M.J. Mac's Blog, page 2

THROWING SPAGHETTI

When I was six, my aunt came to stay with us. She was the coolest of the cool—the wild child—giver of the best gifts that made my mother sigh—and I idolized her. One night before dinner, she unknowingly handed me a life lesson that still sticks (pun intended). Mom, if you’re reading this, now’s the time to look away. Seriously, stop scrolling.

“Let’s see if the spaghetti’s ready,” my aunt said with a glint in her eye. I was all set, ready to slurp down some long, silky noodles like a tiny Italian food critic. But then she turned around, and instead of serving it up, she chucked that pasta at the wall. AND. IT. STUCK. I stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide in shock because throwing food in our kitchen was not only not allowed, it was practically a felony. “Good, it’s done. Don’t tell your mother.” Six-year-old me was floored, and if it was possible, her cool factor with this six-year-old went up another ten points. To this day, I can’t boil pasta without thinking of her.

Since then, I’ve thrown a lot of spaghetti at walls—both literal and metaphorical. Jobs? Check. Relationships? You bet. Random hobbies I convinced myself would definitely become lifelong passions? Oh yeah. Take skydiving, for example. That noodle hit the wall and slid down faster than my stomach during freefall. Yoga? Same deal. No matter how many times I try it (and believe me, I’ve tried—baby goats, puppies, the works), that piece of pasta just won’t stick.

So, where does pasta flinging fit with my writing? (I wish you could see my smirk as I type this.) That’s where the real spaghetti-fest happens. When I start a new novel, I fling so much pasta at the walls that I could carb-load every runner of the Boston Marathon. Index cards with characters, scenes, motives, and dialogue? All slapped up on 84 square feet of wall space as I begin to outline. It’s part brainstorming, part “Will this actually work?” and part chaotic noodle-flinging creative joy. Some ideas splatter to the floor with all the grace of uncooked linguine. Others cling to the wall, getting comfy with each new scene and character that joins them.

I even get a chuckle as I re-read my work, thinking back to how a plot twist was born from a random spaghetti toss. Like when I wrote A Shiver on the River. I had one character pegged as the killer, only for another character to tap me on the shoulder like, “Hey, I got this. Hold my spaghetti.” Turns out the first one’s motive was still a little al dente.

So, where am I going with this? Well, consider this blog your permission slip to keep throwing things at the wall. Try a new hobby. Read a genre you’d normally avoid. Rearrange your cubicle in a way that says, “I could thrive in organized chaos.” Just don’t get hung up when something slides to the floor. It’s not a reflection on you—it just means that particular piece of pasta needed a little more time in the pot.

Until next month!
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Hi, I’m author MJ Mac, and I want to extend a heartfelt thank you for taking the time to read this month's blog. The Kennedy Reeves Mystery series is a collection of whodunits that have captured the hearts of over 60,000 readers! Many say it’s the perfect blend of Murder She Wrote meets The Love Boat. With a crafted mix of eccentric characters, plot twists, “ah-ha” moments, cliffhangers, and a cruise director you can’t help but root for, it’s no wonder the series has garnered a devoted following and over 400 four-star reviews.

I appreciate your support and hope you continue to join Kennedy on her thrilling adventures! Stay tuned for more updates, and happy reading!

CLEARLY, I ENJOY TORTURING MYSELF!

One day many moons ago, I was deep in the trenches of a HUGE project when my boss, lounging on a beach chair in Hawaii, sent me a text that read, “How are things going?” I promptly replied with a picture of a little girl getting drenched by a garden hose. “Fine – everything’s fine,” I assured him, despite looking like a scene from a disaster movie.

As I write this blog, I'm still trying to catch my breath as water trickles up my nose, drips into my ears, and somehow finds its way to my eyes. Why, you ask? Because I’ve decided that in addition to writing, hustling my books, teaching writing workshops, coaching other authors, catering to Elvis’s every whim, and tackling the usual “adulting” tasks, I really needed to take a class on marketing. Not just any class, mind you—a year-long high-level course in book marketing. Because, clearly, I enjoy torturing myself.

I sat in front of my computer like it was the first day of school with my shiny new Trapper Keeper, sharpened pencils, and pristine paper ready for notetaking, wearing a smug expression because, let’s face it, I knew everything about marketing. WRONG! Five minutes into the first lesson, I went from feeling like a math whiz in 2nd grade to trying to solve trigonometry equations with my eyes crossed.

