Becky Clark's Blog, page 2

Behind the Books: Crossword Puzzle Mysteries

My Crossword Puzzle mystery series has a lot of moving parts.

It has the crossword puzzles, for one thing. I got my love of crosswords from my dad—and made him so proud when I began doing them in ink. I learned how to construct them before I wrote these books which was as fun as it was maddening. I won’t go into all the rules about crosswords, but even though I’d done them most of my life, I hadn’t really digested all of them. So many rules!

The crosswords are woven into the story, which can become quite complicated. Quinn Carr, my sleuth, secretly constructs the puzzles so she’s able to drop subliminal clues in there to send the chief of police—an avid cruciverbalist, but lazy at his job—investigating in the way Quinn thinks he should.

I had to change one of my suspect’s names in one of the books because I simply could not make it work in the crossword. So frustrating!

In the first book, PUZZLING INK, Quinn was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). That was complicated as well because while it’s not funny, and can cause serious challenges, it’s also not the only thing that defines a person, real or fictional. I interviewed many people to make sure I understood the nuances and the humor they’ve found in various situations.

There are also recipes in each book that I created. I refuse to call these books “culinary cozies” like some of my fellow Chicks write because nobody should eat any of the recipes from my books. Don’t get me wrong, they’re all perfectly edible, but they began as a joke.

Quinn’s mom, Georgeanne, is making cupcakes at the beginning of PUZZLING INK for a July 4th event. The white frosting is miso, the red is smoked paprika, and the blue is “just food coloring I added to a can of cream of mushroom soup.”

Georgeanne uses the kitchen as her main artistic medium. So, because I’m me, as a joke for my editor, I put a few other funny culinary abominations in the book and even wrote recipes to go with. She thought it was so funny, she told me I had to have similar recipes in each book. PUZZLING INK has Pretzel Pancakes and Redneck Ravioli. PUNNING WITH SCISSORS has Chicken Pad Thai with Grandma’s Dumplings and Black Bean Brownies (which I actually make and eat on the regular). FATAL SOLUTIONS has Funfetti Casserole and Pineapple Potpie.

Fun and ridiculous to make and eat.

I did some other interesting research for FATAL SOLUTIONS, the third book. The story involves Quinn stumbling on a skeleton near a WWII Japanese internment camp that has since been turned into a museum. You might know that Colorado, where my books are set, was the site of the Granada Relocation Center, or Camp Amache, a part of this shameful chapter of American history. I fictionalized the area by building an interpretive museum in my book, but I’m happy to say that after years of effort, Camp Amache is now finally designated as an official national historic site with plans to add a museum in the future.

If you want to read more about the site, here’s the link … https://www.nps.gov/amch/index.htm

But neither Quinn nor I had any experience with a skeleton. Luckily, my Sisters in Crime chapter here in Colorado has some captivating speakers come to educate us at our events, one of whom was Diane France, a forensic anthropologist who started up the Human Identification Laboratory of Colorado. We had a fascinating conversation about what this skeleton would look like, how the bones might be scattered and why, and I talked to her about some of the other clues that might be in the area. A truly absorbing conversation that led to a realistic portrayal of what Quinn stumbled upon in that field.

I’m so proud of these books, but they were the most challenging undertakings I’ve ever attempted, so I made the difficult decision to end the series after these three books. If you’ve read them, I hope you loved them, and if you haven’t, maybe this peek Behind the Book whets your appetite!

Remember that game and song on Sesame Street? “One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong.” Wanna play that with my book covers? Are you a fan of crosswords? What’s your favorite type of word game?

Ladies I Have Loved

I come from a long line of dog lovers.

My grandparents raised Boston terriers and I’ve heard many stories of my dad’s childhood pooch, Dipsy Doodle of Cheyenne … Dippy for short.

I’ve shared my life with dogs beginning with Belle, a German shepherd so protective of my mom that they had to rehome her when I was a toddler. Belle, not my mom.

That’s little Becky. The Donna referred to is my oldest sister, who would have been 11 or 12. Bob is my dad.

Then came Misty, a white German shepherd we had to teach to climb stairs by bribing her with pork chops.

That’s me, outgrowing my clothes just in the time it took to snap this pic.

Then Ginger, a golden retriever my oldest brother brought home on Christmas Eve because a girl was standing on a street corner in the snow with puppies in a box and Ginger was the only one left. He felt sorry for both of them. Funny thing was, my little sister, maybe 6 at the time, had written to Santa—unbeknownst to all of us—that she wanted a puppy.

