Kathy Lynn Emerson's Blog, page 17

Raves and (Minor-Key) Rants

I’m fond of a show that appears on Public television on Friday nights that comes out of WGBH Boston. It’s called Beat the Press and does quick hits on various journalism stories of the week. I’m particularly fond of a segment they do called Raves and Rants and thought about stealing that format for this month’s segment of my own, except that I have too many rants to enumerate here, as I’m sure you do, so I will endeavor to stick to some things I found to rave about this month.

First: Emma Gonzalez, David Hogg, Naomi Wadler, et al. Seriously. No words. Regardless of your political bent, if you cannot be impressed by the clarity, power, and purpose of these young people, you are blind. Unlike many of us who feel like we’re doing all we can, or that we have no voice, or that nothing will change anyway, these kids are charging forward. For the first time in some time, I feel as if I can allow myself a little hope.

Second: The Begathon weeks of WMPG, the radio voice of USM, just concluded. [image error]If you don’t already listen to WMPG, you’re missing out on some of the most eclectic and interesting local radio I’ve ever experienced. It’s not aural wallpaper, like so many commercial radio stations, and it will challenge you at times, but it is my belief that the most important cultural and artistic moments happen locally and WMPG is as local as it gets. It’s great radio and I urge you to check it out.

Third: Yes, spring is coming and none too soon. My third rave is on behalf of the sheer pleasure of living where we do, where I can live ten minutes from downtown Portland and still have the benefit of trees, sand, and salt water any time I choose. The specific thing that made me grateful this month was sitting in my kitchen with a cup of coffee watching the red-tail hawk who resides in the trees behind the house stalk one of the billions of gray squirrels who share space with my vegetable garden.[image error]

Around the tree, the squirrel coils, trying to get out of sight. Flap of the wings and—oops—there’s that hawk again. Around the tree again. Son of a bitch, he gets around. (Side note: I rarely see a hawk perching in brush four or five feet off the ground.)

And the game goes on like this for five or ten (long, for the squirrel) minutes, until the hawk tires of the game and pounces, drags the limp corpse off into the woods, and starts to pull it to pieces. Nature red in tooth and claw, as we like to say in our house. (And not just about the publishing business . . .)

And fourth, I want to rave for a program I think does splendid work: Project Healing Waters, which is dedicated to the physical and emotional rehabilitation of disabled active military service personnel and disabled veterans through fly fishing. [image error]In 2017, Project    Healing Waters grew to over two hundred programs nationwide that served 3.8 million disabled active service men and woman and veterans. If you bought one of my books this year, you contributed to this very important work. So thank you.

Okay, maybe just a couple rants: beer that tastes like orange and grapefruit, [image error]challenging the outcome of plays in baseball, and solemn articles in writers’ magazines about curtailing your expectations if you publish your first novel after 50 (or 30, or 25). See this for Neil Gaiman’s perfect riposte.

That is all, as long as yon little buggers stay off my lawn. Spring forward!

Must We Kill Our Darlings?

Sandra Neily here, with more on murder. William Faulkner had this advice: “In writing, you must kill all your darlings.”

Stephen King drove the knife deeper: “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings,” he wrote. “even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

I think King got the ego thing right. Cutting words we love is often painful and personal as we let the novel drive our editing. If words we love do not efficiently and tightly drive the story forward, the “darlings” have to go … but not die if we save them.

I cut a scene from my novel “Deadly Trespass.” Now it’s back in a short story because I love it and how my mother, Elizabeth Ann Neily, (in pictures) …  gave it real meaning. Hope you love it too.[image error]

My mother had an ancient neighbor who yelled “never!” at odd moments. When we had time, Pock and I visited around the nursing home. My dog drooled and wagged like their lost pets, and often, just as friendship kicked in, we’d find an empty bed and a repainted room while Pock whined softly.

