Lisa M. Lilly's Blog, page 11

The Debut Of Q.C. Davis a/k/a The Worried Man Is Here!

The Worried Man (Q.C. Davis Mystery No. 1) released yesterday–with a little less fanfare than I’d planned. Turns out getting around and getting work done is a little challenging with a broken foot.

As a result, my Coming May 1 postcards will be going out after May 1.

Maybe that will capture more attention?

Regardless, I’m really excited about the release.

If you like mysteries, especially ones set in Chicago with female sleuths (says the diehard V.I. Warshawski fan), I hope you’ll check out my first Q.C. Davis mystery The Worried Man.

Where You Can Find It:

Kindle

Kobo

Nook

iBook 

GooglePlay

Paperback

My Cast

Because I know you wanted to see it:

 

The post The Debut Of Q.C. Davis a/k/a The Worried Man Is Here! appeared first on Lisa Lilly.

Why I Love V.I.

This week I’m sharing a favorite post from my previous blog about why I love fictional female private eye V.I. Warshawki.

The republishing is mainly due to my having decided this past weekend to declutter, including by taking a basket full of old manuals down from the top of my fireplace. Both the basket and I came down. The basket survived intact.

I, however, broke my foot.

The lesson: leave your clutter where it is.

What amazed me in updating the post (originally from 2012) is I didn’t need to update anything other than formatting (and my publications), as V.I. remains as amazing as always.

Enough of my life, here’s the post:

A while back I suggested my book group read Tunnel Vision, one of Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawki novels. In that novel, V.I., one of the first modern female private eyes, investigates a seemingly shady charitable organization. Along with solving more than one mystery, V.I. attempts to help a homeless woman and her children.

As is often the case, V.I.’s methods are unconventional, and she distrusts authority.

I thought the social issues the book raises would be great to discuss. So I was shocked when instead, group members could not get past that they didn’t like V.I. Not like V.I.?

I started reading Sara Paretsky’s novels in the late 80s. Since then, through financial ups and downs and despite the purchase of a Kindle, Sara Paretsky is the one author whose books I always buy in hardback the first day they come out. But my friends found V.I. Warshawski too abrasive, too combative, and too apt to think she knows what’s best.

So why do I love V.I.?

V.I. is V.I., not Victoria Iphigenia

From the first book on, V.I. goes by V.I. in part because so often in the 80s (and beyond) people addressed women by first names in business even when their male counterparts were “Mr.”

I identified with this, having worked full time at an office while I pursued fiction writing on the side. I earned a degree in Writing/English. The company I worked for through college loved me and offered me a full time job – as a file/data entry clerk. A recent male college grad with the same degree and no job experience was hired at the same time – as a media writer.

And, oh, yes, first names for the women supervisors, “Mr.” for the men.

V.I. has friends who disagree with her

One thing that bothered my book group colleagues is that V.I.’s friends are very hard on her in Tunnel Vision.

Lottie, a doctor, gives free medical care to the homeless family V.I. attempts to aid, but upbraids V.I. for refusing to call the authorities about the family. V.I.’s other friends are angry when her investigation threatens to tank their business deal.

I like that V.I. is sure enough of herself to have friends who think differently than she does and who say so. It’s easy to have friends who always tell us how great we are, and of course that’s part of why we need and want friends.

But it takes a strong, confident person to respect and keep friends who disagree.

V.I. has friends

I get so tired of reading books where single women characters are portrayed as having lonely, empty lives solely because they are single.

In one mystery I read by another author, the main character comments on how she has no pets, has never decorated her apartment, and doesn’t even own a plant because she’s never married. She looks longingly at a nice restaurant and thinks how great it would be to go there but she hasn’t had a date in five years.

By this time, I thought, what, the restaurant prohibits two women friends from dining together? Only couples allowed?

And, good lord, go buy some plants already. Or does the nursery and craft store make you show a wedding ring before you can get a ficus?

I love that V.I. has good friends she’s known for years, is always meeting new people, has a family-like relationship with her neighbor Mr. Contreras, and is as devoted to her cousin Petra – who is often annoying but finally seems to be maturing – as if Petra were her daughter.

And V.I. not only has friends, she is fiercely loyal to them. When Mr. Contreras worries about paying his real estate taxes, she vows to help him, despite not knowing how she’ll pay her own bills. Which brings me to my next reason to love V.I.

V.I. has a real life

V.I. not only must solve mysteries, but run her business.

When her office floods, she has to figure out how to sort through the paperwork and restore her computers. When she gets in trouble with the law, she calls her lawyer, then needs to pay his bill. She has clients who pay well but make unreasonable demands. She has clients whose cases she takes to heart who can’t pay her a cent. And she has dogs to run and feed every day.

V.I. has a healthy view of romantic relationships

Over the years and the mysteries, V.I. has had a few serious relationships and has been single for long periods.

Sara Paretsky describes so well the pluses and drawbacks of being single. The joy of making your own choices and fashioning your life around what works best for you, the beauty of solitude, the practical difficulties of being single in a world of couples (like when V.I. comments on how her refrigerator is empty because no one shopped), and the occasional loneliness and longing for a connection with a romantic partner.

Also, V.I. knows how to be in a relationship without losing her sense of who she is, and she has friends who can do the same.

V.I. cares about social issues

Perhaps this topic should be “Sara Paretsky cares about social issues.” Sara Paretsky’s books always address larger issues, such as women’s roles in society, how we treat the mentally ill, homelessness, abortion. This may lose some readers who don’t agree with her views. But whether or not I agree with Paretsky, she always tells a story that matters.

I know she’s a fictional character, but V.I. Warshawski challenges me to take chances and do my best. Seeing V.I. work for herself all these years helped prompt me to start my own solo law practice after years at a large firm.

And her creator, Sara Paretsky, inspired me to write the kinds of book I like to read, starting with a thriller series with a female protagonist (The Awakening series), despite that most thrillers when I started with Book 1 were by and about men, and now with my new Q.C. Davis mystery series, which begins with The Worried Man.

Every time I read a new Sara Paretsky book, it pushes me to try to create characters readers will love the way I love V.I.

Author/philosopher Ayn Rand once described the proper purpose of fiction as depicting life as it might be and ought to be. For me, V.I. is what a good friend – and a good person – might be and ought to be, and I hope always will be.

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No Girls Here: Naming The Worried Man

There’s a reason I didn’t use “girl” in the title of The Worried Man, though I thought about it. (I imagine every author with a mystery, suspense, or thriller coming out these days at least considers using a Girl title.)

Girls Are Popular

The temptation to use Girl was strong. It’s a great shorthand way of saying if you liked The Girl On The Train or Gone Girl (or before that, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo), you’ll like this book.

And most of the time that would be true. All of those books are well-written suspense novels that feature an intriguing woman character who, if not the protagonist, is at least an important main character.

