Lea Wait's Blog, page 272

Writers Share Books They’re Giving and Books They’d Like to Get

One of the most common questions writers are asked at book events is who we read. So here are the results of a pre-Christmas poll taken with MCW writers, asking what books were on their holiday lists and what books they were giving. What was on your list, Dear Reader? And what books did you give?

Lea Wait: Title of one book I’d like to get? Barbara Shapiro’s The Muralist.

One book I’m giving?  A History of Civilization in 50 Disasters by Gale Eaton (for my 12-year-old grandson who wants all the gory details!)

Chris Holm: One book I asked for this year was Shannon Kirk’s METHOD 15/33. Shannon and I were on a panel together at Crime Bake, and as soon as she mentioned her book’s premise — a pregnant sixteen-year-old abductee turns out to be a manipulative sociopath hellbent on revenge — I knew I had to read it.

As for a book I’m giving (MOM, IF YOU’RE READING THIS, LOOK AWAY OR BE SPOILED), I got my mom Val McDermid’s THE MERMAIDS SINGING. I have a feeling McDermid’s going to have a new superfan very soon.

Kathy Lynn Emerson: I’m giving my great niece, at her request, James Dashner’s The Death Cure, Book 3 in the Maze Runner series. She’ll be 13 in February.

We don’t really exchange presents at Christmas, except for said great niece, but my after-Christmas ebook shopping list has Lea Wait’s Thread and Gone at the top. It comes out December 29th.

Susan Vaughan: A book I’m giving is Robert McCloskey’s Make Way for Ducklings, along with a matching shirt, to my one-year-old great niece. A book I’d like to receive is Playing with Fire, Tess Gerritsen’s new release.

Jessie Crockett: For the book I would like to receive: Medical Meddlers, Mediums and Magicians: The Victorian Age of Credulity by Keith Souter. I am giving Tequila Mockingbird: Cocktails with a Literary Twist by Tim Federle.

Jen Blood: Title of one book I’d like to get. I usually just go ahead and buy fiction for myself (or get it from the library), but the cost of nonfiction tomes for research is a little tougher sometimes. There’s one, Wildlife Search and Rescue: A Guide for First Responders, that I’d love but thus far haven’t splurged on (or asked for). It’s almost $40 for the Kindle version, though, and $60 for the paperback… That’s a hefty price tag. But it really does look like a great, informative reference. (Can you hear me trying to talk myself into this? Because that’s pretty much what’s happening as I write this).

As for books I’m giving… My mom is a big J.D. Robb fan, so I’ll pick up the latest Eve & Roarke novel for her. And on Thanksgiving, my dad gave us this really bizarre but heartfelt lecture on the inherent superiority of the Chinese culture, so I got him The Spirit of the Chinese People: The Classic Introduction to Chinese Culture, by Gu Hongming.

Brenda Buchanan: Two books I would like to receive this year:  Laura Lippman’s  Hush Hush in fiction and Atul Gwande’s Being Mortal in nonfiction.

Books I plan to give:  Among others, Robert McCloskey’s A Time of Wonder, to my grandniece Caeley, who is about to turn 5 and just learning to read. She loves Maine, but does not (yet) read this blog, so saying it here won’t ruin the surprise.

Kate Flora: Like Lea Wait, I want a copy of The Muralist. B.A. Shapiro has been a friend for years, and her determination not to quit in the face of overwhelming discouragement, and knuckling down and writing even better books, is such an inspiration to me.

Giving? Well, they have never been on my literary landscape, but I’m giving my grandson Miles three Plants vs. Zombies books. Who knew?

John Clark: The Sister Pact by Stacie Ramey. I’m giving a copy of Code Name Habbakuk: A Secret Ship Made of Ice, a book I found in a shop when we were on our tour of the Canadian Rockies last summer.

In Fine Libraries Everywhere

Kate Flora: There’s an old New Yorker cartoon I remember from my childhood, where

Sometimes it’s fun to stack up all the books and see how much I’ve written.

the husband is saying on the phone: “She’s not here. She’s at fine stores everywhere.” Well, for me—the second-hand queen—I am rarely found at stores, but whenever possible, I am found in libraries.

There is no place a writer likes better than the library. The vast majority of us are voracious readers, and developing and feeding that reading habit began when we first clutched our library cards and started choosing and taking out books. Growing up, the Vose Library in Union, Maine was a magical place. Every week I would bring home a whole stack of books, and on Friday I would return them and get another stack. Back then I was enchanted by the way writers could pull me out of this world and into the world they had created.

I still am.

Becoming a writer—crossing that threshold into creating stories as well as reading them—has brought me into libraries in a new way. Now I visit to talk with readers. To get their perspective on my books. To hear what they wonder about. Sometimes to hear how deeply attached they’ve become to my characters. It is readers, of course, who have led me change my mind about ending the Joe Burgess series. It was supposed to be a quartet, but now I’ve written book five and am pondering on the plot for book six. Libraries foster these relationships between writers and readers by providing opportunities to speak about the process, the research, and to connect with people who are fascinated by writing and storytelling.