Was a nursing home in my future? The “never” screamed at me from across the hall was a good omen. My mother lay flat, looking at the ceiling. Except for her bony shoulders and the small ridgeline of her legs, she showed less mass than her rumpled bedding. She looked like a desert horizon line—brown and pink weathered rock barely visible above white sand.

Her face lifted into a wide smile. She patted the bed for Pock to jump up. “Where’s Annie. It’s time for her walk.”

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Annie was long gone so I agreed and used the past tense at the same time. “Right, Mum. Annie was Beagle-feisty. A real ankle biter.”

I reached for the bed controls, raised her head, and stretched Pock down her side, placing his head under her fingers. Her cheeks—flawless and translucent—glowed. Only the clawed hands on my dog and her spider web strands of hair were genuine age markers. As a child I’d been careless with her china, so she’d packed it away from my dirty fingers. At ninety-two my mother was more delicate than her disappeared china. She reached for my hands and clutched them to her chin.

I lifted her nail file. “Shall we work on your hands?” I asked.

“I had a call. Someone looking for you.” She caressed Pock’s ears absently. Dementia is a selective thief, roaming the mind’s corridors, snatching random memories, rearranging personal history like unfamiliar furniture, so I wasn’t sure about this memory.

“Was it a man or a woman?” I asked

“A whisper,” she said. “A whisper about lost wolves.”

I reached for a chair and dropped into it, hands supporting my pounding head. The call was real. I needed water. My cells felt squeezed dry. “You asked me to come. Why?”

She shot me a sturdy stare. “That whisper was such nonsense. Nothing is ever lost. Your father’s not. Annie’s not. If I don’t see you for days I know you are not lost. All of God’s creation is in its rightful place so it is impossible for wolves to disappear.”

I moaned and collapsed over my knees again.

She picked muffin crumbs from her sheets and placed them on Pock’s quivering lips. “Misplaced. Sometimes we misplace things, but God’s plan restores order. Annie is not lost. Your father is not lost. Wolves are not lost.”

I rose and leaned over her bed, wrapping both dog and mother in my arms. “But Mum, why did you really call me?”[image error]

Her moist, blue eyes squinted at the wall where we’d hung a large poster of family photos. I wore a starched Easter dress and lifted a basket of eggs. My brother rowed a boatload of beagles. My parents toasted each other, heads thrown back with laughter. “I was lonely,” she whispered.

Me too, Mum. I was lonely too.

I used to tell a therapist that I’d been dropped and raised by wolves, but that didn’t really describe my childhood. Real wolf pups probably had it better. They grew up under the pack’s watchful eyes until they could hunt for themselves. There was always warm fur, fresh food, and careful surveillance. I’d raised myself in sea cave hideouts carved by the tide or mossy thickets where I stashed canned peaches and library books. The seagulls and squirrels knew more about me than my parents did. After school I leashed a beagle and escaped up the street, never wondering why no one asked me where I was going.

I inched onto her bed and arranged my head next to her shoulder, careful not to press weight on her. Her strong pulse beat through skin so thin sheets could cut her arms. My brother and I used to put frog eggs in a fish bowl on the table and watch beating hearts develop from transparent cells. Strong life through thin tissue. My mother was not dying— just lonely.

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Spring In My Step

It’s here! It’s here! Spring’s finally here!

It was a long, damn winter, wasn’t it? The pre-Christmas snow. The post-Christmas cold snap that went on f-o-r-e-v-e-r. The ice and the slush and those three annoying nor’easters in the month of March. About two weeks ago everybody but the skiers screamed “enough, already,” and my voice was among them. But now there’s spring in my step.

It’s a season of milestones, and four big ones happened in the past week.

First things first, I took the ice grippers out of my car. For months they’ve been either on my feet or on the floor of the back seat, at the ready to get me from car to work without taking a flip, which is soooo easy to do on the brick skating rinks otherwise known as Old Port sidewalks.

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Goldfinches at our feeder.

