inches. Beth was working on her PhD and I was busy writing the first three books in the Wizard of Simonton Pond series while we lived there.

The old graphics don’t do justice to what was one heck of a game

When we were looking for a house in 2003, among the things we were certain we wanted were rooms for each of us to call our own. Beth claimed the front room overlooking the street as her sewing room, I chose the octagonal one that looked west over the old town swimming pool (long since filled in). I filled all the book cases, put framed art and odd license plates on the walls won a rug to go on the floor and set up my toys. I’ve built all my own computers except for laptops since 1995 and accumulate extra video cards, hard drives RAM, etc. as time goes on. Add in all the documents that tax returns require, printed manuscripts, a replica of Gandolf’s sword and staff, more aromatherapy candles than one needs in three lifetimes, plus another massive infusion of stuff when we cleaned out Mom’s house and you begin to understand how space began to disappear in the Geek Room.

How I avoided killing myself in here is a mystery

Somewhere in there, I started accumulating books, particularly young adult fiction I planned to read. In hindsight, I was rather delusional about my ability to read as many as I accumulated, but that didn’t slow the insanity. Nope, not one whit. When we added a cat who we later discovered had an almost untreatable case of irritable bowel syndrome and said cat liked to spend most of its time in the Geek Room, things were elevated to a new level of odiousness. One would think that a relatively intelligent person might back away from the room/situation and wonder whether things were out of control. Unfortunately, that wasn’t me, not for a few years, at least.

A month ago we realized that daughter Sara, husband Russ and granddaughter Piper would be in Florida for two weeks this November, Beth and I agreed it was time to renovate the room. Fortunately, neither of us suffered from the delusion that it would be easy, fast or be completed before she had to go back to taking care of Piper. It hasn’t easy (although easier than either of us expected), it wasn’t fast, nor is it complete as of this writing, but it has been an extremely interesting journey. Here’s how it shook out.

Temporary clutter in Beth’s sewing room

We started by getting enough boxes to hold the accumulation so we could move stuff away from the walls. After they were filled in somewhat logical order, many went out to the storage building, while the rest went into Beth’s sewing room. In the process, I triaged a ton of old paper (three trash bags went to the transfer station of recyclable paper alone). I decided to get rid of most computer game boxes, keeping manuals and discs to save shelf space. My CD tower was another casualty since I’d ripped everything to MP3 format and given away the discs. Two rounds of the ‘do I keep or donate it’ game resulted in the TBR pile shrinking by 50%. Once the majority of mess (sounds like a great name for a band) was corralled, we moved stuff away from the wall and while I continued sorting, Beth went at the old wallpaper. One of her friends suggested adding fabric softener to the water to hasten the process and it worked really well. Most walls had one layer, but the one above a window seat with storage beneath it had three different kinds, making the process slow for a bit.

Paint equivalent of light at the end of the tunnel.

Once the walls dried, it was sand and slap mud time. Beth’s brother Paul, up from Massachusetts for a brief visit, stepped in and helped with this part of the rehabilitation. Then it was on to more sanding and a coat of primer. Beth did the brush work around molding and the ceiling while I was Rollerman. The next day we put on the first coat of sea blue paint, waited 4 hours and applied the second one. Even after that, we could see a ton of tiny places where unevenness in the old plaster fooled both brush and roller, so we went after them with smaller brushes. The result, as you can see in the pictures, came out pretty well. After assembling the new computer desk and buying a rug that matches the walls nicely, it was time to start putting stuff back. My goal was to keep neatness as the number one objective. This meant looking at everything returning from boxes with fresh, jut slightly jaundiced eyes. This resulted in more boxes destined for the Salvation Army, my RCA stereo and multi CD changer going to my library protege Briana, plus several boxes of things I can sell. Cash takes up very little space in comparison to collectibles.

In the process of sorting things, I discovered a number of treasures both monetary and sentimental. For example, I recently got in touch with my cousin Janice in California who I gave away at her wedding the year I started college because her father was dead as was her older brother Eddie who was killed in Vietnam. When Mom died, I found a number of pictures I thought she’d like, but never got around to sending them. After we chatted on the phone and I sent off that batch, I looked through the albums which had been stored under the window seat. I not only found more photos including her mother’s graduation picture, but one of her parent’s wedding in my grandmother’s garden plus several newspaper articles about her father when he was a photographer in Redondo Beach. All of those head off to her today.

Almost done

Other treasures include photos of at least four generations on my father’s side with many identified, two copies of the family tree Mom worked on for years, a class photo from New Portland with every kid identified (it was my grandfather’s class, so it is at least 120 years old), my father’s baptismal certificate, his high school yearbook and coolest of all, my great grandfather Clark’s class day program from Bowdoin College in 1884 that looks like it was printed last week. There are tons of stamps and a bunch of letters, two of which were written by relatives in 1811. I also have close to a thousand old postcards, many of which have Maine and family scenes. Heck, I even found my own high school yearbook from 1966.