Last year, I joked that I hoped to eventually visit every library in Maine. So far, I’ve only taken baby steps, but with my co-written Maine game warden memoir, A Good Man with a Dog, http://amzn.to/1PuSQwI on the publication horizon, I’m hoping retired game warden Roger Guay and I will get to visit a whole lot more in 2016.

Here are some snapshots of 2015 in the library. Where will 2016 take me?

At the beautiful Rangeley Library with Lea Wait and Dorothy Cannell

Death and Desserts at the Liberty Library with Lea Wait and Dorothy Cannell

Murder by the Book, Jesup Library, Bar Harbor

Speaking about Death Dealer at the Jesup in Bar Harbor

Celebrating Carol Briggs retirement at the Curtis Memorial Library in Brunswick

With other Maine crime writers at Books in Boothbay

Mystery Night at the Concord Public Library

 

 

 

 

 

Another Country, Eventually My Own

John Clark following up on a Facebook post from earlier this month that got a couple interesting reactions. I’m in the editing mode on my current book, needing to cut about 20,000 words as well as wrap it up solidly. When taking breaks, my mind has been hopping in the Wayback machine all too often, leading me astray. One realization has been with me for a few years now. No matter what, there’s not enough time left (or energy for that matter) in my life to do all the stuff I thought I’d get to do. I hardly think I’m unique in that belief, but as a writer of fantasy and magic, That got me crafting a plan for my next life. Talking about it was the gist of my unsettling post. I understand that belief in subsequent lives isn’t held by the majority in this country and when I used to tell patrons at the library that was my expectation, some were really uncomfortable. Of course, I wasn’t wild when they tried converting me to the Baptist and Mormon faiths either.

Anyhow, in the course of contemplating a next life, I’ve not only had fun creating myself anew, but I came up with a dandy short story I’ll get to sometime before snow melts. It has a dandy gotcha at the end. Much of my future plan has been influenced by my years immersed in role playing games on the computer. After a two year hiatus, I started loading some of the games that were languishing on my shelf, ignored and unplayed when we renovated the geek cave. The first one was a dud, but Two Worlds, after I downloaded and installed a huge patch, was one of those I can jump into and can play for ten minutes or ten hours without any learning curve and no boredom. Exploring the world in this game was the catalyst for my going back to planning, or at least imagining a completely new life.

First off, it ain’t happening here. Earth is a disaster zone, made more so every day by hatred, denial and lack of respect for differences. Reappearing elsewhere is not a bad thing by any means. I had plenty of practice when I not only created a couple entire planets, but reworked the universe and even what’s beyond it before setting Berek Metcalf in motion ten years ago.

I begin completely anew, being born in a small village to parents who are intelligent and will pass on their mage and quick learning abilities. I’m not sure what they’ll name me, but I’m sure it will be interesting and roll comfortably off the tongue. Since the village will be remote, my curiosity about the rest of the world will grow as I do, leading me to drive the village mage and sorceress to distraction with endless questions. However, their recognition of my willingness to do whatever they require in order to learn will mean that by the time I’ve turned fourteen, I’ll be their equal, not only in terms of spell casting, but in my ability to find magical herbs and gems as I explore ever farther from the village. Here’s a peek at some of what unfolds.

Sometimes we fight, often we sing

During one of those adventures, I met a rider a few years older than myself. He was exploring and trying to evade bounty hunters who had been after him since he rescued two of his cousins just before they were to be hanged. A local noble, envious of their standing in the town, framed them for killing a stag he shot. Quill had no choice but to flee, although as an accomplished swordsman, doing so left a foul taste in his mouth. These and other aspects of his life I learned the afternoon we met. His horse was lame and he was unsure of the cause. I had considerable skill at diagnosing animal ailments and had the ingredients in my pouch to make a salve that had his mount good as new an no time. We had been talking while I worked and developed a kinship over a shared sense of humor and curiosity about what lay beyond that part of our world we knew.

Quill liked our village and decided to stay a while. We spent considerable time together, he training me in swordplay while I taught him as much as a non-mage could learn about herb and gem lore.

Several months after his arrival, the village was attacked by the bounty hunters who were now allied with bandits. None of them had an ounce of humanity. Much of the town was burned and my parents and more than a dozen others, including my mentor the mage were killed. That night, my newly acquired weapon skills stood me in good stead and I killed for the first time, not once, but four times and not by choice. Had I not wielded a long sword like I was possessed by an insane fury in the terrible firelight, more would have perished, including myself. Quill and I were able to save the sorceress and drive off the remaining attackers. The village was a sorry sight when the sun rose. After tending to the wounded and burying the dead, I gathered what was left of my belongings, paid my respects to the bereaved and took one of the few horses in the village as I followed my brother in blood into the wilderness.