Our instructor, who appears to others as a delightful and confident young woman with a charming smile and a melodious voice, is, in reality, a teeth-gnashing Marine Corps drill sergeant. After the first lesson, I found myself curled up in the fetal position on the cold tile floor and a glazed look in my eyes. She speaks at a speed that makes me feel like I’m stuck in a record player on 33 1/3 while she’s revving it up to 78. What I know about the book world could fit in an eyedropper compared to her vast bank of knowledge. Not only is she an editor, but she also has years of experience in marketing.

Oh, and did I mention there’s homework? There I was, smugly sashaying up to the virtual teacher’s desk with my “branding statement,” only to be sent back to my desk to rework it not once, not twice, but four times. (Fine, it’s pretty stellar now, if I do say so myself—eye-roll included.)

My day planner has now been overtaken by a colony of index cards and paperclips, and my closet doors have transformed into an 88-inch marketing calendar (seriously, that’s a lot of marketing). There are Excel spreadsheets (okay, if you know me, you know I love them) and pivot tables.

Those social media posts I was so proud of? Revamped! And you’ll be relieved to know I’m now only allowed to “sell” on Wednesdays—but please don’t avoid my social media posts that day! I’m trying really hard not to resemble a used car salesman with a bad combover, plaid pants, and a white short-sleeve dress shirt. (Ooh, that sounds like a fantastic character—be right back—I need to scribble that down, I'm also working on book six!)

So, where am I after three weeks of marketing boot camp? Well, I saw my reflection the other morning at 5 a.m. (yes, I’m now waking up BEFORE the chickens), and while the coffee I brew is so strong a spoon stands upright in the cup, I now proudly place my Authorpreneur (there’s a new word for you) hat on my Medusa-like hair and start my day as the boss babe I know I am. I might resemble a grunt going through hell week, but it’s going to be okay. I’m going to graduate.

That said, am I learning? You bet! Are you going to see changes? Report cards come out in November, and I can’t wait for you to see mine!
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Hi! I'm author MJ Mac, and I want to extend a heartfelt thank you for taking the time to read this month's blog. The Kennedy Reeves Mystery series is a collection of whodunits that have captured the hearts of over 60,000 readers! Many say it’s the perfect blend of Murder She Wrote meets The Love Boat. With a crafted mix of eccentric characters, plot twists, “ah-ha” moments, cliffhangers, and a cruise director you can’t help but root for, it’s no wonder the series has garnered a devoted following and over 400 four-star reviews. I appreciate your support and hope you continue to join Kennedy on her thrilling adventures! Stay tuned for more updates, and happy reading!