Second, we’re leaving a window open at night, welcoming the breeze and the morning birdsong. So far we’re hearing chickadees, titmice, cardinals and goldfinches. There’s music in the air at other times of the day as well. One afternoon last week I heard my first red-winged blackbird of the season. Before we know it, the warblers—the handsome virtuosos who fill Maine’s yards and woods with intricate tunes—will be back.

Flowers are showing up as well. Our snowdrops and crocus bloomed one short week after the snow melted. Daffodil and tulip shoots are in evidence, and soon the front yard will be a riot of color.

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They were just hiding under all that snow!

Last but certainly not least, baseball season has begun. I’m writing this on Easter Sunday, when my Red Sox have just won their third game of the season after an unfortunate loss the first day out of the gate. It’s such a pleasure to hear the crack of the bat, not to mention the radio broadcast of Joe Castiglione and Tim Neverett.  Someday soon we’ll make a pilgrimage to the little jewel box in Boston, where the home season starts tomorrow.

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Tomorrow is the Fenway Park opener.

The joys of spring are many and vary from person to person. Besides the wonders of last week noted above, I look forward to:

Raking out the raised beds and seeding some greens. We usually do this on Patriot’s Day. Because we have a cold frame, we’ll be eating our own greens in May.

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Our raised beds, one with cold frame. This is last spring, but soon!

Giving the car—especially the mud-encrusted mats—a good scrub and driving with the sunroof open, especially on a Sunday afternoon when the destination involves ice cream.

Getting out the deck furniture and holding the first cookout of the season. I’m already grilling on a regular basis, but I look forward to the day when I can lounge on the deck sans fleece while grilling fish, or pizza or kebabs, and eating supper outside.

Hearing the rising trill of peepers, the amphibious chorus that echoes around the vernal pools and marshland. Drive with your windows down in a week or two and there they’ll be, calling their little hearts out.

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Can’t you just taste the wonderful balance of strawberries and rhubarb?

Getting ahead of myself a bit, I can’t wait for warm weather food. Local strawberries tarted up with rhubarb. Sauteed fiddleheads. Lobster rolls at a picnic table with a view.

Readers, what do you look forward to in the spring? What are your favorite springtime events, places, tastes and things? Please let us know in the comments.

Brenda Buchanan is the author of the Joe Gale Mystery Series, featuring a diehard Maine newspaper reporter who covers the crime and courts beat. Three books—QUICK PIVOT, COVER STORY and TRUTH BEAT—are available everywhere e-books are sold.

 

 

Never Give Up

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During the past two weeks I have had the privilege of addressing students and teachers at a local college and at a private high school. The field of study for students in attendance ranged from English and writing to law enforcement. The audiences at these public speaking events were a bit of a departure from my usual library and bookstore crowds in that they were less interested in my mystery series than in my police experiences and the path that led me to becoming a published author.

I relish each and every opportunity to share my experiences with those preparing to make their way in the world. Hopefully, I can provide some inspiration for their journey. It wasn’t so long ago that I was sitting where they sat, with big dreams for the future, asking the same questions.

After a quick summary of the high points of my police career, I confessed to the students that my initial aspirations had nothing to do with law enforcement. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to be a published novelist. I dreamt of becoming the next Stephen King. Enamored was I as I thought of Stephen banging away on an old typewriter until late into the evening, pounding out the words which would eventually become the manuscript for Carrie. I wanted to create characters and spin yarns that people couldn’t get enough of. I longed for the day that I might hear: “When’s the next book coming out?”

My dreams were shattered during my freshman year at college when my creative writing professor and I had a difference of opinion regarding my ability. I thought I was a pretty fair writer. He didn’t. I never returned to collect the short stories I had penned during the semester-long class. Too discouraged to face him, I walked away.