Over the next several weeks, we followed the attackers, killing them as the opportunity arose. Why they didn’t speed away for reinforcements, we knew not, and when we interrogated the last of them before ridding the world of his evil soul, all he would say was that the lord had a fitting fate in store for us. We puzzled over that cryptic message, but could not make sense of it as we moved south ahead of the growing cold. Satisfied we were temporarily free of pursuers and curious about rumors we’d heard of a valley where powerful gems were to be found, we relaxed a bit, taking what work we could find in the towns and on farms that became more numerous the further south we rode.

Our quiet interlude was interrupted one night as we sat in a tavern, eating our first hot meal in ages, while warming our backsides by a roaring fire. A young woman sat at a nearby table, eating and sipping ale. I watched her as she continually scanned the room as though expecting trouble. It found her while we were debating whether to spend the last of our coin for a hot bath and soft bed.

The door opened and three evil looking men, all towering over the rest of us, strode in and made for her. She wasted no time, grabbing something from a pouch on her belt and flinging it in their faces as she grabbed a nasty looking short sword in her left hand and pulling an obsidian throwing knife from her belt with her right. Quill and I gave each other a quick look. We had come to communicate quite often in such a manner and he and I knew we were about to willingly step into someone else’s mess.

Never mistake demure for helpless.

What a mess it was, indeed. She’d tossed a flaming powder that ignited on contact with skin. I had the wits to look away as soon as the first grains hit the lead attacker, but even so, the flashes, coupled with their howls of rage would have frozen me in my tracks not so long ago. She hit one of them in the eye with her knife, dropping him to the floor, but I could tell the others weren’t seriously incapacitated by her magic, so I edged to my left as I drew my sword. I knew nothing about the combatants, but my gut said that she deserved our help. Even so, it was touch and go. Both attackers wielded four foot blades that had a greenish hue, telling me they were imbued with poison magic. I used a spell of my own creation that blurred the air around me, making it difficult for an assailant to hit me or see my own blade movement. It probably saved an arm or my life, allowing me to duck under a sweeping slash and slam my own blade upward, severing the muscles above his elbow.

While he was trying to switch hands, the mystery girl buried her sword in his belly at an angle, tearing a bloody hole that ended his involvement. Quill was barely holding his own with the last man, but was able to distract him long enough for me to make a chopping swing that sliced his hip open. As he turned to defend himself, Quill finished the fight, nearly severing his head.

He and I were trying to catch our breath when we realized she was hardly winded and unscathed. She gave us a smile of thanks and waited until we had regained our composure. That was our introduction to Sylvaine who was seventeen, part human and part fey, the first of that race I’d encountered. Her mage skills were much better than mine, while her swordsmanship was something Quill envied openly. Over mead and a sweet pastry that was so rich it curled my toes, both her treats, she explained that she was not only a sorceress, but had apprenticed as an assassin for a noble far to the north. When she realized that he was sending her to kill people who had done nothing save stand up for themselves, she murdered her employer, cleaned out his stash of gems and fled south.

Thus began an odd partnership that danced about on the edge of romantic attraction between Sylvaine and me. Quill was immune to her charms and was, I believe, secretly amused at our emotional parrying.

Next, maybe??

What happens next in the life to come, is yet to be written, but so far, I’m more than happy with my future. So, good readers, are you pondering a next life and if so, wow and where will it happen?

A Visit from the Vet

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here. Yes, you read that title correctly—it’s from, not to. In my part of Maine, we have a veterinarian who makes house calls. No more packing three cats (or, once upon a time, four cats and a dog) into carriers for a twenty-minute drive. Ever try to stuff a cat into a cat carrier when he didn’t want to go? Not fun.

It is so much more pleasant to make an appointment with Maine Woods Mobile Vet. She brings what she needs with her and uses our kitchen island as an examining table. The cats, of course, are suspicious, but it’s easier to catch them and carry them one by one to the kitchen (a place with very good associations for them!) than to subject them to imprisonment, a ride in the car, and all those strange animal smells at the other end. They still have to submit to being poked and prodded and given their shots, but the worst is over in a matter of minutes and they’re free again, in their own house, spared the indignity of yet another confinement for the trip home.

It’s easier on “Mom” too. Fewer scratches. No carriers to clean and store afterward. And best of all, I don’t get what my mother used to call “the hairy eyeball” from three ticked off kitties.

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of over fifty books written under several names. She won the Agatha Award in 2008 for best mystery nonfiction for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2014 in the best mystery short story category for “The Blessing Witch.” Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries (The Scottie Barked at Midnight) as Kaitlyn and the historical Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries (Murder in the Merchant’s Hall) as Kathy. The latter series is a spin-off from her earlier “Face Down” series and is set in Elizabethan England. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com

 

Fitting In

Jessie: In Northern New England where the lawn is still disconcertingly green.

I love the holidays. I love the nostalgia, the traditions, the fun of secrets and surprises. But what I love most is the end of it all. It’s not because I’m tired of hearing carols in every store or that the Christmas lights have caused my electric bill to skyrocket.