Pancakes! Yes, please.

When we bought our first house, a woman I worked with was giving away puppies so we chose two rambunctious sisters. That’s how Smokey and Bandit came to join us. Smokey looked like a black lab, Bandit like a blue heeler. They were bookends, exactly alike in many ways, but polar opposites in others. One loved the leash, one didn’t. One barked at noises, one only barked on command. Both dumb enough to corner a skunk one night. Those are the dogs my kids grew up with.

My teenage sister, all knees and elbows

And then came Nala. She was my Navy son’s dog in Guam and he couldn’t keep her when he got sent to Bahrain, so she came to us and enriched our lives more than we could have imagined, even though we knew all those other perfect pups.

Nala has found her way into every animal in my books, whether dogs, cats, or even Fang the goldfish. She was the quirkiest girl on the planet and I’ll be mining her personality for the rest of my writing days!

I used to post conversations with her. “Hey, Nala …” My readers are always asking for more, which breaks my heart and tickles me to death that she had so many fans. A friend of mine once told me, “I know two dogs: Lassie and Nala.”

After my dad died, I was cleaning out his files of speeches and short stories and was shocked and mortified to see one titled “Ladies I Have Loved.” Surprise! It was a speech he gave about his dogs. I guess I come by this honestly.

A Perfect Game

On cardio days at the pool—like today— I use a pool noodle in the 10-foot-deep pool. The noodle goes around behind my back to support me, and I rest my hands on the ends. I do five sets of 500 fast bicycle pumps. After each 100 pumps, I rest one finger from my right hand on the end of the pool noodle to keep track. When I get to 500, I switch and rest one finger from my left hand on the end of the noodle and begin counting again with my right. Today, when I had four fingers on my left hand and four fingers on my right hand I thought, “full count,” even though I’m not a baseball fan. I know a lot about baseball, however, because my dad loved it.

I started thinking about him and lost the count completely.

I choked up in the sweet spot, but the curveball didn’t bean me.

Drinking the Tea

I was eating an apple and reading a profile of Gregory Maguire. He’s the author of “Wicked,” among other things.

He was talking about earning his doctorate later in life and how it taught him to be patient with difficult reading.

“I came to love and admire the work of Puritan writers in the American colonies—work I had previously detested. I saw there was something universal in all expressions of human culture, and a mature student would not pass something by as being not his cup of tea. It was the student writer’s JOB to drink the tea,” he says. “Drink the tea, people.”

And then I dropped my half-eaten apple. Not because of the gravity of his words, but because of real gravity. Also, I was lazy and thought I could bite around my thumb. But I couldn’t. Hence the bitten thumb. Deservedly so.

As I was cleaning up my dropped apple, his words resonated with me.

“Drink the tea, people.”

Nobody is willing to do or say or learn or read or listen to anything or anyone out of their comfort zone anymore, I thought, wiping apple goo from my pants. We’re mired in our own opinions and beliefs because it’s easy to do so. It’s so much more difficult to create neural pathways that lead to potentially different, unfamiliar territory.

I swiped at the sticky on my floor and tossed the dishrag back in the sink before picking up the magazine again.

The next paragraph admonished us not to “swivel the dial because it’s blasting something you’re not interested in—attack call-in talk shows, fundamentalist sermons, ball game reporting, left-wing sob stories—however you define your least-favorite aural experience. There is always something to learn from paying attention to everything.”

I love it when I’m smart like that. See, I got it before he even explained it. Yay me!

My son says, with what I can only assume is hopeless and grudging admiration, “You are a very curious person.”

You’d be justified in thinking he was calling me odd, but I know it was after one of those conversations where I asked a zillion exhausting questions to which his answer was always, “I dunno.”

I remember when my kids were in elementary school and they’d come home to have this conversation:

Them: “There was a new kid on the bus.”

Me: “Boy or girl? What’s his name? What grade is he in? Did he get off at your stop? Where does he live? Were you nice to him? Did you offer him a seat? Did you introduce him to your friends? Does he have any siblings? What do his parents do? Have they ever vacationed in Belize? Are his grandparents still living? What are their memories of the Great Depression? Did they have a Victory Garden? Do they like to garden? Maybe you could take them down to the community garden. Do you want a snack?”

Them, eyes crossed and ears bleeding: “I dunno.”

But I don’t always drink the tea, either. I’m going to make more of an effort, though.

I’ll read more non-fiction.