Forced to reconsider my future, I chose the field of law enforcement, due mainly to the influence of my Uncle Wayne who had enjoyed a distinguished thirty-six year career as a cop in the nearby town of Gorham. In 1985 was was hired by the Portland police department. It was the start of a wonderful career, and the end of a dream. I thought writing was over. And for a long time it was.

It would be nearly three decades before I would attempt to write another short story. That story ‘Fool Proof’ was published in November 2015 by Level Best Books as part of the anthology Red Dawn, Best New England Crime Stories. The following year ‘Fool Proof’ was named one of the twenty best short mystery stories published in North America during 2015 and was reprinted in Best American Mystery Stories 2016.

My message to the aspiring cops and novelists is simple. Never let anything or anyone stand in the way of your dreams. Keep pushing, keep working, and keep believing in yourself. It can happen if you want it bad enough.

At both events, after I’d finished making my remarks, I asked the audience if anyone had a question. I pointed at a student whose hand was raised.

“When’s the next book coming out?” they asked.

Mom’s Good China

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here, pondering today the dilemma of what to do with family heirlooms when your own heirs don’t want them. I’m not talking about the kind of thing you can leave to a museum, but rather the items that had special meaning to someone near and dear to you but aren’t likely to be highly valued by anyone else.

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Take my mother’s good china for example. Mom went to considerable expense to have a complete set of china hand painted by a local artist, Charlotte Meredith. Each piece is signed “C. B. Meredith” on the back, except for one that must have been a replacement and was done by my mom’s good friend Agnes Slaver Baker. Anyway, this set of “good china” was in our house all the time I was growing up in the 1950s and 1960s . . . and I can never remember my mother using it, not even once.

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I suppose she must have taken these out once in awhile, maybe for Thanksgiving or Christmas, but even on those holidays the gatherings were small. I’m an only child, as was my mother. My father had just one brother and he lived in another state. So, at most, there would have been me, my parents, two sets of grandparents, and maybe, after some of the grandparents were gone, a widowed great aunt. Truthfully, I don’t remember, nor do I remember seeing Mom’s good china on the table.

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My parents didn’t entertain much. They had parties when they were younger (before I came along) and I have the photos to prove it, but they don’t seem to have been sit-down dinners. After Mom and Dad retired and moved to Florida, they had friends over for dinner now and again, but the story that sticks in my mind, told to me with a smile by my mother, is that when one of those friends complimented her on her good china, she laughed and said, “Oh, this isn’t my good china” and hauled one of the hand-painted plates out of her china cabinet to prove it.

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The upshot is that I don’t know if Mom’s good china was ever used, but it obviously meant a great deal to her. When she died, I dutifully packed it up and brought it home with me . . . where it sits in a cupboard in the kitchen gathering dust. I never have people over for dinner, either.

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a piece of my wedding china that’s never been used

Back when I was engaged to be married, it was still considered necessary for every bride to register china and silverware patterns to aid people in buying wedding gifts. Maybe it still is. Does anyone reading this still give big dinner parties using their best china? My wedding china was also gathering dust until about ten years ago when I started using it for everyday. At least this way I get to enjoy it. As for Mom’s pride and joy? I can’t quite bring myself to toss it out, and no one seems to wants “old stuff” anymore, let alone something like this, possibly because they’ve already inherited more than one set of good china from various family members. That makes me sad.

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silverware box–I was going to open it to take a picture but it’s too much hassle to extract from the cupboard

I have Mom’s good silverware, too. The kind that needs to be polished. There are utensils in the silverware case (wooden, lined with velvet) that I don’t even have names for.

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Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of more than fifty-five traditionally published books written under several names. She won the Agatha Award and was an Anthony and Macavity finalist for best mystery nonfiction of 2008 for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2015 in the best mystery short story category. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries and the “Deadly Edits” series (Crime & Punctuation—2018) as Kaitlyn and the historical Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries (Murder in a Cornish Alehouse) as Kathy. The latter series is a spin-off from her earlier “Face Down” mysteries and is set in Elizabethan England. Her most recent collection of short stories is Different Times, Different Crimes. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com and she maintains a website about women who lived in England between 1485 and 1603 at A Who’s Who of Tudor Women.