So why not take advantage of that?

Girl Attorneys (Not)

 

In addition to being a writer I’m also a lawyer, though I don’t practice much anymore. I drew from my memories of being a newer, younger woman lawyer when I created Quille (Q. C.) Davis, the protagonist in my new mystery series.

Quille is a former child stage actress and a current attorney.

When she acted throughout her childhood, she had no issue being called a girl because that’s what she was. Probably, like me and many young women I knew, she might not even have objected to the term while still in college.

But once you’re a woman in the professional world, things change.

I used to share office space with a male attorney who’d been practicing law for over 25 years.

He often came back from court and complained about the “girl” arguing against him on the other side of the case. He never referred to young male attorneys as “boys,” or, for that matter, specifically mentioned that they were male.

After the third or fourth time, I said, “Oh, when did they start letting 12-year-olds take the bar exam in Illinois?”

He laughed and asked me what I thought he ought to say. I suggested “woman” or simply “attorney.” After I made similar comments 10 or 15 times he did his best to stop using Girl to describe adult women.

I didn’t want to do to my character what many older attorneys did to me when I was a young lawyer, so I couldn’t bring myself to call Quille a girl even in the title.

Girls And Women As Heroes

Despite that some of the Girl books feature strong woman characters, the use of Girl for an adult woman to me uncomfortably echoes a trope I dislike in a lot of mysteries, thrillers, and suspense novels.

That trope is violence–often extreme violence–against women.

I don’t object to the idea that some mystery and suspense books have a female victim. It’s part of the genre that there’s a crime and so there’s a victim.

But a few years ago I decided I would no longer read books that revolved around women being terrorized or tortured, much as I love thrillers, suspense, and mysteries.

Whether intentional or not, these stories struck me as a warning to women who did certain things. Like living alone, walking alone, or not having a boyfriend or husband nearby to “protect” them.

As an author, I understand that vulnerability in a character is important. It’s what makes us feel for a character and care what happens to her or him. And I’m not in any way saying that no one should write a book with a female victim or that I’ll never do it.

But I prefer to be a little more realistic about it.

Statistically, men are far more likely than women to be the victims of violence by strangers, which is most often the type of violence depicted in fiction. With the exception of victims of serial killers (which fortunately are uncommon), most murder victims are men.

Also, I am more interested in writing and reading about a woman protagonist who is the hero.

That’s what drew me to Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski, one of the first fictional female private eyes.

I love the way V.I. fights for the underdog, stands up for what she believes in, and helps people. All of these things don’t mean V.I. is not vulnerable at times or that she isn’t sometimes in peril.

But her role is primarily that of the protagonist who solves crimes, fixes problems, and helps people, not as a victim.

A Theme Without Girls

So how to tie my titles together without a Girl?

At first I thought about songs. The Worried Man’s title comes from the Worried Man Blues. (I used to play and sing folk and bluegrass.)

The use of Man rather than Girl appealed to me, as did the ambiguity. The Worried Man of the title could be the victim, a suspect, or one of Quille’s friends who worries that she’s putting herself in danger while investigating the death of the man she loved.

Inside River City

But the next book is set in a blizzard in River City in Chicago’s South Loop. No good song titles were coming to mind as I worked on the outline.

Then someone on my e-newsletter list suggested using Man in each title instead.

Immediately the title The Charming Man came to mind. (I’m about mid-way through the first draft of it now.) I’ve also thought about a third book: The Fractured Man.

I like that this theme offers a different twist on the Girl book title idea, yet I hope it evokes the trend enough so that people realize the QC. Davis books are mystery/suspense novels.

I also hope it conveys a bit of Quille’s attitude and mine as the author.

Do you have thoughts on using Man rather than Girl? Or on your favorite Girl books? Please share in the comments.

The Worried Man is now available for preorder on multiple ebook platforms or you can buy the paperback here.

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Rizzoli, Isles, & Q.C.?

I had another post I planned to write today (about why I didn’t use “Girl” when deciding on a title for my new mystery). But I’m deferring that, or calling an audible as one of my football-fan friends would say, to share some news.

Audible is a good word because the news I’m sharing has to do with an audiobook.

Specifically, Blunder Woman Productions accepted The Worried Man, the first in my new Q.C. Davis mystery series, to publish under its umbrella as a audiobook.

Finding Blunder Woman

About a month ago, I saw a tweet that Blunder Woman Productions was looking for mysteries and thrillers to produce as audiobooks. I added a note about it to my To Do list for the launch of The Worried Man.

I admit submitting a query wasn’t top of the list. It wasn’t even in the middle.

Before I went to law school, I submitted novels, short stories, and poems over and over to publishers. I was used to getting 100 rejections before anyone expressed interest. So I was putting my energy toward things I knew for sure would help sales of The Worried Man, such as polishing the book’s description and getting the files uploaded on various ebook platforms.

20 Minutes To Spare

One day I had about 20 minutes before a meeting, so I researched Blunder Woman.

I was impressed by the company’s record of audiobook awards and the quality, quantity, and variety of audiobooks produced. So I filled in the query form on the website. I barely made it to my meeting on time, and I didn’t think much more about it.

Later the same day Tanya Eby from Blunder Woman responded and asked for a copy of the book. A week later she said she’d read it and thought it would make a great audiobook.

I was really excited, as I checked her out and discovered she narrated books for one of my favorite mystery/suspense writers, Tess Gerritsen, whose Rizzoli & Isles series I especially love.

What could be better than someone who narrated Tess Gerritsen audiobooks thinking The Worried Man would be a good choice for her production company?

It’s up to Blunder Woman who will narrate and when the audiobook will release. I’m hoping it’ll be sometime this summer. (The paperback is available now, and the ebook editions release on May 1, 2018).

I can’t wait to hear my main character Quille’s voice for the first time!

Read Chapter 1 of The Worried Man.

 

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Sneak Peek: Chapter 2 of The Worried Man

Read Chapter 1 of The Worried Man, Q.C. Davis Mystery #1.

Chapter 2

The detective sat across from me at the worn kitchen table. His tan suit jacket was large and too boxy for his frame, but his tie was knotted in a perfect half-Windsor. Between that and his silver crew cut he looked ex-military despite the ill-fitting jacket.

“What was your relationship with the deceased?”

During the time it had taken the police and paramedics to arrive I’d pulled the armchair close to the couch and sat. I couldn’t leave Marco alone, and I couldn’t look at his body. I’d scrolled through photos of him on my phone over and over.

It seemed like I sat on that chair in my new green dress for days. It also felt as if only seconds passed before lights and voices shattered my last moments with Marco.

A policewoman had led me out of the apartment and taken down everything I said. When she brought me back in, she gave me a glass of water and introduced me to the detective, whose name I couldn’t remember.