I’ll try tofu.

I’ll play Wii golf (which is hard) instead of Wii bowling (which is easy).

And if none of that hurts too much, I might go sit in on a session at town hall or the school board.

Of course, then I’ll have to drink something stronger than tea.

What will you do to break out of your comfort zone?

It’s that time of year again!

Anyone who has been to my house knows I’m not a clean freak. There’s a ten-minute period in April every year, however, when I feel intense shame at the filthiness of my windows. The sun is at precisely the right angle to pierce me with scandal, dishonor, and mortification.

Luckily it doesn’t last too long. The shame, that is, not the grimy windows. Those are here for the long-haul, I fear.

I don’t remember my mom being all gung-ho, gathering us together for some kind of annual Tackling of the Chores, and I don’t remember doing that with my kids.

So why then do I get so preoccupied with spring cleaning?

In Jewish custom, a house gets thoroughly cleaned before Passover to get rid of any trace of leavened bread. Catholic tradition encourages house cleaning during Holy Week to prepare for Easter. Before the Lunar New Year in Asian cultures, they sweep out disease and bad luck before the new year. In the Middle East there’s a deep cleaning tradition that translates to “shaking the house.”

We don’t do any of that at my house.

As soon as we had an empty nest—and soon after, a dog whose entire job was to shed and be adorable—my husband and I splurged on a housecleaning service until the pandemic put the kibosh on that sort of thing. Since then, we’ve done it ourselves. We sat down one day and negotiated who hated certain chores the most, then crafted a monthly schedule of sorts, assigning what needs to be done to the person most likely to do it. It works reasonably well for us.

But come mid-March every year, I find myself adding a list of spring cleaning jobs. Unsticky the top of the fridge. Degrease the kitchen cabinets. Wash those windows.

More often than not, something more interesting comes along and I shorten my list dramatically. I mean, I can’t actually see the top of the fridge without standing on something, and that’s just unsafe for a woman of my age. The cabinets will get greasy again since they’re right next to the stove, for heaven’s sake. (What psychopath thought that placement was a good idea??) And the windows? Well, I’m reminded that we have these things called doors attached to my house. I can go right outside whenever I feel the urge to take a look.

So here is this year’s list of What I Will Sweep Away During Spring Cleaning:

• My diminishing belief I will ever get the chance to tap dance on Broadway
• My crocodile tears when I “forget” to set the timer when I sit down with a crossword or jigsaw puzzle
• The urge to buy beautiful strawberries that I know are not ripe
• News about the solar eclipse
• My hope that the Denver Broncos won’t break my heart again this year
• Lists

What’s on your list?

Stories Are My Jam

I love them. I really do. Books, of course, but also TV, movies, and spoken word.

I set a timer to sit down at three o’clock on Saturday afternoons to listen to The Moth Radio Hour whenever I’m home. Three or four people tell stories on a particular theme. They’re hilarious and they can break your heart, often in the same piece.

I come from a long line of excellent storytellers, but even though I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone, I’d prefer to write mine.

My Dad could tell the spookiest campfire tale or something so funny you couldn’t breathe from laughing. He had a million stories locked and loaded and could whip one out to punctuate any topic.

After so many years of hearing about his high school pals and their shenanigans, I have to remind myself they were actually his friends instead of mine.

One of the things I wanted from his house after he died was a painting done by one of our, er, his friends from high school, Don Green, who came into renown in the art world in later years. The painting is called The Preacher, and it scared and fascinated me as a child.

The gist of it is that while my dad and his friends were out drinking beer after a softball game, this barroom character began preaching loudly from a bible he carried, but his words were gibberish. The owner of the bar threatened him with a baseball bat and kicked him out.

Months later my mom threw Dad a birthday party and Don presented him with this painting. It tells the same story in a different medium. It blew my widdle kid bwain to hear my dad tell the story in words while I was looking at the story Don Green had painted.

This lesson stuck with me. I used to teach games to reluctant readers and their parents to help them get better at reading and enjoy it more. One of the main lessons was that when they were reading, they should see a movie in their head.

With my own kids, I’d show them a painting and, because they were too young to write, they’d dictate to me the story behind it, as they perceived it. Charming, imaginative stories.

But one day, my four-year-old daughter began telling me about the “chicken picture.” Chicken had a family and Chicken had exciting adventures, but I had no idea what picture she was talking about. Then she pointed to this Picasso print hanging in our entryway.

“You know, Mom. The chicken.”