THE SCENE

“Is nothing sacred?” my mother asked me earlier this summer. She was reading a copy of my latest novel before it went off to the editor. “Nothing?”
“Ah, you got to that part, didn’t you,” I snickered. There was a beat of silence on the line, and I swear I could see her perfectly sculpted eyebrows raise through the phone line. “You have to admit it made for a pretty good scene.”
“Hmpfh.”
Now I know the book hasn’t come out yet – only eleven more days – not that I’m counting or anything and the pre-order is available if you want to jump over and order it and come back to the blog. I’m not going anywhere. But let me explain the scene and then what happened. In the book, Kennedy’s roommate tells the group about a prank she played on Kennedy in college. And here, as the late radio broadcaster Paul Harvey would say…is the rest of the story.
We grew up in a typical household with normal rules, and there were cabinets and drawers we were allowed to use in the kitchen. However, the cabinet above the refrigerator was VERBOTEN. I suppose this was because it contained items that could make a tasty sweet and sour adult beverage, but it also had a large can of Crisco and a few other cans. Now, for the sake of our reader’s knowledge, let me add in this little nugget that my stepfather, a Methodist preacher, was a prankster. Not something you think would go hand in hand, but he is, and you know that your turn will eventually come. (I have a particular affinity for the Natchez cemetery and having to check my pants after having the bejeezus scared out of me.)
But I digress…back to the kitchen. It was a late Mississippi afternoon (aka hotter than Satan’s kitchen), and upon returning from a long day of working at the church, our mother’s eyes swept through the house on her way to the kitchen, searching for anything amiss and found…a Crisco can sitting on the counter. Now, to most of you, this doesn’t seem like a big deal, but dearest readers, there was only one home for that tub of lard, and I assure you it wasn’t the countertop. Tearing her eyes from the blue and white can, it was as if laser beams had replaced her eyes because tea towels went up in flames, scorch marks patterned the walls, and heavy metal appliances melted into puddles as her eyes latched onto the cabinet now over the motel mess that was once our refrigerator and it was just barely open. Whoever had dared to plunder in the cabinet had left stupidly left evidence that they had been in there. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Always check to make sure you have put everything back the way it was if you are up to mischief.
Well, suffice it to say all hell broke loose. Her head started spinning like a scene from The Exorcist, and she began hollering names, using middle ones, too (and probably a few names of kids no longer living in the house. And as everyone reading this knows, if your mother uses the middle name, you better run like the wind while praying and going through the mental Rolodex wondering what you had done. Madder than a wet hen that we had not materialized, she reached her hand up to the cabinet handle to replace the errant tub of lard and, yanking it open, began screaming in pain, her hands over her head to fend off the items that were reigning down on her like missiles—hundreds of Styrofoam peanuts showering down on her.
Well, my stepfather had positioned himself in a place so he could watch the whole thing and was doubled over in laughter as she cried out in pain and laughter. While one part of her brain knew they were packing peanuts that weighed no more than a butterfly wing, the other side believed they were heavy cans and glass bottles that were bruising her body and probably causing a concussion.
Having no idea this elaborate prank had been played, the children, with well-thought-out explanations for whatever they believed they were being called on the carpet about, skidded into the kitchen, bumping into each other as they stopped short at the entrance. There she stood, a conundrum of laughter and rage, trying to rub at the pain where the imaginary cans and bottles hit her, the kitchen floor a sea of foam peanuts, while he was doubled over in mirth.
She must have eventually forgiven him because they just celebrated their fortieth anniversary, although she’s still a little cautious opening cabinets, particularly the one over the refrigerator.
So that’s it, that’s where the scene in the book came from – just a normal kitchen on a normal afternoon. Authors use every sight, sound, taste, smell, touch, and memory when writing. Everything is fodder. So be careful around me. You never know what I might put in the next book. :)

Hi, I’m author MJ Mac, and I want to extend a heartfelt thank you for taking the time to read this month's blog. The Kennedy Reeves Mystery series is a collection of whodunits that have captured the hearts of over 60,000 readers! Many say it’s the perfect blend of Murder She Wrote meets The Love Boat. With a crafted mix of eccentric characters, plot twists, “ah-ha” moments, cliffhangers, and a cruise director you can’t help but root for, it’s no wonder the series has garnered a devoted following and over 400 four-star reviews.
I appreciate your support and hope you continue to join Kennedy on her thrilling adventures! Stay tuned for more updates, and happy reading!