The glass sat in the thin layer of fingerprint dust that covered the scratched wooden table.

“Ms. Davis?” the detective said.

“We were about to move in together,” I said. In my head, my voice reverberated and sounded too loud, but the detective scooted his chair closer as if to hear me better. “He was moving in with me. Tomorrow.”

Some of Marco’s things had already migrated to my place, just as mine had made their way into his. Last weekend to make space for his clothes I’d filled paper bags with skirts, tights, and dress pants I hadn’t worn during the last twelve months to donate to a local women’s shelter. Marco and I had rearranged my bedroom and living room areas to clear space for his chest of drawers and armchair, the only furniture he was bringing. We’d bought a futon for the loft for Eric.

“I should call his son,” I said. “Or should I? Telling him on the phone, I don’t know.”

“You didn’t call him yet?” the detective said.

“I wanted to give him a little more time. Even a few minutes. To still have a dad.” I wound a section of my hair around my fingers, twisting the strands into a braid that I immediately unwound. “We just made a place for him to stay.”

I opened my phone and found the photo of the loft with the new futon against the interior brick wall. I handed the phone to the detective.

He put on silver-framed reading glasses, looked at the photo, and handed it back. “How old is he?”

“Thirteen. He lives with his mother. In Lincoln Park.”

“We’ll send someone in person to tell her. Better to let her talk to him. Mirabel Ruggirello, correct?”

I set the phone on the table and ran my finger over the photo. The image shivered. I started to swipe to look at the next photo but realized the detective had asked me a question.

“Yes. Mirabel. I don’t know if she still uses Marco’s last name.”

I’d spoken to her once on the phone about plans for a weekend with Eric, but I’d never met her.

“Is there someone we can call for you?” the detective said.

I rubbed my hands over my bare arms, which were covered in goose flesh. “Someone’s coming.”

I’d given the policewoman Joe’s information. I hadn’t called anyone myself. To do that was to make it real. To admit Marco was dead.

The detective set his phone on the table face down. “How long had Mr. Ruggirello been divorced?”

I stared at the Dinkel’s bakery bag. It had been shifted to the top of some boxes near the back door. All we’d had left to pack was the kitchen.

That thought kept coming back to me. Marco couldn’t be gone, he couldn’t have relapsed to drinking or started taking pills, because all we had left to pack were pots and pans and dishes.

“They’ve been divorced about nine months,” I said.

Marco and Mirabel had been married seventeen years counting three years of separation, but they’d dated since high school. A long time.

A uniformed officer came into the room. Embroidered on the right shoulder of his short-sleeved shirt was a white flag with six-pointed red stars sandwiched between light blue bars. He whispered something to the detective and left, camera in his hands.

He must have been taking photos of Marco, the couch, and the end table with the rum and soda and clear amber pill canister.

“The pill bottle, the label. What did it say?” I asked.

I’d looked at it without touching anything right after calling 911. I hadn’t been able to see the label. I couldn’t believe it was Marco’s.

The detective tapped one finger against the side of his chin. He looked like he’d just shaved despite that it was early evening. “It’s still being processed. When did you last talk to Mr. Ruggirello?”

“About six,” I said. “Last night about six.”

“What did you talk about?” the detective said.

“It was a text. Some texts. About tonight. Dessert for tonight.”

I sipped some water. The glass shook, so I gripped it with both hands. My fingers felt like ice.

I wanted to leave, to go home, except that home was a place with empty closet shelves and the King-sized bed I’d bought around Christmas when Marco had started sleeping over most weeknights.

“You still have the text?”

I keyed open my phone again, entering my passcode three times before I got it right, to double-check. “No. I clear them every day. So if I lose my phone, no one who finds it sees any messages about my cases.”

“Did he seem upset about anything?”

“He sent a smiley face and a soda emoji. Said he loved me and we’d talk later.”

My fingers tangled in my hair and I unwound them one by one. I wondered if I would have known something was wrong if we’d spoken rather than texted. If we’d talked, maybe it would have changed everything.

The detective made a note on a small yellow pad. I hadn’t noticed him holding it before. I stared at the pen as it moved across the paper. It made a scratching sound. “Did you worry when you didn’t hear from him?”

“Not at first. I was working late. I’m a lawyer. A litigator. But I file taxes, too, for theater people I know. I figured Marco was leaving me alone to finish. It only seemed strange when I didn’t hear from him today.”

I’d been so worried about getting the filing done on time, about the scanner working properly and my calculations being correct, that my heart had kept racing after I clicked the last few keys. I’d made herbal tea and sat in my office for a few minutes staring at the street below to unwind before walking home. Now it seemed insane to have been so concerned about filings. About things that could be fixed.

While I’d been sipping tea to feel calmer, Marco might have been drinking or taking pills. He might already have been dead.

The detective leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the opposite knee, and asked if I’d been alone in my office.

I told him yes, that I’d been sitting on the floor of the reception area, crinkled receipts, 1099s, and scraps of paper spread around me. A new client had brought them to me in a literal shoebox on April 13.

As I spoke, it hit me why he was asking.

I sat straighter. “You’re thinking murder? You’re asking me for an alibi?”

“We need to look into all avenues.”

I’d grown up hearing from my parents about police investigations. All their warnings flooded my mind.

My pulse pounded at my temples. “Could you tell me your name again?” I said. “And could I have a card?”

Buy The Worried Man in paperback

Preorder for Kindle (release date May 1, 2018)

Preorder for Kobo (release date May 1, 2018)

Other ebook editions coming soon….

The post Sneak Peek: Chapter 2 of The Worried Man appeared first on Lisa Lilly.

Sneak Peek: Chapter One of The Worried Man (Q.C. Davis Mystery #1)

The Worried Man, the first book in my new Q.C. Davis mystery series will be released May 1, 2018. Here’s how it starts:

Chapter 1

The first time I met Marco, we talked about death. His. The police asked a lot of questions about that later.

We met the night The Harmoniums, the three-person a cappella group I belong to, sang at Kensington Pub in Lincoln Square. I noticed a guy with all his hair–dark, curly, and a little on the long side—walk in during our second set.

I guessed him in his late thirties, which meant he brought down the average age of the audience by a decade or two. Most Kensington patrons are from the Old Town School of Folk Music across the street. Lots of baby boomers with gray hair and ponytails (the men) or silver hair and gauzy skirts (the women). The Harmoniums don’t sing traditional songs, but we do a mix of Simon & Garfunkle, Indigo Girls, blues, gospel, and anything that lends itself to good harmonies, so we appeal to the same audience.

Our last song was California Dreamin’, a guaranteed crowd pleaser during late fall when the trademark gray skies and icy winds of Chicago’s winter threaten. After we finished, I stepped away from the corner that we used as a stage area and hunted around for my charcoal blazer. I’d taken it off when it got too hot with three of us crowding around one microphone.