That led to a discussion about perspective, and has become a family joke.

One that my dad would have told to howls of laughter.

I know anyone reading this blog loves to read books, but how else do you consume stories? Do you binge-watch TV shows? Do you have storytellers in your family? Got a good family story to share? Do you see Chicken?

Leap Day is Blowing My Mind

I had a weird coincidence today, February 29th.

In my new manuscript BEATEN, the theme is “things aren’t always as they appear.”

If you were paying attention while reading BOOKED, PLOTTED, and BOUND, you might have noticed that each book has a theme, and each character illustrates that theme in some way. (It was really the only way I could wrap my head around a 15-book series with all those characters.)

I’m in the editing/revision phase of BEATEN, which means, among other things, I’m plugging holes where I didn’t have enough information to write appropriately as I was dashing through the manuscript.

In this case, I knew I wanted a Pirates of Penzance bit, but I needed to reacquaint myself with the story to write coherently about it.

I looked over my brief notes and saw it’s a Leap Day story!

Indentured servant Frederic, in Pirates of Penzance, was to have his servitude end on his 21st birthday, but he was born on February 29th, so technically he only had a birthday every four years. Therefore, he has another 63 years of servitude! Oh, the hilarity!

Incidentally, here’s another coincidence. Each of these paragraphs begin with “I.”

I need to get out more because my Mind. Is. Blown.

BKYLAND IMJUSAYN

I read an article in the Denver Post about a woman who ran afoul of the Department of Motor Vehicles because of her love of tofu. She just wanted to share her affinity for this gelatinous soy product by personalizing her license plate. ILVTOFU

SOYCURD just didn’t do it for her.

Pretty sure Gina turned a few heads with hers too. But DIVAGINA motors on.

I remember BUC2TH on my orthodontist’s bright yellow Corvette. Imagine how happy my dad was to give him yet more money.

And our friends the Gripmans drove their GRIPVAN.

In my infinite curiosity, I started looking into the phenomenon of vanity license plates and found a game you can buy where you try to figure out as many personalized license plates as possible before your time runs out. For example, 2LV4EVR would be To Love Forever and XKNTRE2R would be Cross Country Tour.

I’m fairly certain I don’t need to spend any money to find out I’m not that smart.

I read this funny anonymous story, though, which convinced me to try harder.

Some Virginia license plates say "Kids First" at the bottom. I saw someone who had that license plate. Their license place number was EATTHE so it said, "Eat the kids first."

I don’t care who you are … that’s just funny.

There are a zillion vanity plates here proving there are some very clever people driving around the United States.

-CSHFLW In Missouri, the state usually fills in any spaces on a vanity plate with a “-” which turns this into “Negative Cashflow.” A very creative use of a quirky state law.

2M8OS Tomatoes. His name or his avocation?

BAA BAA Baa Baa on a Black Jeep. Cute.

CARGASM On a brand new Corvette

COCO VAN Chicken in wine sauce…on a lady’s bronze colored Toyota minivan

Some I just don’t get and I tax my little brain when I should be driving. Try your hand at these … and then tell me what they say because I’m stumped!

UUUD444

SAP XUAF

HIHO AG

IX FE

IAMYY4U

Becky’s Heroic Journey

The other day I saw this meme and it made me laugh, so I reposted it to my Facebook page.

Many of my friends saw it and laughed with me, proudly confessing they had at least one exactly like it, but shaking their cyber fist at the idea it was time to throw it away. I agree. Those cookie sheets are perfectly fine. They simply have developed a rich patina of life experience, much like myself.

But—because I am a complicated woman—I pulled out my muffin tins recently and decided enough was enough. Time to get new ones.

I don’t remember buying any of them, so it’s possible I should donate their bodies to science or something, but the Teflon one adds bits of Teflon to everything I bake.

The silicone one is constantly sticky and refuses to behave.

But look at that grandmother of them all! I typically like my muffins to be golden when they’re done, not rusty.

After a little late-night peeking at the internet, I decided to try ceramic muffin tins.

On Wednesday, I trekked to the mall. Oops. I mean the retail resort. (I swear to God, that’s what they call it. *insert huge eye roll here*)

I hadn’t been there in longer than I could remember, but it was all coming back to me … the smell of cinnamon buns … mothers bending over strollers consoling babies or chasing toddlers … lonely entrepreneurs at kiosks hawking their wares to wary grandmothers.