Geek approved and ready to blog/write/game play.

The room is pretty much back together, save for the pictures as well as the sword that need to be hung. I’ve already noticed a distinct difference in the acoustics as well as a much greater level of comfort at the new desk. It was a long overdue project, but probably done at exactly the right moment. If you’ve been dragging your heels on a similar one, take heart from our experience.

KILLER THANKSGIVING RECIPES – Part Two

Susan Vaughan here. I posted two killer Thanksgiving recipes last year, and this year I’m reprising the cranberry sauce one and adding a new one.

Thanksgiving is my husband’s favorite holiday—family and friends, great food, but no pressure about gifts—so we have the complete Thanksgiving turkey dinner, no matter it’s just the two of us. Back in the Dark Ages when I grew up, the only cranberry sauce I knew was a tasteless jelly that came in a can (sorry, Ocean Spray). One spoonful and I decided this side to the turkey extravaganza was not for me. As an adult, I shunned even homemade sauce, thinking it would be no better. It wasn’t until I married that I learned to love the real thing. At my in-laws’ home for our first Thanksgiving as a married couple, of course I couldn’t turn down my mother-in-law’s homemade whole-berry cranberry sauce.

Yeah, it’s a cliché in novels when an author describes taste as exploding on the tongue, but that was exactly my experience. At last, a cranberry sauce that made my taste buds dance. Every Thanksgiving since, I’ve made her killer recipe and am sharing it with you in her memory. The recipe can be adjusted for different amounts of berries.

WHOLE-BERRY CRANBERRY SAUCE

Ingredients: 12 ounces fresh cranberries, 1 ½ cups of water, 1 ½ cups of sugar. Combine all in a saucepan and heat on stove top.

Stir until sugar is dissolved. Bring to a boil and boil about 20 minutes. Let cool slightly, then pour into a bowl or mold. Chill. The sauce jells nicely and looks pretty, almost too pretty to eat.

Next up is a Maine version of the sweet-potato/yam casserole my mother used to bake.

PUREED YAMS Ingredients for 6 servings: 3 yams or sweet potatoes, cooked, then peeled and cut into 3-inch pieces, 4 tablespoons butter, cut up, 1 tsp nutmeg, ½ tsp cinnamon, Salt and pepper to taste, ½ cup maple syrup (or to taste). I think this recipe would be good with winter squash as well.

Sprinkle cooked and cut-up yams with spices, maple syrup and butter. Mash by hand or lightly in food processor until pureed, but take care not to overwork them. Bake in 9 X 11″ dish at 375 for 15-20 minutes to heat.

And if you make it the way my mother did and the way my husband likes, top with tiny marshmallows and broil until they melt and/or brown.

Anyone who would like printable versions of these recipes, email me at shvaughan.author@gmail.com. Put “Thanksgiving recipes” in the Subject line. And Happy Thanksgiving to all!

*** My latest release is ALWAYS A SUSPECT, the prequel to my Task Force Eagle series. You can find more information about my books at www.susanvaughan.com.

Best New England Crime Stories 2016: Red Dawn–The Maine Connections

Hi All. Barb here. Every year I write a blog post about the Maine writers whose stories appear in the lastest release in the Best New England Crime Stories series from Level Best Books. Sadly, this will be my last year to do so. My era as a co-editor of this delightful series has ended. Happily, this is not the end of the anthology. A new group of editors has stepped in. They expect to open submissions, as usual, in January.

Maine authors are always over-represented in Level Best submissions. Partially, I think this is because Level Best has had a Maine connection going back to one of the founding editors, Kate Flora. Another reason is that Maine has great organizations like the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance to get the word out about submissions. But mostly, I think it is because much of the best crime writing in New England is happening in Maine. This year we have an unusual bumper crop of nine Maine authors, whose stories range from classic mysteries to woo-woo to noir and everything in between.

You can purchase Best New England Crime Stories 2016: Red Dawn in paperback or Kindle formats from Amazon here, for Nook here, and in paperback directly from Level Best here.

This year’s authors, as always, include familiar faces and new.

We all know Dorothy Cannell, who is a true force of nature. Despite her long and glorious publishing history, her story, “Singed” represents her Level Best debut. Dorothy is one of those rare people who can somehow squeeze a classic whodunnit into 5000 words. Born in Nottingham, England, Dorothy came to the U.S. in 1963. She married Julian Cannell, and lived in Peoria, Illinois, from 1965 to 2004. They now reside on the Maine coast with their dog Teddy and a cat named Killer.