As I straightened from retrieving the blazer, which had slipped under a table, a smartphone was thrust under my nose.

“I figured it out,” the guy with all the hair said. “You’re Q.C. Davis.”

He smiled, showing teeth that looked bright white against his caramel-colored skin. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt that looked like he’d pressed it.

No body art that I could see, which was good. My first boyfriend was inked everywhere and it’s a bad association. Not fair to all the great guys with major tattoos that I shy away from, but I can’t get past it.

I brushed dust bunnies off my blazer. “Quille.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Quille.”

“But you’re the Q.C. Davis.” He pointed to the phone. It showed an old profile from early in college when I was still acting. “Aren’t you?”

Despite my abhorrence for the name, I was impressed he’d found it. I’m thirty-two, but I’ve had a couple of career changes already. Because of that, and through some serious effort on my part, “Q.C. Davis” comes up on Page 3 at the earliest in search results. Q.C. belongs to a different part of my life, one I’m finished with.

“You’re a good Googler,” I said.

He laughed. It made his eyes bright and brought out little lines around them. Maybe he was forty?

“Me and everyone else. I’m pretty sure I saw you in Token Woman at Northlight Theater when I was in med school.” He held out his hand. “I’m Marco. And it’s nice to know you can actually sing really well.”

His grip was warm and not too tight.

“Thanks,” I said.

Playing a character modeled after notoriously bad real-life soprano Florence Foster Jenkins had been one of my favorite roles. It had also been my last, and the end of my life as Q.C. Davis.

I pulled my black zipper sweatshirt over the blazer, and my fleece-lined jacket over that. Layers are important to survive winter in Chicago. To survive at all in Chicago.

Joe, who sings bass, had his long cashmere coat and gloves on. He and our alto, Danielle, stood near the door talking with some of our regular fans.

Slim and tall, Joe towered over everyone, so it was easy for him to catch my eye. He arched one heavy, dark eyebrow and tilted his head, silently asking if everything was all right. A lot of men come up to talk after shows. It’s not that I’m so attractive. I can appear striking with the right make up, but day-to-day I’m only a little prettier than average, mainly because of my hair, which is long and dark and wavy.

As any performer will tell you, though, the instant you step on stage you become ten times more appealing, if not a hundred.

Most people who talk to you after a show are nice, but now and then you get someone who raises red flags, so the three of us watch out for one another.

“Excuse me,” I said to Marco, who had his back to Joe. I waved to Joe that everything was fine.

Marco glanced toward the door. “I don’t want to keep you from anything.”

I put on my fuchsia scarf and gloves. In my day-to-day life I’m a lawyer, and my wardrobe is mostly black, gray, and white. I use bright-colored accessories for variety, and because I’m less likely to overlook or forget them. Daley Center courtrooms swallowed up dozens of black umbrellas before I figured that out.

“Why don’t you come with us?” I said.

I hoped he’d say yes. I hadn’t met anyone I really liked in a long time.

Outside, we stepped between parked cars, inching out to check traffic. Wind and sleet hit my face as I watched for cabs and bikes riding too close to the parking lane. You wouldn’t think people would cycle in the dark and the sleet—I wouldn’t do it—but they do. Sometimes wearing dark clothes with no bike lights.

Café Barcelona, the tapas restaurant next to the Old Town School, is laid out like an L with a bar on the short side. There are always nice people there, and the mixed drinks don’t cost an arm and a leg. Marco and I chose seats at the end of a long table near Joe and his girlfriend.

Marco returned from the bar with a whiskey sour made with rye for me and a bottle of San Pellegrino for him.

“So what kind of doctor are you?” I said.

“Ah, I’m not a doctor anymore. Too much stress.”

I sipped my whisky sour—made just as I liked it with egg white foam on the top and fresh-squeezed lemon juice—as I turned that over in my mind. A non-alcoholic drink on a Friday might not mean much. If he were driving, he might avoid alcohol. But that plus a defection from medicine suggested issues.

“What kind were you?”

“Surgeon,” he said.

“And now?”

He ran his hand through his hair. It looked just past where he ought to have gotten it cut. He had flyaway ends along his part. I liked that. It offset his pressed T-shirt and kept him from looking too clean cut or rigid.

“Insurance adjuster,” he said.

“Do you like it?”

He grinned. “Thanks for not yawning. It’s fun. And sometimes frustrating. I investigate medical fraud.”

I ate a few black olives from the shared bowl. “Like stalking people who might be faking injuries?”

“I focus on medical care providers,” Marco said. “Mostly clinics.”

Joe had ordered a plate of oven-baked goat cheese, tomato sauce, and toast points with garlic for the table. Marco reached for it with his left hand. No ring. Something I ought to have looked for at the outset, but I’m only now getting used to checking.

In my twenties, almost no one I met was married. Now it’s kind of a toss up, especially when I date guys older than me.

The conversation segued into politics. Marco joined in without mentioning his own views and yielded the floor when someone else jumped in.

I liked that. Having been around entertainers since I was five, I’ve had my fill of people who always need to be center stage. A guy like that can be a lot of fun for a couple dates, but what he wants in life is an audience, not a partner.

I get tired of being the audience.

On the other hand, I’d veered too far in the opposite direction with my boyfriend during law school. Now I look for someone who can hold his own in a crowd. Someone I can leave alone for a few minutes at a party without worrying that he’ll be lost.

So, basically, I want the Goldilocks of men when it comes to sociability.

When there was a lull, Marco offered to get me a second drink, and I said I’d have what he was having.

He frowned. “If you’re thinking I’m an alcoholic, you’re right. But you can drink around me. It’s fine.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “One’s my limit.”

One drink helps me relax. Two and I start feeling depressed. Not a place I want to go with my mother’s history.

I offered to buy this round, but Marco stood. “I’ll get it.”

I took it as a good sign. Some guys buy one drink to be polite. Two means interest.

“Could I ask you something?” Marco said after he’d settled in his seat again. “If you can’t answer, it’s okay. You probably hate when people ask you legal questions.”

My stomach dipped and my shoulders sagged. So the drinks were for free legal advice.

“I don’t hate it,” I said, keeping my tone steady to hide my disappointment. “But I might not be able to answer.”

“It’s about a will,” he said. “I made one the year I got married, and I never updated it. My ex-wife’s a good person, but if something happens to me I want any money I leave to go right to my son. He’s thirteen.”

I smiled at him not trashing the ex. I’d met guys who on the first date couldn’t refer to an ex-girlfriend without saying “that bitch.” Which ruled out a second date, as I had no interest in being the next bitch.

I texted Marco the names of three good estate attorneys I knew.