It’s because I’m an enthusiastic goal setter. All year round I keep track of goals and create new ones. In January, so does almost everyone else. At the turn of the new year, no one thinks it odd if you wander for an hour up and down the calendars/planners aisles of the local office suppy store, considering your options. No one bats an eye if, in the course of a day, you join a gym, buy a book on decluttering and create a vision board. At any other time of year your family might stage an intervention. Or, at the very least,  whisper anxious speculations about a mid-life crisis.

But in January, both the internet and the physical world are awash in support for resolutions and fresh, new starts. How-to advisors, life coaches and self-help gurus cheer on the masses from every direction. Optimism is everywhere.

Come February the fervor tends to die down. The camaraderie I enjoyed throughout the last few weeks fades and I find myself alone with the helpful staff at the local office supply store. But even though I feel out of step with the majority once more, there is an upside all die-hard New Englanders will understand; all the planners are on sale.

Readers, do you create New Year’s Resolutions? Do you create goals all year long? Or do you ignore all the hype?

Weekend Update: December 26-27, 2015

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Jessie Crockett (Monday), Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Tuesday), John Clark (Wednesday), Kate Flora (Thursday), and a mystery post on Friday, the first day of 2016. Happy New Year, everyone!

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

from Kaitlyn Dunnett: I know, I know, you wish someone else would have news, but getting writers to add to the update is like trying to herd cats! Plus, everyone’s busy at this time of year. So here, just to have something in the news, is the cover of the German edition of Ho-Ho-Homicide.

Hans Copek kindly translated the title for me. It is a take-off on a popular German Christmas song (“Oh, Come All You Little Children”) and ends up meaning “Oh, Come All You Little Murderers.” Hmm. Only one murderer in the novel, but it makes as much sense as a title as the U. S. one.

 

 

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

Merry E-Book Christmas

Since many of you have time to read over the holidays, or can’t wait to try out your new e-readers, or have been putting off sampling our books (what is wrong with you?) we asked each MCW writer to share one e-book they’d like you to try:

Lea Wait: The e-book I’d like featured is SHADOWS ON A MAINE CHRISTMAS – http://amzn.to/1PSv6FQ  Price: $4.99  Last year it was on Library Journal’s “Ten Best Christmas Books” list!

Chris Holm: Here are the links for THE KILLING KIND ebook (the cover’s attached):

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Killing-Kind-Chris-Holm-ebook/dp/B00RTY0GD6/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-killing-kind-chris-holm/1121002340?ean=9780316259507

Kathy Lynn Emerson: MURDER IN THE MERCHANT’S HALL http://www.amazon.com/Murder-Merchants-Hall-Elizabethan-Thriller-ebook/dp/B016WD3EZG/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1449585506&sr=1-1&keywords=Murder+in+the+Merchant%27s+Hall

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/murder-in-the-merchants-hall-kathy-lynn-emerson/1122426289?ean=9781780101767

Susan Vaughan: ALWAYS A SUSPECT

Links: Amazon – (pub 10/14/15): http://getBook.at/Always-a-Suspect ;

KOBO: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/always-a-suspect ;

ITUNES: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/always-suspect-prequel-to/id1047925387?mt=11 ;

BN:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/always-a-suspect-susan-vaughan/1122766488?ean=2940152398175

Jessie Crockett: A STICKY SITUATION http://amzn.to/1m4H9mY

Jen Blood: The title of the book I’m featuring is MIDNIGHT LULLABY. Links: Apple iBooks Barnes & Noble Nook 
Kobo Inktera/Page Foundry
 Scribd

Brenda Buchanan: The title of the book I’m featuring is COVER STORY.  Here is the link: http://www.amazon.com/Cover-Story-Joe-Gale-Mystery-ebook/dp/B00XPQDOCC

Vaughn Hardacker: THE FISHERMAN http://www.amazon.com/Fisherman-Thriller-Vaughn-C-Hardacker-ebook/dp/B00XUYQWE6/ref=sr_1_1_twi_kin_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1450789199&sr=1-1&keywords=hardacker

Maureen Milliken: COLD HARD NEWS http://www.amazon.com/Cold-Hard-News-Maureen-Milliken-ebook/dp/B00XWUR8BO/ref=sr_1_1_twi_kin_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1450908896&sr=8-1&keywords=Cold+Hard+News

Kate Flora: A book of mine most readers have never heard of, writing as Katharine Clark, STEAL AWAY http://www.amazon.com/Steal-Away-Katharine-Clark-ebook/dp/B0056DY746/ref=sr_1_16_twi_kin_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1450908973&sr=1-16&keywords=steal+away (If the Amazon reviews are a clue, you’ll either love it or hate it!)

And finally, casting ahead into the future, Barbara Ross says:

Fogged Inn, Maine Clambake Mystery #4, debuts February 23, 2016.