Bruce Robert Coffin makes his fiction debut in Red Dawn with his story, “Foolproof,” which gives new meaning to the expression, “the bottom of the barrel.” An award-winning artist and retired police detective sergeant, Bruce Robert Coffin has penned a number of short stories along with his first novel, The Reaping. He resides in Maine with his wife.

Another Maine debut author is Sanford Emerson, whose story, “Devious Doings in Dallas,” impressed the editors with its strong voice and point of view. After retiring from a thirty-five year career in law enforcement and corrections in Franklin County, Maine, Sandy operates a Christmas tree farm and a woodworking business in Wilton, Maine. If this sounds a little familiar–it should. Sandy is the husband of Maine Crime Writer, Kathy Lynn Emerson.

Another familiar name is Kate Flora, whose story, “Nice Guy,” shows us why they always finish last. Kate is the author of fourteen books. Death Dealer was an Agatha and Anthony nominee. And Grant You Peace won the 2015 Maine Literary Award. She’s a former assistant attorney general, a founder of Level Best Books, and was international president of Sisters in Crime.

Judith Green continues her streak as the only author to be published in every anthology by Level Best–lucky thirteen this year. Her story, “Dear Manuel,” continues her chronicle of the life of Margery Easton with a modern take on an epistolary story. As a former Adult Education Director for an eleven-town school district in rural western Maine, Judy has written twenty-five high-interest/low-level books for adult students. Her mystery stories have been chosen for each of the anthologies of New England Crime published by Level Best Books. “A Good, Safe Place,” published in 2010 in Thin Ice, was nominated for an Edgar®.

In Gin Mackey‘s story, “The Demise of My Wives,” an author finds a cure for writer’s block that’s both grisly and surprising.  Gin spent years writing for Fortune 500 corporations before finding her passion: writing fiction. Her short story “Swimming Lessons” appeared in the anthology Fish or Cut Bait. Gin lives on the coast of Maine, where she’s hard at work on her novel Disappear Our Dead, featuring Abby Tiernan, a grieving widow turned home funeral guide.

Dale T. Phillips serves up a classic “Lady or the Tiger,” story with “Hope It Fits,” in Red Dawn. Dale is the author of four novels, over 50 short stories, story collections, poetry, and a non-fiction career book. He’s appeared on stage, television, and in an independent feature film, Throg. He co-wrote and acted in a short political satire film. He competed on Jeopardy and Think Twice, and lost in spectacular fashion on both.

Barbara Ross (yes, that’s me!) also serves up an epistolary story with “The Perfect Woman.” This one takes place in 1947-48 and took me back to my maternal grandmother’s family summers in the Jersey Highlands. I am the author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries, Clammed Up, Boiled Over and Musseled Out. Fogged Inn will be published in February, 2016. My husband and I own the former Seafarer Inn at the head of the harbor in Boothbay Harbor, Maine.

Level Best’s third Maine debut author is Annelisa Johnson Wagner, whose story is “No Aura.” Annelisa grew up in northern New Hampshire but now lives in southern Maine. She misses the White Mountains but appreciates the rocky coast. She is a middle school teacher and a member of Writers on Words, a writing group. This is her first fiction publication but she has also completed a novel and continues to hone her writing.

Maine writers, we hope you’ll continue submitting to Level Best. And readers, we hope you continue to enjoy the stories!

Where Are The Perks?

by Dorothy Cannell

I am feeling embittered. My life as a published author has little similarity to the glamorous, pampered existence I once believed would be assured me in return for the gift of my every printed word.

Where is the devotedly efficient housekeeper? As I write this the dust thickens on furniture and in corners and will continue doing so until I hear my husband stomping around muttering that when it comes to cleaning a man’s work is never done. Where are the secretaries? The clerical one who would proof read this blog when finished, correcting punctuation and deleting as she (or he) deems required. The social one who would this afternoon take our two cats to the vet for their check ups. Then go and have my hair cut for me. Where is the French chef ready whip up elegantly delicious meals, snacks, drinks at a moment’s notice? Instead, previously mentioned husband (name escapes me) is putting a hot dog and baked bean casserole in the not preheated oven.

This mood will pass. I will see the negatives of having a home cluttered with staff. I’d have to talk to them for one thing – time consuming. I’d have to accept despising looks – if my hair wasn’t well combed or I slobbed around in my dressing gown all day.

There is a positive side to this pettishness regarding reality. It springs from having reached a point in current book Peril in the Parish where I want to burrow in and not come out until my characters pause in telling me what comes next. Against this there is the tug of the real world, because though less exciting than the fictional one (Scotland Yard has never requested my help in solving a particularly difficult case) it provides the base for who I am as a person and a writer.