“So the two drinks,” I said. “Was that just in the hope of free legal advice?”

“No,” he said. “I want to ask you out. But obviously I’m really bad at it, or I would have asked already.”

I squeezed the lime into my sparkling water, considering. Ex-surgeon, non-drinking alcoholic, possibly-too-recently-divorced Marco waved a few red flags.

“You know,” I said, “most people wait until at least the third date before confessing their dark secrets. I’m a little worried.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Why?”

He smiled. “You haven’t told me any of yours.”

* * *

Marco and I saw each other all through that winter and into early spring. When his lease was almost up, we decided to move in together.

The evening before the move I paused in the tulip-filled courtyard of the aging apartment building where Marco lived. I checked my phone again. Still no response to any of my texts or calls.

It was a rare perfect mid-April evening. Warm, light breeze, sun, the smell of fresh grass. I wore a brand new sleeveless green dress that had a flared skirt. We’d been packing for the last couple weeks, so I’d lived in jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts. Tonight I wanted to look pretty for our last dinner at his place.

Also, this week I hadn’t been much help to Marco. I’d been slaving over other people’s taxes and simultaneously trying to settle a lawsuit between two business partners. But two of my friends, both of whom built sets at Chicago Shakespeare for a living, had reinforced the loft above my bedroom. Now instead of storage it could be used as a sleeping space for Marco’s son when he stayed over.

It had been finished late last night. I’d texted Marco a photo, but he hadn’t responded.

I pressed the third buzzer from the top.

No answer.

Marco had said he had an important meeting today. Maybe it had run long.

I used his entry code and let myself in. The vestibule felt cool and smelled of lime disinfectant. Marco was three flights up. The carpeted steps sagged under my feet. As I reached the second floor a smell like boiled chicken bones overpowered the disinfectant.

I shifted the paper bag from Dinkel’s bakery as I climbed. I’d bought flourless chocolate cake—I was thrilled to have found a man who loved dark chocolate as much as I did—and cherry Coke. In the five months I’d been seeing Marco, I’d discovered a lot of fun non-alcoholic drinks.

Inside the apartment the window air conditioning unit blasted frigid air through the kitchen and dining area and into the hall.

The odor, worse in here than on the stairs, assaulted me. It smelled, literally, like shit with an undertone of ammonia. The smell of a poorly-run nursing home. Or maybe of the apartment of someone with bad stomach flu.

“Marco?”

The apartment was laid out in what my grandmother called a shotgun arrangement. Three rooms jutted out from a long interior hallway that ended with a small bathroom. I dropped the Dinkel’s bag on the scratched kitchen table and hurried down the hall, my flats clicking on the hardwood.

Stacked and taped cardboard boxes stood along the far wall of the deserted bedroom. The double bed was made, its comforter smoothed out and pillows squared, the desk bare. It was something that unnerved me about Marco. I’d never dated a guy neater than I was, but I figured living with a neat freak would be better than someone who left dirty dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor.

I checked the bathroom. It, too, was empty. Its hexagonal tiled floor looked clean and dry.

A wide archway opened onto the living room. Marco’s flat screen TV sat on a low table, the original box and Styrofoam inserts on the floor near it. The sofa, its back to me, faced the TV.

A can of Diet Chocolate Fudge Soda, a glass tumbler, and a bottle of Bacardi Rum stood on the end table. A prescription pill bottle lay next to it.

A wave of dizziness hit as I hurried around the sofa. I put my hand to my mouth and grabbed the back of the armchair.

I couldn’t process what I was seeing.

What looked like a mannequin of Marco, dressed in khakis and a long-sleeved collared shirt, lay on its side on the bright green couch. The face was the color of chalk. One of his arms wedged beneath him. The other pointed out and slanted down.

I leapt forward and pressed my fingers to Marco’s throat, but jerked away at the feel of cold, rigid flesh. I tried again. No pulse.

I tried to shift him onto his back to start chest compressions. His body was too stiff to move. CPR was impossible. I dialed 911.

As I spoke to the dispatcher, I dropped onto the hardwood floor, knees to my chest, arms around them. The stench filled my nostrils, but it didn’t matter.

In a movie, the director would make the actress playing me scream or cover her eyes or sob uncontrollably because that’s how women act in movies.

But I felt still and too silent, too focused, for screaming and crying. As if the world had narrowed and I was looking through a telescope that made things small instead of large.

That made Marco small.

Stop by next Wednesday for Chapter 2

Click here to be notified of new Q.C. Davis releases and join the author’s email list.

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The post Sneak Peek: Chapter One of The Worried Man (Q.C. Davis Mystery #1) appeared first on Lisa Lilly.

Sneak Peak: Chapter One of The Worried Man (Q.C. Davis Mystery #1)

Q.C. Davis No. 1

The Worried Man, the first book in my new Q.C. Davis mystery series will be released May 1, 2018. Here’s how it starts:

Chapter 1

The first time I met Marco, we talked about death. His. The police asked a lot of questions about that later.

We met the night The Harmoniums, the three-person a cappella group I belong to, sang at Kensington Pub in Lincoln Square. I noticed a guy with all his hair–dark, curly, and a little on the long side—walk in during our second set.

I guessed him in his late thirties, which meant he brought down the average age of the audience by a decade or two. Most Kensington patrons are from the Old Town School of Folk Music across the street. Lots of baby boomers with gray hair and ponytails (the men) or silver hair and gauzy skirts (the women). The Harmoniums don’t sing traditional songs, but we do a mix of Simon & Garfunkle, Indigo Girls, blues, gospel, and anything that lends itself to good harmonies, so we appeal to the same audience.

Our last song was California Dreamin’, a guaranteed crowd pleaser during late fall when the trademark gray skies and icy winds of Chicago’s winter threaten. After we finished, I stepped away from the corner that we used as a stage area and hunted around for my charcoal blazer. I’d taken it off when it got too hot with three of us crowding around one microphone.

As I straightened from retrieving the blazer, which had slipped under a table, a smartphone was thrust under my nose.

“I figured it out,” the guy with all the hair said. “You’re Q.C. Davis.”

He smiled, showing teeth that looked bright white against his caramel-colored skin. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt that looked like he’d pressed it.

No body art that I could see, which was good. My first boyfriend was inked everywhere and it’s a bad association. Not fair to all the great guys with major tattoos that I shy away from, but I can’t get past it.

I brushed dust bunnies off my blazer. “Quille.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Quille.”

“But you’re the Q.C. Davis.” He pointed to the phone. It showed an old profile from early in college when I was still acting. “Aren’t you?”

Despite my abhorrence for the name, I was impressed he’d found it. I’m thirty-two, but I’ve had a couple of career changes already. Because of that, and through some serious effort on my part, “Q.C. Davis” comes up on Page 3 at the earliest in search results. Q.C. belongs to a different part of my life, one I’m finished with.