Nothing’s colder than a corpse–especially one stashed inside a sub-zero fridge. The victim spent his last night on earth dining at her restaurant’s bar, so naturally Julia Snowden finds herself at the center of the investigation. Lost in the November fog, however, is who’d want to kill the unidentified stranger–and why. It might have something to do with a suspicious group of retirees and a decades-old tragedy to which they’re all connected. One thing’s for sure: Julia’s going to make solving this mystery her early bird special…

There’s a Goodreads Giveaway right now https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/166449-fogged-inn

And Fogged Inn is available for pre-order from all the usual suspects– Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, Google, Kobo, and from your local independent bookstore.

Saint Nicholas

Bruce Robert Coffin here, hoping that 2015 has been a good year for all of you. We’ve certainly had more than our share of news stories filled with tragedy, hatred, and violence, reporting that tends to take away much of my holiday spirit. Last year, in an attempt to move past these negative images, I wrote a short fictional Christmas story which I posted on Facebook. I’ve decided to share that same message again with each of you. Hopefully, if I’ve done my job well, this story will put a smile on your face and some warmth in your hearts. Feel free to share if you think it might mean something to others.

Saint Nicholas

I’ve always believed that it’s part of the human condition to focus on the negative. Maybe it has something to do with our upbringing, although upon reflection we are all raised very differently so perhaps not. Whatever it is, it definitely exists in each of us. How else can we explain the age old news reporting axiom “if it bleeds it leads?” Police officers are even more inclined to focus on the negative. Being exposed to it day in and day out tends to make one jaded. But, I’m getting way ahead of myself. I should probably begin by telling you a little bit about me before I tell you my story.

My name is Crispin Mallory and, in case you haven’t already guessed, I am a police officer. I’ve been with the same department for thirty years, pushing a cruiser around, investigating motor vehicle accidents, breaking up domestics, chasing down criminals, and writing the occasional traffic citation.

One day, several years back, I was working a double shift. Cops aren’t paid all that well and when an overtime opportunity presents itself most of us on the job are quick to say yes. It was December twenty-fourth and I just finished my first tour. I’d returned to the station to attend roll call before heading back out for another eight hours. I was tired and not in a particularly festive mood, mostly due to the fact that I had to work on Christmas, which meant my wife and two children would be celebrating without me. Another holiday missed. Such is the life of a cop. Anyway, the sergeant held me back after the briefing, said he had a task for me. I was instructed to return some valuables to a local home for the aged. Apparently one of the nursing staff had confessed to stealing jewelry from some of the residents at the home, to support her drug habit. See what I mean? All negative. The sergeant provided me with the name of the medical administrator and asked me to deliver the items to him.

After checking out a squad car and loading my gear, I got on the radio and requested that the dispatcher show me ten-six (busy) on assignment. I drove toward the nursing home grabbing a drive through coffee along the way.

I parked in the lot and made my way inside. The receptionist was talking to one of the orderlies and they both turned as I entered.

“Hello officer,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

I returned the greeting.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Ashby,” I said. “I’m supposed to deliver something to him.”

“I’ll try his extension.”

I wandered around the lobby as she tried to locate Ashby. Everything was brightly painted and decorated for the season. On the counter stood a small lit Christmas tree. I wondered if the employees were still allowed to call it a Christmas tree.

“Officer?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll be right out.”

I thanked her and continued to look around. Ashby walked up to me and introduced himself as the facility’s head administrator. I explained my purpose for being there and he led me back to his office so we could talk in private.

Once we were seated, I handed him the package and an evidence slip explaining that he needed to sign for the items.

“I am so pleased that your detectives were able to recover so many of the things that our former employee took. I’m sure you can imagine how much these items mean to the residents here. Some of these pieces of jewelry aren’t all that valuable, but they represent gifts from and memories of loved ones. Some things are worth far more than money.”

I agreed. After going through each of the items he signed for them and returned the evidence sheet to me. I stood, preparing to leave, when he stopped me.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do me one small favor, would you officer?”

I wondered why I would need to do another favor for him. After all, I’d just returned a number of stolen items. Shouldn’t that have been sufficient? “I really need to get back on the road, Mr. Ashby.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t impose. You’ve got places to go I imagine.”

Now verbally he was letting me off the hook but his tone and facial expression told another story. I knew he was attempting reverse psychology on me. Something my wife and I did to our kids everyday. “What do you need?” I asked.

“It will only take a second, I promise. But it will mean so much to her.”

Ashby proceeded to tell me about an eighty-year-old patient named Ruth Perkins. Mrs. Perkins was suffering from Alzheimer’s.

“She’s all alone now,” Ashby said. “Her husband passed last year. They had one son, Nicholas, and he was a police officer. Nicholas was killed in a shootout many years ago. Apparently he would visit her every Christmas, whether he was working or not and it meant the world to her. Her Alzheimer’s is advanced but she still manages to put several good days together each month. I have no idea how she does it but she does.”

I sat down again as he continued.