THE EPILOGUE...Let me Explain

Well, I have a glass of wine in me so I suppose I should explain the end of book five. If you’ve read the blog posts or the newsletter you know that A Shiver on the River ends with…it’s not really a cliff-hanger but with some unfinished business. Our heroine, Cruise Director Kennedy Reeves, has solved the case (she’s so smart!), she’s surrounded by friends, in love again with the mysterious Mr. Meier, and is anticipating a beignet.
The hubster and I lived in New Orleans for a year and I attribute my mid-life weight gain to those delicious pastries covered in powdered sugar. Some say that a fresh Krispy Kreme donut is like tasting a baby angel wing (Ew). I liken a fresh beignet to sinking my teeth into one of the clouds I often saw in the stained glass windows in church depicting Heaven.
But I digress. I’ve been asked why I end the books the way I do. It’s simple. I want to keep you, the reader, eager for the next book. And it isn’t easy. For roughly four-hundred pages I spin a story to hit your emotions – laughter, rolling your eyes, sadness, rage. I create characters you either want to kill yourself or root for. More than one person has come up to me and said, “If you didn’t kill Gunner when you did, I was going to.” A few critics have even said I don’t commit the crime soon enough. Patience friend. Patience.
When I turned in my book to my editor, she sent me back the manuscript with her normal repairs to my comma splices (they are getting better. She even said so!), pointed out one MAJOR flaw, offered thoughtful comments, and cleaned up my prose. But all in all, her comment was that this was the best book I had written. High praise indeed. So, sitting down for our phone call, I had my glass ready and pulled the foil from my bottle of champagne for our celebration. “It’s great,” she said, “but…” Ah, the dreaded ellipsis, the bane of every writer. Without giving things away, she challenged me to rewrite the ending.
“But it’s already planned for the next three books,” I agonized.
“Find a different ending,” she said.
So, off to the beach I went. It’s where I do my best thinking. Two-hundred miles later (that’s 40 walks if you are counting) I was sitting on the back porch, waiting for the Hubster to pour our evening glass of wine when it hit. And I mean hit – like a lightning bolt! I jumped from the chair, startling Elvis, and began blabbering incoherently.
“Slow down,” the Hubster said to my jabbering. And forcing myself to gather my thoughts I explained what I wanted to do. It was a win-win. Give the readers the closure to the book and also be a marketing ploy to get a bigger audience.
With this in the front of my brain, I woke the next morning ready to write. No coffee needed. No V-8. I was wired and ready to go. My brain was overflowing. It was a little like when I wrote A Boat for a Goat. Everything was there, it was only that my fingers were not fast enough. I wrote furiously for twelve hours that day, only stopping because I had to meet a fellow author for a farewell cocktail before they returned to Canada. Thankfully, the Hubster drove so I could finish typing on my phone.
So now as I sit and wait for the release of A Shiver on the River, I’m second-guessing myself. Did I do the right thing? While it flowed as I wrote it, now I’m beginning to doubt myself.
I guess we’ll just have to find out on October 9th!

GOLDILOCKS & HER EDITOR

I sometimes feel like Goldilocks gets a bad rap. I understand her. (I also, some my say chemically, share her hair.) Goldy was only looking for something that was jusssttt right. It’s the same with finding a series to read or, as a writer, finding an editor. The writer/editor relationship is not one to be entered into lightly. It requires a humungous slice of trust. Not only are you giving your book child to them to critique, but you have to listen to their feedback with an open mind, not pick and choose what you want to hear. Like a doctor, they are going to tell you the truth, warts and all.
Like my fellow blonde searching for the perfect bed, spoon, and porridge, I interviewed several editors before I found mine. Some wanted to change my book and make it more Miss Marple. One didn’t find the sassy dialogue and one-liners charming, and another didn’t get the whole cocktail angle. (Umm, hello? Have you been on a cruise?) There was the editor who didn’t believe women were as strong as the females in my books (thank you, NEXT!), and there was one who, I swear, just enjoyed marking up manuscripts with a red ink pen. Then, I found the goddess, also known as my editor. From the beginning, she got me – snarky comments, over-the-top characters, comma splices, and the rest of the package. After reading a sample of my book, she asked about my plans as an author, which sealed the deal for me. Without meeting me and only reading a small sample of my work, I knew she was the coach I needed in the boxing ring.
I sent her the manuscript for book five a few weeks ago, and we set up a time to chat after her review. I even included the comments from my beta readers. Some of which gave me a bit of a black eye and a small (okay, I’ll be honest, HUGE) chip on my shoulder. Receiving the book back with her edits, I rapidly clicked through her notes, and I’ll admit it: I was excited. She didn’t rip it apart. Meaning, there wasn’t much to do between now and October. YES! Put the champagne in the fridge, and let’s toast this book! “It’s great,” she said as the bubbles fizzed in my glass. “You’ve come a long way, and I would say this is the best book yet.” With a sigh of relief, I sat down in my chair to listen to her thoughts. “But…”
The dreaded three-letter word followed by the ellipsis made me break out in undignified sweat. “I’m not sure the ending is right.”
EXCUSE ME?! Suddenly, I heard a metallic rattle as the chains and saw a thick, heavy iron and wood drawbridge rising. The villagers began racing toward it, seeking shelter from the impending danger. Lower the portcullis and get fires under the boiling cauldrons of oil! Prepare your battle stations. I peeked over the stone parapet, my metal visor down. “What do you mean the ending isn’t right?”
“It’s a little harsh. You should prepare for some fallout from your readers. It’s your book, but think about it.” There was more to the conversation, and I half-listened, scribbling notes about other areas I needed to fix. All the while, I was thinking about what she said.
I flipped, I flopped. I pounded the beach for three weeks. “It’s fine. Write the book the way you want,” the ever-helpful Hubster said when I went to him with frustration. But dang it, I knew she was right.
I don’t want to say I gave up at this point. I didn’t. I wrestled with my creative dilemma, writing, deleting, and writing more. I paced circles in the house, stared into the refrigerator telling myself not to stress eat, surfed the web, bought some shoes. And then, sitting on the porch watching a rainstorm come over the mountain, I got broadsided. It felt like a slap on the side of my head. I could have my cake and eat it too! I sat quietly (I know, this was huge if I was doing that) as the idea took hold, and the following day, I wrote for eleven hours straight. ELEVEN. My fingers were sore, and my eyes were red from staring at the screen when I finished. There was only one person who could tell me if I hit the mark. “Better?” I wrote, including in the document the author’s note, which read, blah, blah, blah, my wonderful editor, throwing roses, popping champagne…”
A few minutes later, her response came through, and she wrote how she enjoyed the line about the wonderful editor. (I wasn’t thinking you were wonderful for the last three weeks, I assure you.) “Wow! Can I just say I think this is brilliant? I’m on pins and needles and can’t wait to hear what your fans think!” I can’t begin to explain the sense of relief and satisfaction that washed over me, knowing that I had found the perfect ending all because my editor pushed me.
So, like my friend Goldy, I found the jusssttt right—an ending to book five that you, my editor, and I like. There’s just one catch…well, let’s talk about that next month. ;)