I am now going to try and sort out what our two cats are arguing about – hopefully not politics or religion. Tell Teddy (dog) that his father and I very much appreciate the fact he has never taken the car out and wrecked it or asked to attend an Ivy League college.

And finally, assure husband that no French chef could concoct a more exquisite hot dog and baked bean casserole.

Improvising – My Life and My Writing

Lea Wait here.

Last weekend I attended Crime Bake, the New England mystery conference in Massachusetts, and to my delight Hallie Ephron mentioned on a panel that acting was an important skill for writers.

I felt like standing up and cheering.  You see, when I was an undergraduate, I knew I wanted to write, but I hadn’t focused yet on what I wanted to write. During high school summer vacations I’d worked in a Maine playhouse, and I’d written plays, poetry and a little fiction.

So I majored in both English and drama, focusing, when I could, on playwriting.

But in a small liberal arts college (Chatham College — now University — in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,) drama majors were required not only to study drama, but theater. I took directing classes, painted scenery, and took part in every school production, large or small. I also studied acting at both Chatham and at the Pittsburgh Playhouse School of the Theater.

But it was a class on the philosophy and history of dramatic criticism, an upper-class course I took my freshman year, that changed the way I saw my life.  The professor in that course demanded not only that we read Aristotle and Plato (and so forth) but that we demonstrate that we’d understood their dramatic theories by acting them out.

He believed (combining several well-known schools of acting), that every character must have a motivation in every scene. A need. That motivation influences how he or she plays the scene.

I will never forget the first class, in October of my freshman year, when I was asked to stand up and act “to overcome.” I had no idea what I was supposed to do. After the professor repeated his instruction (multi times, with frustration,) finally an upper classman stood up, came over to me, and said, “Do you know how to do what he’s asking?” By that time in tears, I shook my head. “Then go over and tell him that, to his face,” she said. I did. The class applauded … they’d understood all along (they’d studied with this professor before) that by doing that I had “overcome” my fear.

After that, I caught on. I acted when I was supposed to. About six months later the same professor took me aside and pointed out something I’d never realized: that I “acted in” rather than “acting out.”  If I was to act “fear,” for example, I cowered. I never ran or screamed, as some of the other students did. After that I experimented with acting inward or outward — learning more about myself than about acting.

And by the next year I was not only doing improvisational theater in school and, for fun, with fellow acting students outside of class, but I taught a class in improv for kindergarten students.

After graduation I moved to New York and took professional classes in improvisational theater. (Gene Hackman was a classmate,  and I met my first husband, a television comedy writer, there.)

After that I moved on to other, more academic and corporate interests. But I often found myself sitting in long meetings consciously playing the role of “bright executive” or “serious student” or “to survive.” I had the courage to produce and be on-camera talent in a daily corporate CCTV show for two years. I got through a lot of difficult moments in my life by pretending to be someone stronger, wiser, or tougher than I felt.

Now I  write fiction. My heroes and heroines also play roles — the ones I assign them — and have motivations. Sometimes they act “in” and sometimes they “act out”.

Without learning improvisational acting, my life — and my writing – wouldn’t be the same. I strongly recommend improv to anyone, at any age, looking to understand themselves — or their characters — better.

At least – it worked for me.

Lea Wait writes the 7-book Shadows Antique Print Mystery Series and the 2-book Mainely Needlepoint series, the third of which, THREAD AND GONE, will be published in December. She also writes historical novels for readers eight and up, and a memoir with writing advice, LIVING AND WRITING ON THE COAST OF MAINE. 

Weekend Update: November 14-15, 2015

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Lea Wait (Monday), Dorothy Cannell (Tuesday), Barb Ross (Wednesday), Susan Vaughan (Thursday) and John Clark (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

Chris Holm received exciting news this week. The Strand Magazine published its list of ten best mystery novels of 2015 and Chris’s The Killing Kind is #1. Way to go, Chris!

from Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett: Last weekend was the New England Crime Bake, including the launch of the new Level Best anthology, Red Dawn, which included stories by several of our regular bloggers plus one husband (mine). Here are a few photos.

Bruce Coffin signing a book for John Clark. Dorothy Cannell and Kate Flora are at the far end of the signing line.

 

Panel on historical mysteries with James R. Benn, Mary Lawrence, Dorothy Cannell, Kathy Lynn Emerson and moderator Leslie Budewitz,

Kathy’s husband, Sandy Emerson, at his first signing for a story in RED DAWN.

 

Panel with authors of how-to books moderated by Hank Philippi Ryan. Shown are Elizabeth George, Paula Munier, Hallie Ephron and Kathy Lynn Emerson.

from Lea Wait: Today (Saturday, November 14,) I’ll be speaking about an author’s life and my LIVING AND WRITING ON THE COAST OF MAINE at Maine Coast Books, Maine Street in Damariscotta, Maine, at 11:00.