“You’re a good Googler,” I said.

He laughed. It made his eyes bright and brought out little lines around them. Maybe he was forty?

“Me and everyone else. I’m pretty sure I saw you in Token Woman at Northlight Theater when I was in med school.” He held out his hand. “I’m Marco. And it’s nice to know you can actually sing really well.”

His grip was warm and not too tight.

“Thanks,” I said.

Playing a character modeled after notoriously bad real-life soprano Florence Foster Jenkins had been one of my favorite roles. It had also been my last, and the end of my life as Q.C. Davis.

I pulled my black zipper sweatshirt over the blazer, and my fleece-lined jacket over that. Layers are important to survive winter in Chicago. To survive at all in Chicago.

Joe, who sings bass, had his long cashmere coat and gloves on. He and our alto, Danielle, stood near the door talking with some of our regular fans.

Slim and tall, Joe towered over everyone, so it was easy for him to catch my eye. He arched one heavy, dark eyebrow and tilted his head, silently asking if everything was all right. A lot of men come up to talk after shows. It’s not that I’m so attractive. I can appear striking with the right make up, but day-to-day I’m only a little prettier than average, mainly because of my hair, which is long and dark and wavy.

As any performer will tell you, though, the instant you step on stage you become ten times more appealing, if not a hundred.

Most people who talk to you after a show are nice, but now and then you get someone who raises red flags, so the three of us watch out for one another.

“Excuse me,” I said to Marco, who had his back to Joe. I waved to Joe that everything was fine.

Marco glanced toward the door. “I don’t want to keep you from anything.”

I put on my fuchsia scarf and gloves. In my day-to-day life I’m a lawyer, and my wardrobe is mostly black, gray, and white. I use bright-colored accessories for variety, and because I’m less likely to overlook or forget them. Daley Center courtrooms swallowed up dozens of black umbrellas before I figured that out.

“Why don’t you come with us?” I said.

I hoped he’d say yes. I hadn’t met anyone I really liked in a long time.

Outside, we stepped between parked cars, inching out to check traffic. Wind and sleet hit my face as I watched for cabs and bikes riding too close to the parking lane. You wouldn’t think people would cycle in the dark and the sleet—I wouldn’t do it—but they do. Sometimes wearing dark clothes with no bike lights.

Café Barcelona, the tapas restaurant next to the Old Town School, is laid out like an L with a bar on the short side. There are always nice people there, and the mixed drinks don’t cost an arm and a leg. Marco and I chose seats at the end of a long table near Joe and his girlfriend.

Marco returned from the bar with a whiskey sour made with rye for me and a bottle of San Pellegrino for him.

“So what kind of doctor are you?” I said.

“Ah, I’m not a doctor anymore. Too much stress.”

I sipped my whisky sour—made just as I liked it with egg white foam on the top and fresh-squeezed lemon juice—as I turned that over in my mind. A non-alcoholic drink on a Friday might not mean much. If he were driving, he might avoid alcohol. But that plus a defection from medicine suggested issues.

“What kind were you?”

“Surgeon,” he said.

“And now?”

He ran his hand through his hair. It looked just past where he ought to have gotten it cut. He had flyaway ends along his part. I liked that. It offset his pressed T-shirt and kept him from looking too clean cut or rigid.

“Insurance adjuster,” he said.

“Do you like it?”

He grinned. “Thanks for not yawning. It’s fun. And sometimes frustrating. I investigate medical fraud.”

I ate a few black olives from the shared bowl. “Like stalking people who might be faking injuries?”

“I focus on medical care providers,” Marco said. “Mostly clinics.”

Joe had ordered a plate of oven-baked goat cheese, tomato sauce, and toast points with garlic for the table. Marco reached for it with his left hand. No ring. Something I ought to have looked for at the outset, but I’m only now getting used to checking.

In my twenties, almost no one I met was married. Now it’s kind of a toss up, especially when I date guys older than me.

The conversation segued into politics. Marco joined in without mentioning his own views and yielded the floor when someone else jumped in.

I liked that. Having been around entertainers since I was five, I’ve had my fill of people who always need to be center stage. A guy like that can be a lot of fun for a couple dates, but what he wants in life is an audience, not a partner.

I get tired of being the audience.

On the other hand, I’d veered too far in the opposite direction with my boyfriend during law school. Now I look for someone who can hold his own in a crowd. Someone I can leave alone for a few minutes at a party without worrying that he’ll be lost.

So, basically, I want the Goldilocks of men when it comes to sociability.

When there was a lull, Marco offered to get me a second drink, and I said I’d have what he was having.

He frowned. “If you’re thinking I’m an alcoholic, you’re right. But you can drink around me. It’s fine.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “One’s my limit.”

One drink helps me relax. Two and I start feeling depressed. Not a place I want to go with my mother’s history.

I offered to buy this round, but Marco stood. “I’ll get it.”

I took it as a good sign. Some guys buy one drink to be polite. Two means interest.

“Could I ask you something?” Marco said after he’d settled in his seat again. “If you can’t answer, it’s okay. You probably hate when people ask you legal questions.”

My stomach dipped and my shoulders sagged. So the drinks were for free legal advice.

“I don’t hate it,” I said, keeping my tone steady to hide my disappointment. “But I might not be able to answer.”

“It’s about a will,” he said. “I made one the year I got married, and I never updated it. My ex-wife’s a good person, but if something happens to me I want any money I leave to go right to my son. He’s thirteen.”

I smiled at him not trashing the ex. I’d met guys who on the first date couldn’t refer to an ex-girlfriend without saying “that bitch.” Which ruled out a second date, as I had no interest in being the next bitch.

I texted Marco the names of three good estate attorneys I knew.

“So the two drinks,” I said. “Was that just in the hope of free legal advice?”

“No,” he said. “I want to ask you out. But obviously I’m really bad at it, or I would have asked already.”

I squeezed the lime into my sparkling water, considering. Ex-surgeon, non-drinking alcoholic, possibly-too-recently-divorced Marco waved a few red flags.

“You know,” I said, “most people wait until at least the third date before confessing their dark secrets. I’m a little worried.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Why?”

He smiled. “You haven’t told me any of yours.”

* * *

Marco and I saw each other all through that winter and into early spring. When his lease was almost up, we decided to move in together.

The evening before the move I paused in the tulip-filled courtyard of the aging apartment building where Marco lived. I checked my phone again. Still no response to any of my texts or calls.

It was a rare perfect mid-April evening. Warm, light breeze, sun, the smell of fresh grass. I wore a brand new sleeveless green dress that had a flared skirt. We’d been packing for the last couple weeks, so I’d lived in jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts. Tonight I wanted to look pretty for our last dinner at his place.