WHAT? ME WORRY?

Ummm, hello? Have we met?
It’s International Panic Day. No, I don’t have a typo, although it’s also International Picnic Day. How ironic that both are international and end in “nic”. No, International Panic Day was put out there as a way to intentionally put aside those feelings that can run (and ruin) our lives. Before I go on to this piece of fluff, I want to say that panic attacks are serious, and if you suffer from them, I’m sorry, There is relief out there, and you can learn to take panic by the hand and give it a safe place.
Now, onto the lighter side of panicking. I can say this now because I’ve learned how to work around my anxiety with humor. I’m on my way to the airport. Did I remember to turn the stove off? I feel my heart beat faster, a thin sheen of sweat pricks my hair, and I begin to mentally catalog my movements when a voice whispers, “Well, that would mean you would have needed to turn it on to cook. The same goes for the iron and the coffee pot. You don’t cook, you rarely iron, and you don’t drink coffee.” Got to love that inner voice, ladies and gentlemen. She didn’t quite catch on to that “give it a safe place” part of the lessons, but I’m grateful for her all the same. I also panic when we move into a new house—little figures in full black body suits slither, leap, and climb the walls. Breathing rapidly, my heart knocking so hard it hurts, my inner voice reminds me it isn’t real, just my anxiety. When the hubster is gone, that little voice goes with me to the door as I place a post-it above the lock to remind me I did indeed turn the lock. I’m weird, I know.
But a different kind of panic hit me the other day. It was a sucker punch, truth be told, and there were no snarky voices of reason to calm me down. As many of you know, book five is sitting with my editor, and I am patiently awaiting her comments and rewrites. I’ve paced a lot with this book since I started it almost a year ago. I complained to a fellow writer that whodunit turned out as a complete surprise to me. “Wait a minute there,” some of you are muttering, “you are the writer. You control what happens.” That sounds good in theory, but other writers will tell you it doesn’t always work out that way. Sometimes, and you can ask the great Stephen King about this, the characters are driving the bus, and you are nothing more than the hood ornament.
So, now, as I wait for my editor to send me her thoughts (and yes, I told her about how I was feeling), I’m having second thoughts, actually mini panic attacks. Should I completely rewrite the book? What if my readers revolt? Will they stop reading the series because of what I did? One beta reader actually told me she wouldn’t read another Kennedy Reeves book unless I changed the ending. HARSH! SCARY! FREAKING OUT! Hearing their words, I’ve felt my anxiety rise to levels I haven’t felt since life in corporate America. I’ve even begun redrafting the book. Soup to nuts—making the changes and setting up books six and seven with this new spin.
But then, at two the other morning, the most bizarre thing popped into my head—ALFRED E NEUMAN. You know, the scrawny, red-headed, gap-toothed, big-eared cover model from Mad Magazine who famously said each month, “What, me worry?” For whatever reason, since seeing this cartoon character, I’ve decided to sit on my hands until I hear back from my editor.
What, me worry? These words and his cartoon face led me to do some research. (A great way to stave off a flip-out.) Did you realize the cover model of Mad magazine goes back to the 19th century when a dentist was advertising painless dentistry? (An oxymoron there if I’ve ever heard of one.) My digging led to more. Alfred has been used in political cartoons, college editorials, political write-ins, and a WWII nose on a bomber. He’s also been translated into Latin, Quid, Me Anxius Sum? Made his debut in the magazine in 1954 and cut a record in 1959. Not bad for a kid that looks like he was always the last to be picked for dodgeball and frequently had his milk money stolen.
Sitting up in bed after a less than restful night’s sleep and seeing his face in my mind, that other side of me spoke. “Heellooo, ding dong,” she said, dredging up those junior high feelings of inadequacy and not being liked or accepted into clear focus. “Remember why you loved the magazine?” And it was like a nightlight in a dark room. You see, I had a stack of those Mad magazines, bought with whatever chore and babysitting money I could scrounge. Yes, the inside was funny, but I bought them for another reason—the cover. Alfred taught me not to worry about what other people thought. He was a dork like me and gave me confidence and the ability to shake things off.
So, happy International Panic Day, and if that skinny, gangly cover model can make you feel better? Please use him. He’s cool with it.