Then at the end of the week my books and I’ll be at Studio 53 (53 Townsend Avenue, Boothbay Harbor, Maine) along with wonderful local artists, writers and craftspeople for their annual Gifts for Giving show. The show will be open Thursday, November 19, from 11 am until 4 pm; Friday, November 20, from 11 am until 8 pm (including a Gala Reception from 5-8;) Saturday (early bird shopping in Boothbay Harbor) from 7 am until 4 pm; and Sunday the 22nd from 11 until 4.

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora: mailto: kateflora@gmail.com

Pups, Prison, and a Day in the Life

Jen Blood here, taking a break from informing the masses about the trials of indie publishing to tackle another subject very close to my heart. In September of this year, I got a rare but exciting opportunity to run with the big dogs, in the big house. Yes indeed… The Maine State Prison, in Warren. And before anyone gets up in arms about referring to the inmates as dogs, relax – I really mean dogs. Of the cuddly, furry, four-legged (or three-legged, in one case) variety.

At this point, prison programs that partner inmates with shelter dogs to assist with training before the pups are placed in forever homes are not really news. They’ve been around for decades, starting with a program spearheaded by Sister Mary Quinn in 1981. Since that time, these programs have gotten a lot of attention in the press for their ability to teach real-life skills while simultaneously promoting compassion and community mindedness in a prison setting. Since Quinn started the movement, a multitude of similar programs have sprung up around the country, with both inmates and prison staff citing shifts in inmate behavior, a decrease in tension among the prison population, and enhanced social skills between both the humans and the dogs onsite.

Logan, one of the pups in the K-9 Corrections Prison Program when I visited in September.

I’ve been aware of such programs for a while now, beginning when I first sat in on a training session with K-9 Corrections back in 2008. K-9 Corrections is a program operated through the Pope Memorial Humane Society of Knox County, pairing shelter dogs with inmates at the Maine State Prison in Warren. The program is run by dog trainer Marie Finnegan, who was mentoring me back in ’08 when I was finishing a dog training certificate program with Animal Behavior College.

Back then, the program was limited to one or two dogs who lived onsite at Bolduc Correctional Facility, the minimum-security prison just down the road from the Maine State Prison. Just over two years ago, Finnegan and K-9 Corrections were invited into MSP after being on a brief hiatus due to staff changes at Bolduc.

According to Finnegan, she’s been pleased to see how the program has developed since making the switch. “These guys really care about the dogs…and because they care about the dogs, they get to know the other trainers in the program… It’s a great way for everyone to relate to each other and start to communicate in a positive way.”

While I was excited to sit in on the session in 2008, it had very little in common with participating in the session at the Warren “Supermax” in September. There were forms to fill out, metal detectors to go through, pens and phones were surrendered, and then there was what felt like a very long walk down an echoing corridor with Finnegan and Case Worker Martha Boynton by my side. We ultimately ended up at a building that houses inmates under less restrictive guidelines than the neighboring buildings on the campus. I signed in at the central desk and waited as inmates began to file in. Not just inmates, though. Inmates with dogs.

The day I was there, there were five dogs and eleven trainers in attendance. The dogs ranged from pups like feisty Logan and the little three-legged spitfire Olive, to an aged Boston terrier named Charlie whose battle scars attest to the tough life she’s endured before being taken in by the Humane Society. A sweet but shy guy named Archer and the lovely Luna (papa and mama to Olive and seven other pups when they first came to HSKC) rounded out the program. I stood back while the guys ran the dogs through their paces, consistently impressed with how in tune the trainers were with their charges.

Olive and Archer — Archer is actually Olive’s dad. Here, I think you can definitely see a family resemblance.

When they come to the program, each dog is assigned a primary and secondary trainer. The dogs alternate between living and training with the primary and secondary trainers, which they do 24/7, sleeping in a crate in their cell, occasionally accompanying them to work or class, and then going out to exercise and work on training and socialization in the prison yard every day. Having a second trainer ensures that someone is always available if for any reason the other person on the team needs a break, works, or has an appointment where the dog isn’t able to come along.

Going through their paces, each training team that day would go up to the mat with their particular pup and demonstrate what they’d been working on for the week: sit, stay, down, come, and then a whole host of other tricks beyond the old standards, like twirl, moonwalk (you read that right), and wipe your paws (a tough one for Olive, who was born missing one of her front legs).

“People just take for granted that a dog can learn sit and stay,” says Finnegan, “even though some of those behaviors aren’t really that natural. But people assume a dog isn’t very smart unless he knows some tricks. Plus it’s good practice for the inmates to test their training chops.”