“Every month since the death of her husband, just prior to the twenty-fifth, she gets it into her head that Christmas is approaching. She gets so excited and makes a point to tell all of the staff that her son is coming to visit. She even has a ceramic tree that she makes us put up in her room. Of course when the twenty-fifth passes and Nicholas doesn’t show up her condition quickly worsens and she reverts back to her former state. It’s really quite sad.”

“What do you want me to do?,” I asked. “I’m not her son.”

“I know that, but I thought it might cheer her up just to get a visit from an officer in uniform. Just stop by and wish her a merry Christmas.”

I only wanted to get back to my comfort zone. Back to my cruiser. I really wasn’t enjoying the idea of popping in on an already confused old woman, possibly making her situation worse. But Ashby’s reverse psychology must have worked because I found myself saying okay.

He said he’d introduce me, then he led me down the hall to her room. I followed, amid the stares and whispers of the other residents. Each of them probably wondering what the cop was doing there. At last he stopped and entered a room. The sign on the door said R. Perkins and a white ceramic tree stood on the table under the window. As I rounded the corner I saw her sitting up in bed, wearing a festive green robe over a red sweater. She was wearing makeup and it looked like she had just paid a visit to the hair dresser. She looked dignified and radiant, like someone waiting to be called upon, not at all what I had expected.

“Mrs. Perkins,” he said. “I’ve brought you a visitor.”

She turned towards us and her blue eyes lit up instantly. “Nicholas,” she cried out. “My Saint Nicholas, I knew you’d come. Didn’t I say he would come? Oh, this is the best Christmas ever.”

She held her arms out to me as I approached the bed. I bent down toward her and she hugged me tightly, even kissing me on the cheek. “Merry Christmas,” I said.

“I should leave the two of you alone now,” Ashby said, as he left.

I sat down in the chair beside the bed and she began asking me all sorts of questions. I was afraid that I might say the wrong thing, but as time passed it became obvious that nothing I said would lessen her faith that I was her son. We talked for close to an hour. I told her all about my family and about my work. She asked if I remembered this thing or that and of course I told her I did. The smile never left her face.

I stayed with her until she began to tire. All the excitement had worn her out. She hugged me again and made me promise to return the following day. Christmas Day. I promised that I would and kissed her on the cheek.

I returned to my cruiser and radioed that I was back in service. My heart was full and I was happier than I’d been in a long while. It was clear that my visit to Ruth Perkins had done something positive to both of us. I no longer cared that I’d be missing this Christmas with my own family. Don’t get me wrong, I still wanted to be with them but after visiting a lonely old woman I realized I had no right to complain. There would be other Christmases to spend with my family. Mrs. Perkins’ family was gone leaving her only memories.

I returned to work the following day. Christmas Day turned out to be busier than any of us had imagined. A light snowfall had left the roads slick resulting in many accidents. The calls for service were already backing up by the time I hit the street.

It was nearly one in the afternoon before I was finally able to take a lunch break. I grabbed a sandwich and a couple of eggnogs at the local market before heading to see Mrs. Perkins. I was excited about being able to keep my promise to her and looking forward to seeing her face light up at the sight of me.

I parked in the nearly vacant lot and headed inside. The receptionist was a different girl than the one I’d spoken to the previous day. Holiday help I assumed. She asked if she could help me and I politely declined. “Thank you but I’m all set. Just visiting someone.”

I walked down the corridor to her room, stopping as I reached her door. The room was empty. Her belongings were gone and the nameplate was missing from the door. I felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me.

“Can I help you officer?” a soft female voice asked from behind me.

I turned and saw a young orderly. “I’m looking for Mrs. Perkins. Ruth Perkins. Has she been moved?”

“Are you a relative?”

I pondered her question for a moment before answering. “Sort of. I just visited her yesterday.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Perkins passed away last night.”

Many years have passed since that Christmas. I’m still a police officer with the same department. Heck, I’ve been on so long now that I get every Christmas off. I’ve never forgotten Ruth Perkins or her gift to me. Oh, I know what your thinking. That it was I who gave a great gift to her, providing her one last visit with her son. But I think of it differently. I believe she’s the one who gave me great gift, restoring my faith in humanity, helping me appreciate what I have. Her belief that I was her son was so strong and so real that I couldn’t help but feel the same love for her that she had bestowed upon me. Her faith and her love changed me forever. And isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

Writers! Vow in 2016 to make your voice heard

Maureen here, on the first day of winter.

It’s hard to believe 2015 is coming to an end. I still can’t get used to years that begin with 20.

Where’s my jet pack? Why aren’t we all living in condos on the moon? Why are we still comfortable with the same old stereotypes and predictable stories? Whoops. Sorry. I know that’s not nearly as fun as all that space-age stuff.

Seriously, though. I’ve read two books recently — nothing writing by our Maine Crime Writers of course! — that were written in the past couple of years that were very popular but I found stale and predictable. I can feel my frustration rise as I know exactly what this character is going to say. Or what the entire page of dialogue is going to be. Can predict with certainty what the “twist” is. Know without a doubt what arc that relationship is going to take.