 

Weekend Update: March 31-April 1, 2018

[image error]Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will posts by Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Monday) Bruce Coffin (Tuesday), Brenda Buchanan (Wednesday), Sandra Neily (Thursday), and Richard Cass (Friday).

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

Coming up on April 10 from 7-8 PM in Portland, Maine, the Kensington Cozy Author-palooza, a group signing co-sponsored by Print: A Bookstore that includes Maine Crime Writers Jessica Ellicott (Jessie Crockett), Kaitlyn Dunnett, Barbara Ross, and Lea Wait. For more information, including the location of the event, go to http://www.printbookstore.com/event/kensington-cozy-mystery-author-palooza

Lea Wait will be having lunch on Wednesday, April 4, with twenty students in an adult literacy class (and their teachers) from the Merrymeeting Adult Education program in [image error]Topsham, Maine. The students have read Lea’s historical novel STOPPING TO HOME and will also take a walking tour of Wiscasset to see locations mentioned in the book.

 

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

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

There’ll NEVER be Enough Time to Write

Lea Wait, here, writing this blog after I just sent the manuscript of the eighth book in my Mainely Needlepoint series to my editor. I have two other books due later this year.

And, as many of you know, during the past year I’ve been taking care of my husband. When we were first married, fifteen years ago, he pledged to cook, clean, do errands, drive me to appearances, be my first reader, and above all, be a shoulder to lean on both in joyful moments and in times of discontinued contracts, crotchety editors and plot exhaustion.

And he did all that. But now, although he is still with me, loving me and encouraging me, he can’t do those other things. I’ve doing the day-to-day chores. And, somehow, I have to keep turning manuscripts out.

When I first started writing I read an article published in Writer’s Digest, May 1998, titled “Of Time and the Writer” by Sharyn McCrumb, whose books I very much admired. I still have a copy of that article. In it she wrote that, simply, anyone who blamed their failure to write on not having enough time was “Crap.” (Direct quote.)[image error]

When her first four page proposal for a mystery was accepted by a publisher, the stipulation was that the book must be completed and submitted in six weeks.  At the time Sharyn worked full-time, taught a university course at night, and was taking two graduate courses. Her husband was also balancing a job and graduate work. They had an eight-year-old daughter — and Sharyn was pregnant and had morning sickness.

Bottom line: She wrote that book in six weeks, which led to other contracts, which ended up with her being a New York Times bestselling novelist. (I strongly recommend all her work, but especially her Appalachian novels.)

How did she get that book written? She didn’t sleep much. She “sat at the keyboard and cried.” She didn’t clean her house, or watch televisions, or spend time with her family. The book came first.

I’ve often thought of that article, and read it again, to remind myself that writing, especially writing under contract, has to be a priority, even when making it a priority is painful. Writing is a job.

The manuscript I just handed in was seven weeks late. (With my editor’s permission.) It was written between my husband’s needs, which were frequent and critical. It was edited by his bedside at home, and in the intensive care unit of the hospital.

During the past couple of months I was seldom on Facebook, and ignored most emails unrelated to writing or publishing. We did not eat gourmet meals, and our housekeeping was neglected.

A few people have suggested I stop writing while my husband is ill; that I should be spending all my time with him.

That solution would be simple, but not practical. I will not neglect my husband. But writing is my job. I have commitments, to my editors, publishers and readers. And, I have bills to pay.

When I was a single parent raising and supporting four daughters, my mother and, at times, a granddaughter, I worked full-time. Sometimes I had to make hard choices about how I spent my time. But my job enabled me to adopt those children and take care of my family.  Too often, it had to come first.

Now I’m caring for my husband. But I re-read Sharyn McCrumb’s essay, and I know  that, even as I cut back other parts of my life. (Facebook, vacuuming, CNN, lunches with friends,) now is a time to focus on my husband, and on my next book.