WHO RESCUED WHO?

It’s me, Elvis. Mam is in the last round of edits (a.k.a freaking out) before she ships book five off to the editor, and I said I would fill in for her. So, if you’ve followed Mam, you know the sun rises and sets on me. I’m even mentioned on the back of the book, but I’m offended that she used the word “scruffy.” I prefer to think I have the tousled look – sort of like Farrah Fawcett but way better.
Anyhow, Mam wrote a blog post about how we met a while ago, but since it’s National Rescue Dog Day, let me tell you the other side of the story…
I’m a Vegas girl with long blonde hair and melty chocolate eyes. I’m fun size—small enough to be picked up if necessary or if I just don’t feel like walking any longer—you can’t do that easily with an eighty-pound Labrador and go very far. Mam once had a guy ask if I was a miniature golden retriever, and she just smiled and told him he had a discerning eye for rare canine breeds.
But I digress; the title of this little piece is Who Rescued Who, so let’s get down to it. It’s hard to believe I’ve been hanging out with the crazy lady for over a decade. I had fallen on hard times. Lady luck had dealt me a few too many unfriendly hands, and I found myself living in a shelter. It wasn’t bad. I’ll be honest: I had lived worse on the streets. However, the clock was ticking on my stay, and after a few months, it would be…well, let’s not talk about unpleasant things.
So there I was, hanging out on the front porch of my temporary digs, waiting for the six o’clock whistle when the shelter closed and those of us living there could exhale after a long day of looking cute. (I’ll let you in on an insider secret. If we get a non-kosher vibe from the people checking us out, we purposefully do the weird things-licking ourselves, turning around to face the wall, chasing our tails so that you walk on by.
Anyhow, word began to filter down through the bark exchange that a couple was walking through, and they looked okay. She was petite and skinny with fuzzy blonde hair and anxious blue eyes. He was the talk of the walk—tall, handsome, with a luxurious salt and pepper mustache that begged to be batted playfully. He looked like the quiet type—she not so much. They had apparently had a date with another dog, but it didn’t work out, and the man suggested they hang out until closing instead of sitting in the grueling Las Vegas afternoon traffic.
Fine, I thought to myself, it’s only a few more minutes. Look cute, smile, wag the tail, and once they pass by, exhale. I could hear them (I mean her) coming and…well…it was like a bolt of lightning. The Ying to my Yang, the Thelma to my Louise, and the peanut butter to my bacon. Mam and I locked eyes, and it was as if a thousand slot machines went off at once. It must have been the same for her because she looked me in the eye and said, “Tomorrow, I’m springing you from this place.” She wasn’t lying. I think she was at the shelter before it opened.
Mam and I have been joined at the hip ever since, although I will admit I was ready to strangle her on the cross-country trip from Vegas to Louisville. When Mam’s happy, I’m ecstatic. When she’s down, I’m by her side, always ready to protect her from that d!@# vacuum.
Then came a day I will never forget. Things had been gray in Mam’s and the hubster’s world. I knew something was up. Then strangers kept coming by the condo, and boxes appeared. Great, moving again, I thought to myself. I had finally gotten all of the pee-mail accounts up to date. “We’re retiring and moving,” she told me. Fat chance, I thought. That will last about a minute.
A long car ride, followed by a plane trip (I had my own seat, of course) and another car ride. “Well, here we are,” the hubster said, opening the gate. Mam unharnessed me, and I ran carefree in the sand. It was all mine.
We’ve been here two years now. Mam hasn’t quite cut back on her hours, but now she smiles while she works, and five o’clock signals quitting time. No more long hours and nights. No more paws frozen by the snow. No more gray days. These days, I have sunshine, endless belly rubs, and gourmet treats (peanut butter, bacon, and banana), but the best of all is the two humans. I’ve got them all to myself.
So, who rescued who? I think you could say it was a win-win.