My favorite part of the afternoon comes when the training is done, however, and we’re able to go into the exercise yard. The yard looks much like a stereotypical prison yard you see in movies: concrete floor, concrete walls, a window too high up to reach, and a basketball hoop at one end. The dogs are able to go outside in the open air several times throughout the day, of course, but this yard is where the real fun is had, because it’s socialization time. Everyone is let off leash, and allowed to strut their stuff. Logan and Olive, the youngsters in the group, immediately race for one another and begin wrestling for all their worth. Archer, timid from the start, sticks close to his trainer, while Charlie  — who hasn’t taken her eyes off her own trainer, Tom, since this session began — stays to the perimeter and Luna goes from person to person in search of treats and a little love.

Playtime in the yard with Olive, Archer, Logan, and Bobby, a pup added to the mix after my visit.

In the yard, I ask the guys one of the more obvious questions I can think of: How hard is it to say goodbye when the training is done?

“That’s the hardest part,” Tracy, Luna’s primary trainer, says immediately.

“It’ll just about break your heart,” agrees Tony, Logan’s primary. “Especially if there’s a lot of time before you get the next dog. Then your room just seems way too empty.”

“Do you think the program has changed you?” Marie asks the guys as we’re wrapping things up.

There is unanimous agreement, with the guys citing things like increased engagement, more tolerance, having a reason to get up every morning.

“It gives you a sense of humanity,” Ron tells me then. The others quiet a bit. Ron is Archer’s trainer – he’s a big, quiet man whose insight when it comes to his charge has impressed me from the start. “When I came here, there wasn’t much that got through to me. I was shut down. Then I started doing this, and all of a sudden something clicked.” The others in the yard seem to agree. “Having somebody rely on you everyday, give you that kind of love and look to you for what they need… That makes a difference.”

As we say our goodbyes, the trainers thank me for my time. The dogs are tired, their tails wagging as they make their way through the doors and back inside. Other inmates greet the weary pups with smiles. This is a dark place in a multitude of ways – I know that. It’s unlikely that the men who are here got here by stealing pies from someone’s kitchen window, after all. But it makes me feel a little bit better about the universe as a whole, that we as a society are coming to realize that some of the things that truly make a difference in our behavior and ability to engage with one another aren’t punishment and isolation… Positive interaction, clear expectations, compassion and contact and, yes, puppy dog tails, all really do go a long way in this world.

To learn more about the K-9 Corrections program, visit them on Facebook at http://facebook.com/K9Corrections/. Special thanks to Marie Finnegan for providing the photos in this post.

The Light of Day

My god. November already. I confess, I’m not quite sure how that happened.

It’s been a month since last I posted here, and that month was an eventful one for me. THE KILLING KIND came out September 15. By October, it seemed as if the promotional cycle was winding down. Then, to my astonishment, Benjamin Percy of The New York Times Book Review weighed in with a doozy of a review. Here’s a taste of what he had to say:

“Chris Holm’s THE KILLING KIND is my favorite thriller of the fall lineup. Here’s a solid gold premise: an assassin who only kills other assassins… The cat-and-mouse game that follows is pure joy…This novel is so fast-moving, so expertly arranged, every piece fitting together with a well-oiled snap, that it feels weaponized. Read it. Or else.”

As if that weren’t enough, the following week, The New York Times Book Review named THE KILLING KIND an Editor’s Choice. Nobody tell them, but I would’ve been delighted with an “Also out this month…” mention.

I’m grateful this book has struck a chord with readers, because there was a time when I wondered if it would ever see the light of day. In fact, come February 2013, I thought there was a chance my writing career was over.

I didn’t talk about it publicly at the time—in part because I’m not one to wallow in misfortune, and in part because I didn’t have the necessary perspective to do so without it coming off like sour grapes. But recently, the editor of The ITW’s The Thrill Begins, Ed Aymar, asked me if I’d share my story. He thought fellow authors might find it useful, and I agreed. You can read the piece I wrote for him here.

That piece was difficult for me to write, but I’m glad I did. Since it went live, I’ve spoken to loads of writers struggling through career setbacks and self-doubt who said it was exactly what they needed to hear. When I was down and out, my friends in the writing community helped pick me up and dust me off. The least I can do is try to pay that forward.

The fact is, I can’t guarantee your next project will be your breakout—but more importantly, you can’t guarantee it won’t… unless you never write it, that is.