We’re taking life day by day. But, at least for now, he understands why I’m continuing to work. And, somehow, that I will find the time for the essential parts of my life, now and in the future.

My next manuscript is due July 1. I haven’t started it yet. But, somehow, it will be written.

And my husband will continue to be loved and cared for.

Just don’t ask me about dust in our living room, or dirty dishes in the sink, or the stacks of newspapers and boxes of bottles that need to be recycled. Because those chores aren’t my priority. Right now, my husband and my books are.

There will never be enough time to do everything. But, when necessary, hours can stretch to cover essentials.

Old Friends

Dorothy Cannell: I’m looking forward to attending this year’s Malice Domestic in a few [image error]weeks and browsing around the book room will as always be a big treat.  Knowing I’ll come home with a loaded bag (or more likely bags) of purchases, I have in this last month gone around my bookcases scanning for books I’ve had for thirty plus years that I could bring myself to part with.  The result as so often happens is that I’ve been on a rereading binge and still have two piles on my dining room table.  Whether any will leave home and make their way in the world avoiding dumpsters as they go forth is debatable, especially as they all look the worse for age with yellowed complexions.  Also, a majority are gothics whose time would seem to have come and gone.  Here’s a sampling:

Jill Tattersall – The Shadows of Castle Fosse, Chanters Chase

Dorothy Daniels – Portrait of a Witch

Victoria Holt – Mistress of Mellyn, Kirkland Revels

Dorothy Eden – Winterwood, Cat’s Prey, The Pretty Ones

Dorothy Macardle – The Uninvited

Brian Cleeve – Hester

Rae Foley – Dark Intent

Anne Maybury – The Pavilion at Monkshood

Velda Johnston – The House on Bostwick Square

Madeleine Brent – Merlin’s Keep, Moonraker’s Bride, Tregaron’s Daughter

Joan Aiken – The Weeping Ash, Castle Barebane

Charlotte Armstrong – Lay On, Mac Duff

Dorothy Gilman – The Tightrope Walker

Mary Elgin – A Man from the Mist

Paul Gallico – Too Many Ghosts

Phyllis Whitney – The Red Carnelian

[image error]The above catch me at a sentimental moment.  I recently visited my younger son in Arizona and on leaving and returning to Maine I didn’t see one person within sight at the airport holding, let alone reading, a hardcover or paperback book.  They were all on their phones or tablets.  I love eBooks and am hugely grateful to everyone who reads me that way, but there is something wondrous about turning the page, however, yellowed wrinkled or stained – preferably with coffee – not blood.

Happy reading,

                                       Dorothy             

The Brutality of Reality

John Clark writing about a recent program we presented at the Hartland Public Library. Our new Friends of the Library group has been offering programs on a monthly basis to expand awareness in Hartland and surrounding towns. Last Thursday, we presented one that I wish had pulled in a much larger audience, hence my sharing it here.

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For many Mainers, the idea of human trafficking brings to mind runaways in big cities, but certainly not in Maine. In fact, one state trooper commented recently that he wasn’t aware of it being a problem in Maine. There are numerous agencies listed at the end of this piece that would differ. Their estimate is that between 200-300 Maine residents are trafficked annually.

In getting materials and setting up the program, a couple things became apparent. Those who aren’t aware or have minimal knowledge, tend to be uncomfortable with the idea that neighbors, children of neighbors or quite frankly, people who live somewhere nearby, might be or have been victims of trafficking. Those who deal with victims, mental health, substance abuse or homelessness, however, are frustrated by that very avoidance.