FINDINGS

I’ve spent the last two years walking the beach every day. Sometimes, it’s only once. If I’m lucky, I get in three. Her royal highness likes her mornings to begin with her paws making dainty footprints in the sand at sunrise, and please don’t tell her she has to walk on the road. It’s not pretty. Besides the fantastic natural pedicure and bonus of calories lost on my seaside sojourns, I love the sense of wonder at what I will find each day.
I categorize my findings into five categories. Category one is nature's findings. Pieces of tumbled beach glass, seashells in a myriad of colors, starfish and sand dollars who forgot the tide was going out and need a little help getting past the tideline, pieces of hot pink bougainvillea, and dry leaves that skid across the sand like kiteboarders. There are crabs and shorebirds, trees that have washed up, and once I had the privilege of standing guard while a baby turtle made his way to the water, where I dared the two hungry falcons eyeing my charge to come near him.

Category two is human findings. These I find amusing. The lone flipflop, socks (who wears socks on the beach?), shirts, jeans, the occasional hat, and underwear (I’m not going down that road. Let’s hope whoever left it behind had a great time). Sometimes, Elvis and I will find a child’s toy, and I can hear the child screaming in the car about their favorite toy now lost. I’ve found a couple of watches (our security guard was thrilled when I found a working one and gave it to him) and sunglasses. I think I’ve found twenty so far, and I use them to decorate the coconuts and pineapples along the way. It gives them a cool factor only known by the likes of the volleyball scene in Top Gun. We’ve also encountered the occasional offering—vegetables, fruits, rum, and half-smoked cigars the locals leave to the ocean. We admire them and walk a wide berth, not wishing to disturb what has been given back to the sea.

Category three is also human but goes a little further. These are the unusual things that wash up, particularly after a higher-than-normal tide. A rusted blue stockpot pushed high into the sea grass after one such tidal event, and a plastic chair so encrusted with barnacles it looked like a throne for Neptune himself. We’ve found a plethora of soccer balls and volleyballs (WILSON!) and a jart from the lawn darts game (weren’t these taken off the market decades ago?). My favorite category three finding so far has been a rusted machete. Coming upon it, I whipped my head around frantically after finding it thrust hilt up in the sand and scoured the beach for Johnny Depp, wearing killer eyeliner while drunkenly holding a bottle of rum. Alas, the only thing walking with a swagger was a pelican.

But there is one more finding category. If you listen hard enough, you will find…yourself. I don’t walk with earbuds in my ears; the roar of the ocean, the whistle of the wind, and the squawks of the birds are my orchestra. To quote the late, great J.B., I came here two years ago looking for answers to questions that bothered me so. I answer one only to find ten more behind it, but they are revealing themselves to me. When there is nothing but the pounding surf and the voice in your head, the distractions tend to go away, and the mirror is held up. It can be a bitter pill to swallow (and where is Johnny Depp with that rum when you need him?), but I’m learning.

So, what to leave you with after reading today’s ramblings? Take the earbuds out, and find your own findings. You’d be amused by what comes across your path.