Also, this week I hadn’t been much help to Marco. I’d been slaving over other people’s taxes and simultaneously trying to settle a lawsuit between two business partners. But two of my friends, both of whom built sets at Chicago Shakespeare for a living, had reinforced the loft above my bedroom. Now instead of storage it could be used as a sleeping space for Marco’s son when he stayed over.

It had been finished late last night. I’d texted Marco a photo, but he hadn’t responded.

I pressed the third buzzer from the top.

No answer.

Marco had said he had an important meeting today. Maybe it had run long.

I used his entry code and let myself in. The vestibule felt cool and smelled of lime disinfectant. Marco was three flights up. The carpeted steps sagged under my feet. As I reached the second floor a smell like boiled chicken bones overpowered the disinfectant.

I shifted the paper bag from Dinkel’s bakery as I climbed. I’d bought flourless chocolate cake—I was thrilled to have found a man who loved dark chocolate as much as I did—and cherry Coke. In the five months I’d been seeing Marco, I’d discovered a lot of fun non-alcoholic drinks.

Inside the apartment the window air conditioning unit blasted frigid air through the kitchen and dining area and into the hall.

The odor, worse in here than on the stairs, assaulted me. It smelled, literally, like shit with an undertone of ammonia. The smell of a poorly-run nursing home. Or maybe of the apartment of someone with bad stomach flu.

“Marco?”

The apartment was laid out in what my grandmother called a shotgun arrangement. Three rooms jutted out from a long interior hallway that ended with a small bathroom. I dropped the Dinkel’s bag on the scratched kitchen table and hurried down the hall, my flats clicking on the hardwood.

Stacked and taped cardboard boxes stood along the far wall of the deserted bedroom. The double bed was made, its comforter smoothed out and pillows squared, the desk bare. It was something that unnerved me about Marco. I’d never dated a guy neater than I was, but I figured living with a neat freak would be better than someone who left dirty dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor.

I checked the bathroom. It, too, was empty. Its hexagonal tiled floor looked clean and dry.

A wide archway opened onto the living room. Marco’s flat screen TV sat on a low table, the original box and Styrofoam inserts on the floor near it. The sofa, its back to me, faced the TV.

A can of Diet Chocolate Fudge Soda, a glass tumbler, and a bottle of Bacardi Rum stood on the end table. A prescription pill bottle lay next to it.

A wave of dizziness hit as I hurried around the sofa. I put my hand to my mouth and grabbed the back of the armchair.

I couldn’t process what I was seeing.

What looked like a mannequin of Marco, dressed in khakis and a long-sleeved collared shirt, lay on its side on the bright green couch. The face was the color of chalk. One of his arms wedged beneath him. The other pointed out and slanted down.

I leapt forward and pressed my fingers to Marco’s throat, but jerked away at the feel of cold, rigid flesh. I tried again. No pulse.

I tried to shift him onto his back to start chest compressions. His body was too stiff to move. CPR was impossible. I dialed 911.

As I spoke to the dispatcher, I dropped onto the hardwood floor, knees to my chest, arms around them. The stench filled my nostrils, but it didn’t matter.

In a movie, the director would make the actress playing me scream or cover her eyes or sob uncontrollably because that’s how women act in movies.

But I felt still and too silent, too focused, for screaming and crying. As if the world had narrowed and I was looking through a telescope that made things small instead of large.

That made Marco small.

Stop by next Wednesday for Chapter 2

Click here to be notified of new Q.C. Davis releases and join the author’s email list.

The post Sneak Peak: Chapter One of The Worried Man (Q.C. Davis Mystery #1) appeared first on Lisa Lilly.

Values v. Religious Beliefs (a/k/a Why Readers Ask About Cyril)

Last week in Questions, Abortion, and The Awakening Series I said that this week I’d write about why Cyril was my favorite character in The Awakening (after Tara, the protagonist). And I will talk about that, but first I want to say a few things about my mom and about religion, which will take us back to Cyril. 

My mother was 42 years older than me.

She grew up in a time when questioning church authorities simply wasn’t done. She and my dad memorized doctrine as children. They didn’t talk about what it meant or why it had been decided the way it had, and they certainly weren’t asked whether they agreed with it.

My parents as adults weren’t against talking about issues or examining their faith. They found it interesting to look at what was said in the Bible and what it might mean. They encouraged us to think about moral and ethical questions.

All the same, there were certain aspects of faith that for my mom were not negotiable or open to question.

I remember her once telling me, “Your problem is you ask too many questions.”

Personal Support And Comfort:

Part of the reason the Church meant so much to my mother was that it was a great source of comfort for her throughout her life. When she hit hard times, praying was one way she found to deal with them. Also, the Church had a structure and a predictability that she found comfort and beauty in.

For that and other reasons her religion was very personal to her and very important, and it was hard for her to understand anyone (especially an “anyone” who was her child) who didn’t share that feeling or belief.

Some of my mom’s feelings for religion are reflected in Cyril Woods, the initial love interest/antagonist I created for Tara. While Cyril’s experiences are vastly different from my mother’s, he too has a very personal connection with his religious beliefs.

Cyril And Religion:

Cyril joins a religious brotherhood because a man who serves as a mentor to him urges him to do so. This mentor saves Cyril from becoming a very troubled and perhaps violent young man. Cyril connects his better life with the man’s religious beliefs. That’s why he finds it so hard when he begins to question those beliefs.

It feels to him as if he is abandoning the man who helped him so much.

Conflicts Between The Heart And Faith:

Cyril’s love for and admiration of Tara eventually becomes a huge challenge to his faith. Before Tara, everything his religious order required of him fit with Cyril’s own personal values.

But when his superiors begin to see Tara as an enemy, Cyril is at a loss.

He has been an actual soldier, serving in the Armed Forces, and he sees himself as a soldier still. In fact, he tells Tara he is a “soldier for our Lord.”

Being a soldier means following orders without question because that is the only way the military can operate efficiently.

So at first Cyril listens to his superiors despite his misgivings. Next, he becomes determined to convince them that they are wrong. That in itself is a big leap for him, and he is uncomfortable with it.

Later he is so uncomfortable that he turns on Tara in an awful and almost unforgivable way. While he blames her outwardly, inside he feels that he is weak and a failure because he can’t reconcile the disconnect between his religious faith and his feelings for her. He’s also not yet willing to examine his own beliefs and choose them (or not) for himself.

Finally, all of it is mixed up with his gratitude to his mentor and his fear that his mentor will no longer be there for him if he changes his religious beliefs.

These types of conflicts are real ones that real people face.

Almost everyone has had times when a belief they held was severely challenged by a tragic life event or even a happy life event.

I believe this is why Cyril is the character about whom I get the most reader questions and emails. Readers who haven’t finished the series nearly always say they can’t wait to find out what happens to him.