Thanks to Dr. Kathleen Clark, who convinced the local Greater Federation of Womens Clubs chapter to assist in purchasing a streaming video copy of Not My Life, an 83 minute video also available on DVD, that’s directed by Robert Bilheimer. Starting with young boys who have been sold by their parents in Africa to fishermen on a lake and work from dawn to dusk for no pay and little food, the film looks at human trafficking in the US, Asia, Eastern Europe and other places. Shot in what I would call low key format, it alternates between victims, those who exploit them and the dedicated people who devote their lives and careers to rescuing them and stopping others from becoming victims. Some of the scenes and dialogue will shock you, but that’s important.

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Sadly, we had a very small turnout, but one was a high school teacher who encouraged his students to come and three did. It is worthy of note that at least two Maine librarians have shared what they believed to be a victim and victimizer using library computers, but in both instances, they disappeared before law enforcement arrived.

There are other films available that cover human trafficking, Determining which are worth getting can be a challenge as exploitation seems to have infiltrated this area as it has so many others. One that seems worthy is Trafficked: Children As Sexual Slaves – Educational Version with Public Performance Rights Luigi Acquisto (Director).

There are several organizations in Maine and at the national level who are familiar with this terrible threat and are involved in the fight. I have listed them below along with contact information.

1-UNICEF: https://www.unicefusa.org/mission/protect/trafficking/end

2-Maine Sex trafficking & Exploitation Network: http://www.mainesten.org/ which is under the umbrella of MECASA which has several resources listed that are highly relevant: http://www.mecasa.org/

3-Starting the discussion on male victims: https://www.state.gov/j/tip/rls/fs/2017/272004.htm

4-Human Trafficking Task Force E-guide: https://www.ovcttac.gov/taskforceguide/eguide/4-supporting-victims/45-victim-populations/male-victims/

5-Stop Trafficking Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/stoptraffickingus/

6-Restoration Ink in Dover-Foxcroft: https://saconnects.org/the-healing-power-of-restoration-ink/

7-Rape Response Services in Bangor: http://www.rrsonline.org/

8-National Human Trafficking hotline, 1-888-373-7888: https://humantraffickinghotline.org/

9-Sexual Assault Crisis and Support Center, serving Kennebec and Somerset Counties. (1-800-871-7741): www.silentnomore.org

Four Maine Crime Writers and Lots of Friends in Portland, Maine on April 10

by Barb who is trying to figure out what weird meals to put together with the remaining ingredients in the refrigerator as we prepare to leave Key West

On April 10, from 7 to 9 pm Lea, Kathy/Kaitlyn, Jessie/Jessica, and Barb will be at an exciting event in Portland. Maine. Co-sponsored by Print Bookstore and Kensington, the evening is billed as a Cozy Mystery Author Palooza. The event will be held at at local brew pub. Partner vendors will provide delicious beer, drinks and snacks. You can get all the details on Print’s website here.

Rising Tide Brewing

103 Fox Street

Portland, ME 04101

The authors coming include

Anne Canadeo, author of KNIT TO KILL

Maddie Day (Edith Maxwell), author of BISCUITS AND SLASHED BROWNS

Devon Delaney, author of EXPIRATION DATE (out 4/24/18, pre-orders available at the event)

Kaitlyn Dunnett (Kathy Lynn Emerson), author of X MARKS THE SCOT

Jessica Ellicott (Jessie Crockett), author of MURDER IN AN ENGLISH VILLAGE

Sally Goldbenbaum, author of MURDER WEARS MITTENS

Leslie Meier, author of BRITISH MANOR MURDER

Liz Mugavero, author of CUSTOM BAKED MURDER

Carlene O’Connor, author of MURDER IN AN IRISH CHURCHYARD

Barbara Ross, author of STOWED AWAY

Misty Simon, author of CREMAINS OF THE DAY

Lea Wait, author of TIGHTENING THE THREADS

Local co-sponsors include:

Two Fat Cats—the bakery will prepare some treats for the event
Micucci’s—the Italian food shop will prepare some additional treats
Rising Tide—the brewery will provide beer
Liquid Riot Bottling Company—will have additional beverages for the event

We’d love to see our New England peeps there!