THE PEOPLE IN MY HEAD

Book five in the Kennedy Reeves series is in the hopper, so to speak. I’m doing the self-edits right now, removing the naughty words (that, had, and very) before it goes into the hands of my editor, who will tweak the book with the hands of a gifted plastic surgeon—a nip here, a tuck there, and a reconstruction around page 100. It’s what she does. She’s a gifted and talented editor who is my part-time educator, cheerleader, and hand-holder. And, by some dumb luck, she wants to find out what happens next to the senior leaders on the Helio.
I’ve received some of the greatest compliments an author could wish for—readers telling me how they feel about some of the characters. The current standings on the hate meter have Gunner (A Boat for a Goat) in first place, followed closely by J. Mitchell Templeton (A Heist on the Ice). And I will let you in on some insider information—someone in book five might give Gunner a run for his money. More than one person has told me Vera Jameson is their spirit animal (she’s mine, too), and they would love to walk in her Manolo Blahnik’s. They ask when the Club Diva Boys will be back (book six, I promise) and if there is a chance the Ladies from Harmony Lakes might meet the Gents from Breezy Bayou (wink, wink). Lately, there has been a lot of chatter about the state of Kennedy’s love life and readers who are ready for the next Kennedy versus Lolly swordfight. It warms my heart to know I have created characters who are as beloved by me as they are by my readers.
You see when I’m writing the books (not the research or draft phases but the story), I’m completely in my head. I’m in the conference room with the team or sitting on Mila’s bed, drinking a glass of wine with her and Kennedy. I’m chatting with the passengers and on the stage, finishing my one-woman show. When it’s time to commit the crime, I’m going through the motions of both the perpetrator and the victim. Did I lay in a box where a Christmas tree had been housed? You betcha. Was I crumpled on the floor, snaking my hand up the wall to find a doorknob? Yep. (Did the hubster look at me like I was nuts? Of course, he did.) The devil is in the details.

When I finished typing the last page of A Shiver on the River, I exhaled the breath I had been holding and heard Kennedy say, in her best Oliver Hardy impersonation, “Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into!” I think it’s okay, though. She’s already been whispering about the next book’s adventure.

BEACH DOGS & THE NEMESIS

My dog has a nemesis. Yep, just like Batman had the Joker and Superman had Lex Luthor, Elvis has a sworn enemy, and her name is…Sunflower. I wish I could tell you the breed, but I have no idea. I only know Elvis is part chihuahua because the day we met her at the animal shelter, the lady at the adoption desk told us there was a special that day on chihuahuas, and we qualified for a discount. But please don’t tell Elvis she is something as ordinary as a dog. She believes she’s a sixty-year-old martini-swilling divorcee.

But I digress, back to Sunflower. She’s an older girl like Elvis and pretty in a girl-next-door way. Sunflower doesn’t live here year-round. She spends nine months of the year in the Land of Maple Syrup, but let me tell you, Elvis knows the minute the moppet arrives. We were walking down the broken pavement of our street this past November when Elvis’s head jerked up from its typical inspection of the ground, and she emitted a low, threatening growl. I have to admit I was impressed. It sounded like she meant business. “She’s here,” Elvis snarled. “That trollop is on my street.”

Now, let me put things in perspective. Beach dogs are laid back. Think California surfer dudes. Rarely will you hear a beach dog bark—it’s wasted energy. They’d much rather lay with their back on the sand and wiggle back and forth for a natural back scratch. Dogs who are lucky enough to reside on the beach rarely, if ever, come up to one another when passing. It’s more of a subtle head nod. (I usually imagine them speaking like Mike Myers in Wayne’s World.) “Dude, sup?” "Cowabunga," and “Cool.” Rarely is there the ritual butt sniff. They leave that to the tourist dogs. Beach dogs are happy to have a view of the ocean, miles of sand, interesting smells from the trees that wash up, and birds to watch. And beach dogs never chase the birds. They leave that to the visitors. “Dude, you are expending way too much energy.”

But let me get back to Sunflower. Elvis and Sunflower occasionally meet on the beach. They circle each other like two lions, ready to battle for turf. Then the low growls begin, and in the span of five seconds, they start snarling and barking at each other like two old ladies at the bingo parlor. (Oh, sidebar—never ever yell bingo at the fire hall if you don’t have it. I did it once, and I was officially banned from the game. I probably should have died a death of a thousand cuts from the daggered eyes I was getting.) Most recently, their growlings sounded like the Tasmanian Devil as they both pulled on their leashes, saying between snarls, “Let me at her, I’ll cut her up!”

This afternoon, Elvis and I went on our afternoon potty break. Who should we see but Sunflower sitting in the backseat of a taxi with her owners, her tawny head hanging out, catching the breeze? “Heading back up north,” her owners told me. We’ll see you next November.” And I swear I saw Elvis smile.