Life is short and we’re all busy, and I found myself resenting those books for swallowing up my time.

Sure, they were popular and readers liked them. But you know what? Readers also like books that aren’t stale and predictable. They just need to be given them.

Are you writing in 2016? Here’s  your challenge — find something to say and say it in a new way.

I’m not going to say fly your jet pack to your condo on the moon, because those are my 1970s notion of what the way-off-in-the-future year 2016 would be like. No, instead, find a way to portray that unique, fascinating world you have in your head and populate it with real people who don’t conform to expected stereotypes.

Really, why write otherwise? Just to say what everyone else is saying? You don’t want to do that.

If you’re struggling to have your manuscript looked at, ask yourself if you’re really digging down deep and finding a true voice to write with.

Writing in 2016? Don’t assume you’ve found your voice. Make sure you’ve found it. Once it’s found, it will be heard.

My vow for 2016 is to not waste another minute reading books that feel familiar — in a bad way.

And my second vow is to make sure I’m writing the kind of book I want to read.

Want to join me?

Maureen Milliken is the author of Cold Hard News, the debut novel in the Bernie O’Dea series. Follow her on twitter at @mmilliken47. Like her Facebook page, Maureen Milliken mysteries.

A Photo Tour of Maine Wildlife Park

Jen Blood here! I know I’m kicking off the holiday week, and as such should definitely have a properly festive post. I actually don’t, though. I thought about it, of course, but short of sharing my Christmas list with you or going over my New Year’s resolutions, I didn’t have a lot of ideas. HOWEVER, a couple of weeks ago I had an opportunity to do an off-season photo tour of the Maine Wildlife Park, so… It seems to me that something like that is far preferable to listening to me wax philosophic about all the reasons I will eat less chocolate and more greens in 2016. Which, let’s be honest, will most likely not prove true.

For those who don’t know about Maine Wildlife Park, it’s a reserve in Gray that houses rehabilitated wildlife who are unable for a wide assortment of reasons, to return to the wild. Zoos generally tend to depress me, but MWP doesn’t really come across as a zoo – for the most part, the enclosures are expansive, and the animals seem healthy and relatively content. And after my tour in early December, it became clear that the folks who work there truly are fully invested in making certain the residents are given everything possible to maintain a quality of life many would envy.

I meet my tour guide, Courtney, at 11 a.m. on an overcast Thursday in December. My next mystery series features Jamie Flint, a trainer of search and rescue dogs who also does wildlife rescue and rehab – this, ostensibly, is why I’ve purchased this photo pass and guided tour from Maine Wildlife Park. It just happens that I’ve also been wanting to do this for years; a happy coincidence that makes me love being a writer that much more.

Courtney and I truck over to the MWP HQ, where I happily sign a couple of forms promising not to sue if I’m maimed or murdered while on the grounds. Then, we head out.

“Where do you want to start?” Courtney wants to know. I come up empty. I’ve been to MWP exactly once in my lifetime, and it was over thirty years ago. “Deer and moose, then?” she suggests.

That seems like a sound option. Courtney – who is a very cute, knowledgeable twenty-something with dark hair and a nose ring – pilots the big old truck over ruts and rocky roads and parks beside a large fenced area in the woods. My first meeting is with Pie – a piebald fawn who came to the park in the spring.

According to Courtney, the Powers That Be have held off on returning Pie to the wild because she’s had frequent urinary tract infections, and appears to be somewhat immunocompromised, something not uncommon with piebalds. Pie is a pretty brown and white fawn tame enough to come to Courtney and me, clearly interested in what we’ve brought to eat. She’s in the process of being integrated into the herd of deer who live permanently at the park, but the process is a slow one. For now, Pie is on her own. I pet the girl, get a couple of photos, and we move on to an adjacent enclosure.

Next door, a herd of deer weave through trees when Courtney and I enter the enclosure. Several huddle together against the far fence. On the other side, I can see an amorphous white figure standing alone. Pie is watching. Courtney and I move farther in while she explains that many of the deer have been here since they were fawns. They are relatively tame by wildlife standards, but still watchful. As we move farther in, I spot a rack of antlers atop a big buck lying peacefully in the leaves.

“That’s Jay,” Courtney tells me. “He’s pretty friendly.”

I take a photo, waiting for him to get up. He doesn’t. I take another. Step a few feet closer. He watches me with what I take as slight disdain, but he doesn’t move. Since I don’t want to stress him, I decide to retreat, and Courtney and I begin to walk toward the other side of the enclosure. I’m vaguely aware that Pie is still standing at the other side of the fence, watching the other deer. Then, Jay gets up. He’s a big guy with impressive antlers and a peaceful, quiet way about him. And he’s coming straight toward us.