(One chatty guy wanted to dab some sort of super-polymer around my eyes, “for the puffies.” When I balked, saying, “What if I have some sort of reaction while I’m walking around?” He shook his head in vehement protest. “I do this seven years. Only happen once.” Needless to say, I’m still a victim of the puffies.)

One thing I hadn’t remembered was this sign. Perhaps if I had been in front of the cosmetics store I would have gotten it right away. But I wasn’t and I didn’t.

This retail resort is a lovely place, don’t get me wrong, and it’s where I can relive my childhood by getting an Orange Julius. That’s one of those scent memories that sends me right back to 1968 when I took my first trip to the Cinderella City Mall in Denver. It must have been a big deal to my parents as well because we took a day-long excursion there from Colorado Springs, which back then—when gas was a whopping 34c per gallon—was a pretty big deal. AND my dad stuck a crowbar in his wallet and bought us those delicious orange sugar bombs. It was love at first sight for seven-year-old Becky.

Cinderella City was the largest shopping center under one roof in the world. In the world, people! In Denver! Three levels, 250 stores, a 600-seat theater, a fountain with a 35-foot-high spray. It also boasted a handcrafted double-decker Italian carousel that stood 28 feet tall that was lit by 2,000 bulbs and had 28 hand painted panels. It held 70 people and cost $1 to ride.

But by 1990 or so, it was set to be demolished.

Indoor malls made way for “retail resorts” and “outdoor shopping experiences.”

So a few days ago, again I found myself at the largest mall, er, retail resort in Colorado.

I walked past every single one of their 185 stores, dipping into each one that held the promise of kitchen items. Did I find muffin tins? No, I did not. Despite the fact there were many overpriced home stores, none held what I was seeking. I asked a guy at one of the stores if ceramic muffin tins were even a thing. Was I to forge my own kiln? Dig my own earthen minerals? He assured me my earthen minerals could remain safely underground. He simply had sold out. But had no idea when more would arrive.

Defeated and demoralized, I slogged my way back through the retail resort dream-killer, heading back to the Julius stand for another sixteen ounces of solace.

Suddenly, the sun came out. The world seemed brighter. Unseen voices lifted on high.  

I turned a corner and beheld these drink holders. The hoodie made me laugh out loud and scare a lady. I would never in a million years use them, but the fact that they exist in the world makes me ridiculously happy and well worth the trip.

There’s a plotting device in the literary world called The Hero’s Journey. It’s a story where the main character goes on a quest, hits rock-bottom but somehow claws himself up to emerge triumphant, then returns home altered in some significant way.

Ideally with an Orange Julius.

Do you think I’ll ever put my hands on a ceramic muffin tin? Are there any retail resorts near you? Do you ever go? Did you hang out there as a teen?

One Hand Forward, One Hand Back

Last night I presented my Eight Weeks to a Complete Novel workshop at the local Arts Center as a “member only” benefit. They paid me the most money I’ve ever received for public speaking so I really wanted to do a good job.

I always worry about the tech aspect of a presentation because I’m a Mac in a PC world. When I mentioned this to the tech guy setting up, he corrected me. “You’re an OLD Mac in a PC world.” I’m pretty sure he was talking about my computer.

The tech was fine, after he worked the problem like an Apollo 13 astronaut.

I’ve presented this workshop many times, but always to groups of writers, so I was curious—and a little worried—about who was in attendance. I tried to meet everyone as they came in, but only really talked to a handful of them before I had to begin. Nobody I talked to introduced themselves as a writer.

Gulp.

Why were they there? What were they hoping to get out of this class? Was I going to hopelessly disappoint them and waste their time?

As I was ‘splainin things as we got started, I asked a couple questions that one or two people raised their hand for. But then I asked, “Who is trying to write a novel?” Every hand went up.

Whew. I can help these people.

I always get paranoid and worried when I’m teaching because I look out at a sea of seemingly blank or distracted faces.

They hate me. They’re bored. I’ve lost them.

Some people I can’t look at because they start to freak me out and knock me off my game. But afterward, they come up to thank me, talk about their project, excitedly tell me that something I said sparked their creativity and I’m reminded that those seemingly blank faces are not blank at all.

They’re concentrating. Taking in the waterhose of information and new ideas I’m blasting at them.

And I’m gratified. I have had so much help along my writing journey, it’s so marvelous to know that I’ve helped another writer somewhere along that path.

I remind people to always reach one hand forward asking for help, and one hand backward offering help.

We write books by ourselves. But we’re never alone.