I can’t say where he ends up without spoiling his ending for those who have not yet read The Illumination. But I will say that I believe Cyril is a good person and always was. He simply had a long road before he figured out what he believed.

The post Values v. Religious Beliefs (a/k/a Why Readers Ask About Cyril) appeared first on Lisa Lilly.

Questions, Abortion, And The Awakening Supernatural Thriller Series

One of the first book bloggers who reviewed The Awakening said she couldn’t tell what my views as the author were on abortion, and she really liked that.

The book begins with an unexpected and supernatural pregnancy. It also takes place in the modern day. At least at the moment, abortion is a legal option the protagonist would have.

Because of that, I knew I needed to think about the topic of abortion.

It’s Complicated

The situation is particularly complicated for Tara, the main character.

She has no reason to believe that she’s pregnant, as she’s never engaged in sexual intercourse. So it takes her some time to go to a college campus health center when she misses periods. When they tell her she’s pregnant, she assumes there was a mistake, which is what anyone would think in her circumstances.

The Awakening begins when Tara’s doctor tells her the second pregnancy test also is positive.

The two engage in a frank discussion of how pregnancy could possibly have happened. (In retrospect, the discussion was probably a little too frank. I’m sure it got me ruled out of certain advertising sites early on in the book’s life.)

The doctor has known Tara a long time and believes that she hasn’t engaged in activities that could lead to pregnancy. She does follow-up tests to be sure nothing else is wrong.

Once tests confirm the pregnancy the doctor raises the question of abortion.

She tells Tara she’ll need to make a decision quickly. The state where she lives, Missouri, puts a definite timeframe on when a woman can terminate a pregnancy. That deadline is quickly approaching.

This strikes Tara as extremely unfair. She had no reason to think she was pregnant and has just found out about it. It’s hard for her to think this through so quickly.

The Characters’ Views On Abortion

Minor spoiler below:

*

*

*

Tara opts to continue her pregnancy. (If she hadn’t, it would have made for a very short book.)

Down the road (literally and figuratively) Tara talks with Cyril, an aspiring deacon from a religious Order that believes Tara’s child will have significance for the world as a messiah.

Cyril idealizes Tara. He says he’s so impressed that she never even considered abortion. To him, that adds to her perfection, as he sees abortion as wrong. He assumes Tara feels the same because her family, and her dad in particular, are very Catholic.

Tara says of course she considered it. It would be a way to put her life back to what she feels it should be. She abstained from sex because she understood how much responsibility and work were involved in parenting and she wanted to wait until she finished college and began medical school before taking any chances on becoming pregnant.

I felt no matter what her views on abortion overall might be, she wouldn’t be human if it didn’t cross her mind that terminating the pregnancy would return her to “normal” life.

Specific Reasons

Unique circumstances also surround Tara’s decision to have her baby.

Her youngest sister is struggling with cancer and may well have a very short life. It would be hard for Tara not to see her decision about continuing her pregnancy or not in connection with her little sister’s possible death.

Also, Tara has a wonderful support system.

It’s true that many of her friends and family fail her when she tells them about her pregnancy. But their reactions are about her being unable to explain how she became pregnant and their fears that she is either not being up front with them or is struggling with mental illness.

Had her pregnancy been a typical one, she would have had a lot of emotional support and as much financial help as her parents and boyfriend were able to offer. Her boyfriend and she probably would have gotten married, just a little bit earlier than planned. (Whether that would have been a good thing is another question.)

Why The Open Questions

That no one other than Cyril expresses a strong view on whether abortion is moral in Tara’s circumstances, or any circumstances, was what, for me, fit the story. The plot is about Tara’s unique experience and not about political issues.

It also reflects my belief that well-intentioned people with strong beliefs can differ for understandable reasons, whether or not I agree with them.

As I learned when researching a short nonfiction book about whether Catholic views about women influenced a U.S. Supreme Court decision on birth control (see How the Virgin Mary Influenced The United States Supreme Court: Catholics, Contraceptives, and Burwell v. Hobby Lobby, Inc.) they also differ on how they define the terms of the debate.

One reason the abortion debate is so complex is that medicine has a specific definition of abortion, and the Vatican uses a different one.

This difference means that the same statement by two different people can mean two entirely different things. Listeners or other people who join the debate might or might not know that.

What I strove for throughout the entire Awakening Series was to avoid black-and-white answers.

Most characters, including those who oppose Tara, believe they are doing what’s best for humanity.

No one, including Tara, gets an easy answer to “What’s the right thing to do in this situation?”

In the end, I hope this choice made for a more compelling story.

That’s all for today. Stop by next Wednesday when I’ll talk about why Cyril was my favorite character (after Tara) in The Awakening.

The post Questions, Abortion, And The Awakening Supernatural Thriller Series appeared first on Lisa Lilly.

The Da Vinci Code, The Divine Feminine, and The Awakening

A friend gave me Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code about six months after came out.

At the time I was working long hours as an attorney at a law firm in the Sears Tower. Each morning I did my best to get to Starbucks around 7:15 a.m. so I could read for 10 minutes before clients and partners started calling and emailing me.

I discovered it was impossible to read The Da Vinci Code for only 10 minutes.

While I managed not to be officially late for anything, I read much more than I really had time for and sped through the book in a few days.

More Than A Page-Turner

My friend’s strongest reaction to the book, though, wasn’t to its fast pace but to what she learned about the early Catholic Church, especially how the roles of and for women had been downplayed and buried.

A devoted Catholic her whole life, she felt angry that part of the Church’s history had been hidden from her.

What Women Loved About The Da Vinci Code

I noticed that whenever I spoke to a woman who’d read The Da Vinci Code, her eyes lit up and she mentioned the book’s themes of divine femininity and a deeper, more significant role for women in the early years of Christianity.

It seemed to me that this spoke to the absence in many major religions (particularly Judaism, Islam, and Christianity) of women in leadership or in images and representations of the divine.

At the time, trying to answer my own questions about religion, I was reading a lot of books on the origins of monotheism, as well as on early goddess culture. (Many of those books are listed in the bibliography for The Awakening.)

The fascination so many women, including me, felt for a story that put femininity at the heart of the divine stayed with me.

The Seeds Of A Supernatural Thriller

A couple years later when I was ready to start a new novel, these things came together in my mind:

my own reading about the history of religion
my love of the book Rosemary’s Baby and the movie The Terminator and
my experience growing up in house where we talked about stories of the Virgin Mary

What if? I thought.

What if a young woman who has never had sex discovers she’s pregnant and a religious cult tells her the baby will be a messiah—until, that is, they find out the child will be a girl?

So the idea for The Awakening was born.

That’s all for today.

Next Wednesday I’ll talk about questions regarding abortion that arose when I was planning and writing The Awakening Series.

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