All Those Years Ago

Bruce Robert Coffin here, taking a long look back. Several weeks ago, October 29th to be exact, my wife and I celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary. Thirty years! Why, it seems like only yesterday that the two of us met (almost 34 years ago). She a promising young cashier at a local supermarket (no longer there) and me an up and coming bagger of groceries. It was February and it was snowing. Our shift was nearing its end and the store was preparing to close (there were no twenty-four hour grocery stores back then). I was watching her walk outside to a row of shopping carriages, nestled up to the front wall of the building, right next to Bookland (also gone), when I made my move. She was looking plenty hot in her hunter orange cashier smock and name tag. I don’t recall exactly how I approached the subject of a date but I’m sure it was something suave and debonaire like: “Hey baby, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this.” Anyway, whatever I said won her over because she said “yes.” And so we made a plan. Our first date was to be the night of the 15th. Yup that’s right, February 15th. Of course a smarter man would have shot for the 14th, Valentines Day, scoring a few points on the romantic front while simultaneously ensuring that if things worked out (and they have) I wouldn’t have to celebrate two days in February…

The big night arrived. I picked her up at her house in South Portland. We were both dressed up and smiling, a lot. My stomach was in an absolute knot. We drove to The Jerry Lewis Theater (also gone, you might remember it as the more aptly named Maine Mall Cinema) where we attended a screening of the newest blockbuster, Indiana Jones, starring Harrison Ford. We shared some light hors d’oeuvres in the form of popcorn and soda, and I think this sly dog may have even slid an arm around her shoulders.

After the movie we drove to dinner, one parking lot over. I wanted her to experience the fine cuisine at the Maine Mall Pizza Hut (also gone). Yup, I know what you’re thinking, big spender. Hey, this guy knew how to live. To this day nothing beats the culinary delight of a pan pizza and an extra large Dr. Pepper. My wife tells a story of being horrified as she watched me swipe a piece of Pizza Hut silverware as a memento of our first date. Now, let me state unequivocally for the record that I have absolutely no recollection of said swiping. Hell, I went on to become a police officer, for crying out loud. She obviously has me confused with some other dashing young man she dated, with kleptomanical tendencies. Either way, since the statute of limitations on such a heinous crime has long since expired, if I had swiped said cutlery and given it to her as a first date keepsake, the fact that we are still together only speaks of her fondness for the “bad boys.” It would also have made her a co-conspirator and guilty of theft by receiving. Luckily nothing like the transgression for which I’m falsely accused actually took place. But I digress. Following a lovely dinner at Casa de Pizza, I drove her home where we “chatted” for a while before I bid her adieu. Promising to see her at work the following week.

Well, we’ve been seeing each other ever since. After a torrid three and a half year courtship (Hey, I never kiss and tell. You want details, wait for the book.), I asked for her hand in marriage. Again she said “yes.” Either I am extremely lucky or one sweet-talking son of a gun. Truthfully, I’m leaning toward lucky. We married in secret, on our only day off together, in the middle of the week, sneaking off to a JOP at a realtor’s office on Forest Avenue in Portland, next to the American Journal newspaper (Yup, you guessed it, both gone.) Our witnesses were two of the office staff, very nice ladies. I remember being so nervous they could have sold us a house and I wouldn’t have known it. We were dressed to the nines, her in a lovely flowered blouse and long dark skirt, me in tan slacks, button-down shirt with a tie, and my best navy blue polyester sport coat (The kind with the plastic buttons. Sharp.). We celebrated by dining at DiMillo’s Floating Restaurant, which, I’m happy to report, we didn’t put out of business (Steve, if you’re reading this, I swear to God there was no swiping of utensils). Afterward, we drove around visiting various relatives, informing them that we had gotten hitched.

Together we have travelled many miles since then, o’re hill and dale. We’ve shared the best and worse that life has to offer. Said goodbye to friends and loved-ones and welcomed new. We’ve struggled at times, prospered at others, but never have we quit. She is my best friend, my confidant, my lover, and my biggest fan. And I know she feels the same of me, because I am. This life is short, sometimes exhilarating, often hard, but it can be oh so sweet with the right companion, walking hand in hand beside you.

Six Lessons – Part One

By Brenda Buchanan

I’m writing this in early November, barely six months after launching my first novel, Quick Pivot, and a month after release of its sequel, Cover Story.

Amazingly enough, the third book in my Joe Gale Mystery Series, Truth Beat, already has been put to bed, as we say in the newspaper biz. Written, edited, proofed, gussied up with a beautiful cover to be revealed soon, Truth Beat is done.

Fini. Terminado. Críochnaithe.

Whew!

I’m now working on character sketches for my next book, one of my favorite parts of the process. I start with a few vague ideas about who will populate the story. I brainstorm names, backstories, genders, personalities, character flaws, then ruminate about these folks when not otherwise occupied. I dream about them, talk with them while driving (alone) and pretty soon I have a whole new community of imaginary friends with whom to share my life.

It occurred to me the other day that before I get too far along into the next book, it would be a good idea to take stock and share a few newfound insights. Here are the first three of six important lessons I have learned along the way. I’ll write about the other three in December. 