“Just don’t make any sudden moves,” Courtney tells me as Jay walks up to me. He gives my coat an experimental lick. Apparently, he likes what he tastes; he takes another lick. And another. Five minutes later, the left arm of my jacket is wet through. I have to move back periodically so I’m not impaled by his antlers, but otherwise the meeting is amicable. Courtney tells me the bucks don’t usually tolerate being touched or petted, but Jay doesn’t seem to know this. I experimentally set my hand on his broad neck. He eyes me for a split second before returning to my delicious coat. Ultimately, I’m the one who has to make the move to leave – there are still a lot of animals to see. I think I could happily have spent the whole afternoon with Jay, though.

As we’re leaving the enclosure, the other deer in the herd take off running along the perimeter of the fence. On the other side, a white figure runs with them. Courtney is clearly pleased.

“This means she’s starting to be interested in the herd,” she tells me. Pie does indeed appear to be interested, continuing to nose along her side of the fence while the others ignore her. Courtney tells me the fact that they’re paying her no mind is a good sign. Integration shouldn’t be hard from here.

After the deer, we visit the moose. I feed them bananas and sweet potatoes. I fall in love with George, a twelve-year-old bull moose who has an enclosure to himself. George has a white muzzle and kind eyes, and he stands patiently while I stroke his nose and hand over more bananas.

From there, we move on to the coyote enclosure. “She won’t come near,” Courtney tells me, “but we can go inside.”

I’m uncertain, but thrilled at the same time. Wolves and coyotes have long been a fascination of mine – it’s the dog lover in me, I suppose. We go into the enclosure, and Courtney shuts the door behind us. In the brush, my guide points out a coyote who gets up as soon as we set foot inside. She’s clearly nervous, so we stay put as the beautiful girl circles us a few times, never getting close. Courtney and I talk about the difficulties inherent in trying to keep this environment as stress-free as possible while simultaneously welcoming increasing numbers of wildlife fans into the park.

“Stress management is at least fifty percent of our job,” she tells me. Courtney comes from a background in true wildlife rehab, in which the goal is to have as little interaction with the injured animal as possible so it can return safely to the wild. Knowing that the wildlife here will remain captive for the rest of their lives is a whole new ballgame. “I love it here,” she tells me. “They really do incredible work, and always make the well-being of the animals the priority. But it’s been an adjustment.”

We leave the coyote enclosure and keep moving. I go inside an enclosure with two lynx kits, a brother and sister, though Courtney tells me they aren’t particularly friendly. “Just don’t turn your back on them,” she says. I think it’s a joke, but I’m not completely sure. I hope so, since they’re on opposite ends of the enclosure – not turning my back on at least one of them isn’t really an option. The female is on the ground, the male up high. When I turn my back on the female, I take a couple of steps. I turn around, and she’s moved closer. Watching me with what seem very sad eyes, all the while.

A bobcat named Bob paces around me inside the next enclosure. “Sometimes he pees on people, so watch out,” Courtney tells her. I assure her that I’m all right with being peed on by a bobcat. Mauled, no. Pee presumably comes out in the wash, though.

We leave the bobcats (without incident or accident) and move on to a gorgeous mountain lion in an enclosure alone. Courtney tells me they’re trying to find a mate for her, but mountain lions are in high demand. MWP isn’t a proponent of breeding in captivity, which means they have to wait until a mountain lion comes to them from somewhere else – perhaps a circus or other performance venue looking to retire someone, or a zoo interested in a trade. The lion purrs and turns herself inside out while we remain outside the enclosure. She butts up against the fencing like an overgrown pussycat, then “chases” Courtney up and down the hill a couple of times, Courtney on one side of the fence, mountain lion on the other.

The wild birds are our last stop. While I’ve been filled with wonder this whole afternoon, an increasing sense of sadness has crept up over the course of the day. I’m grateful for MWP and the role they play in educating the public and providing a safe haven for injured wildlife, but there’s still something unsettling about seeing animals in captivity. The birds really bring this home, as several housed here have no mates right now. They watch uneasily as I snap my photos and talk quietly with Courtney.

There are owls and hawks, turkeys and peacocks and a gorgeous bald eagle who renders me speechless. “We were using him for educational visits, but we retired him,” Courtney tells me. “He was getting too stressed out. Birds especially have a hard time with that kind of thing, and the last thing we want to do is make things harder for them.”

And that, to me, is the crux of this. In an ideal world, all of these guys would be out in the wild where they belong. But sadly, this isn’t an ideal world. And as long as animals are being struck by cars or displaced by shrinking habitats or raised for our entertainment by zoos or individuals, I’m grateful that a place like MWP exists — a place where the priority is the well-being of the animals they serve, the staff are passionate and knowledgeable about their jobs, and an emphasis on education and forward movement seems perpetually on the agenda. So, thanks to MWP and Courtney for a moving, educational day among the wilds of this great state. I definitely won’t forget it.

Jen is a freelance writer, and author of the bestselling Erin Solomon mysteries. To get your free Jen Blood Starter Library, visit www.jenblood.com. The first Jamie Flint mystery will debut in the spring of 2016.