Lesson #1: Make the Time.  I could not have written three crime novels since 2008 if I didn’t write every day. At first, I didn’t appreciate the necessity of a routine. I thought I could only be productive if I had hours to sit down and immerse myself. I didn’t even try on days when I was busy, tired or uninspired.

It didn’t take long for me to realize this approach was unworkable. I have a rather demanding day job and numerous family and other commitments. If I didn’t make time to write, it wouldn’t happen. Creating a regular rhythm required me to transform the way I thought about my writing. Instead of it being something I might do after work, I decided to make it something I would do, no matter what kind of day I’d had and no matter what else was competing for my attention.

At first it felt rather grim, like rejoining the gym after a long absence, when your muscles ache after ten minutes on the Stairmaster and the acerbic voice in your head razzes you about how stupid it is to spend your time climbing imaginary stairs. Why are you wasting your energy? You don’t have time for this foolishness.

But I stuck with it. As with the gym, once I found my writing groove, I began to feel out of sorts if my routine was interrupted. It wasn’t always fun to park myself in front of the computer, but as time went on it felt good, in an odd sort of way.

Linear gal that I am, I started at the beginning and moved toward the end at a clip of two pages a night. I only deviated from this method when I found myself writing in circles or stepping on my own clues, which necessitated going backward only enough to get myself back on track.  This dutiful approach resulted in a complete first draft, which at the time felt like more than half the battle. (It wasn’t, but the beauty of revision is a lesson for next month.)

I know that other writers take different approaches. Some write the last chapter first, or write in scenes, not chapters. I don’t think it matters how one goes about writing the book so long as there’s a regular routine to keep you engaged with the process, day in and day out.

Lesson #2: Create The Space.  My decision to commit to my writing happened shortly after I moved from Peaks Island to the mainland. I put a desk in the part of our finished basement that the prior owners had used as an office and christened it Brenda’s Writing Cave. I stuck it out for maybe six months before realizing a subterranean space where I felt completely cut off from what was happening in the outside world was not for me.

Going to the other extreme, I set up shop in the den, which had the opposite drawback—it was in the middle of everything. Too close to the fridge and the TV, with a perfect view of the birdfeeders where something fascinating always was happening. So I moved my writing spot upstairs, which has proved to be the charm.

I am sitting in my “study” right now, which doubles as our guest room. It is quiet, especially in the cold weather months when the windows are closed. I have a bookcase for my stuff, and a beautiful photograph of the islands of Casco Bay above my desk.

The photo of Casco Bay that hangs above my desk. Beautiful, and less distracting than a window.

I work here most of the time, though sometimes avail myself of the Sunday morning solitude of my unoccupied law office or seek out a quiet nook at one of several local libraries. No matter where I sit, water is at hand, occasionally coffee or tea. There are both pencils and pens within easy reach, and for reasons I can’t explain, a tube of lip balm  is essential.

My desk, with pencils at the ready. The mugs feature my book covers, a gift from my thoughtful sister-in-law Chris Kenty.

 

I don’t snack while I write, or attempt to write with my laptop balanced on my knees. I need a desk or table and a reasonably comfortable chair.

I get down to business without detouring past email or social media. Like a diver swinging her arms before climbing the tall platform, I re-read the pages I wrote the previous day to warm my writerly muscles. Then I plunge in, and stay there until I’ve met my word goal for the day.

Having a comfortable, dedicated space to create maximizes the chance of uninterrupted work, and fewer interruptions mean greater productivity.

Lesson #3: Treasure those who love you.

No one does this alone. I knew that going in, but now I really know that.

While I’ve been busy writing, my spouse has managed our life. I still cook, but she does most everything else. Laundry. Cleaning. Gardening. Social calendar management. She helps me with writing-related tasks (like managing my mailing list) and is my first reader and the giver of much helpful feedback. She also sits in the front row at all of my speaking gigs.

This kind of active support is precious. As important—perhaps even more so—are her regular reminders to unplug from the intensity. We have a Sunday beach walk routine, no matter what the weather. We’re working our way through the eight seasons of Foyle’s War (how did we miss them when they were first aired?), and we swim every chance we get in the warm weather months. This counterweight to my every-day-I-must-write obsession is critical to my mental health.

I also am lucky to have a supportive group of friends, who I don’t see enough. We all have a lot going on in our lives, but for the past couple of years, I’ve too often been the one turning aside invitations, claiming not to have time to meet for dinner or go for a walk. Righting that particular imbalance is my goal for this winter, because life is too short to spend all my time with my imaginary friends when I am blessed with so many wonderful real ones.

Balance. It’s all about balance. How do you try to achieve that complex equilibrium? I am interested in your thoughts.

Stay tuned next month for lessons 4 through 6.