Kathy Lynn Emerson's Blog, page 25

Sharing Holiday Memories

For the next few days, the writers at MCW are taking a few days off (not that writers actually TAKE days off, but we’re pretending to) and leaving you with some of our holiday memories.

Kate Flora: Christmas on the farm was such a busy and special season that it is hard to

 

 

 

 

choose, but I think one that is amusing and full of fraught holiday dynamics is the year of two Christmas trees. It happened like this–We had a 140 acre farm, with plenty of woods and plenty of trees. Each year, either enmass, or dad alone, would go out and cut and tree. This particular year, dad kept procrastinating. Days turned into weeks until Christmas was almost upon us and there was still no tree. On the last day of school, mom, who was a teacher, gave up on dad and brought home the tree from her school. It happened to be the same day that dad finally went out in the woods and cut one. Suddenly there were TWO trees. What were the children to do? If we set up dad’s tree, mom’s feelings would be hurt. If we picked dad’s tree, how would mom feel? There was only one solution: two Christmas trees. So we set one up on one end of the living room and one on the other. Visitors might have felt it a bit odd, but it was a very Clark family thing to do.

John Clark: With age, comes different perspectives on Christmas. This was the fourth or fifth year Beth and I were involved in the Hartland Childrens Christmas Project. Thanks to sisters Barbara Day and Shirley Humphrey and a dedicated corps of volunteers, over 200 kids in Hartland, Palmyra and St. Albans (plus a few snuck in from Athens and Ripley), will have a better Christmas. Beth and I split duties. On Friday night, I went to the Somerset Middle School to join a big crew (even Chris Littlefield, our town manager lent a hand). The cafeteria was filled with tables and everything from gifts for pets, personal care products, toys, snow suits, games, puzzles, books, stuffed animals, you name it, was sorted and piled. In addition, volunteers had sorted and bagged good used and brand new clothing in bags that were tagged with a code and the ages and sex of the kids in needy families to pick up the following day.

Beth went over the next morning and helped keep order, restock tables and distribute gifts. She stayed to help clean up and put in over four hours. This is a project that gears up every spring and goes until the giving day. For those readers who saw my post about Dudos Redemption center, they had 5 lists people could put their bottle money on as donations. The Childrens Christmas project garnered just over $350 and Joe and Vicki rounded it up to $400.

Lea Wait: So many wonderful Christmases! The first with each of my children … but one special one was my first in Maine, in 1975. I was in my late twenties, divorced, working in downtown New York City, working on my doctorate at NYU at night, and living in

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Bob & I in Maine for Christmas, 1975

Greenwich Village. The guy I was dating, Bob Thomas, had no Christmas plans: his family was in Venezuela that year. I invited him to come to Maine with me, and he decided that would be an adventure. I had to work until noon Christmas Eve, but he didn’t. He rented a car and picked me and all my Christmas bundles up at my apartment at about 12:30. As we headed north on 7th Avenue, he asked , “Do you think I’ll need gloves in Maine?” I assured him he would, and he double-parked at a pharmacy, ran in, and bought gloves. It started to snow when we were in Connecticut. By Massachusetts several inches were on the ground, and traffic had slowed down. By Maine we were having a heavy storm. We stopped at the Kennebunk rest stop and I called my family to tell them to go ahead with dinner … we were on our way, but we’d be late. We were, but the drive was beautiful. Somewhere along the way Bob told me, for the first time, that he loved me. Christmas morning, before plows were out, we walked up the hill in the snow and looked down at the river. It is still amazing to me that Bob and I now celebrate Christmas together in that same house. It will just be the two of us this year. But it will still be magical.

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Christmas 1952 when I was five

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson: Every Christmas was memorable when I was a child. I didn’t realize then how special that was. You see, I’m an only child, and I was the only grandchild for one set of grandparents and the only one living nearby for the other. My family wasn’t wealthy, not by a long shot (Daddy worked for the electric company and Mom was a part-time beautician) but they didn’t stint on the presents. Can you say spoil the kid rotten? But I have other fond memories besides the presents. We went to Christmas Eve carol services. The whole (small) family gathered for dinner on Christmas Day. And Mom outdid herself preparing a delicious meal. We may even have used the good china, although I wouldn’t swear to that (subject for a future blog!).

Susan Vaughan: I wish I had photos from my childhood, but my family didn’t take pictures, or if they did, none was preserved. One special Christmas comes to mind. I think I was about eight and had asked for a bicycle. I’ve always had trouble falling asleep, and that Christmas Eve was no exception. From upstairs, I listened and peeked to see what was going on in the living room. My father was opening the big box I’d spied in the garage the day before, and out spilled a blue Schwinn–in parts. Yes, he had to put together the bicycle. I don’t know how long it took because before the process ended, I did give up to the heaviness in my eyelids and fell asleep. The next morning I came downstairs to find a complete Schwinn with a big red bow on the handlebars. That first bike was special because my father spent hours putting it together, but memorable also because that Christmas Eve was the first time I’d ever heard him swear.

Brenda Buchanan:  My father had a ritual around my mother’s Christmas gift.

Before his annual Christmas shopping expedition, Dad would poke around in Mom’s closet, both to remind himself what size she wore and seek inspiration about what might make her happiest that particular year. When my sisters and I were teenagers he sometimes enlisted us to help, but mostly he did his own detecting.

On the day of his uptown foray he knocked off work early in the afternoon and showered away the inexorable soot and grime associated with his oil burner service business. Clad in clean pants and shirt, his dark hair parted on the side and the faint scent of Old Spice wafting from his face and neck, he climbed in his truck and took himself to Barney Rosen’s on upper Main Street.

A big man, I’m sure Buck stood out in the ladies department of the clothing store like a partridge in a muster of peacocks. I’m equally sure he wasn’t a bit self-conscious. My dad was among the first wave of soldiers on Omaha Beach on D-Day. It would take a heck of a lot more than a clutch of opinionated salesladies to intimidate him.

An hour or so later he’d return home, a sizeable wrapped gift under his arm, mission accomplished. Under the tree it would go, the subject of as much speculation as our own presents.

On Christmas morning Dad was oblivious to the stack of packages piling up around his feet until my mother held his gift in her hands. Every iota of his attention was trained on her as she untied the ribbon and slowly pulled off the paper. Eventually—and inevitably, because the man had marvelous taste—she’d hold the dress or jacket or sweater up for all to see, her flushed Irish cheeks evidence of her pleasure. “It’s so beautiful,” she’d say. “I love it!”

A private smile would be exchanged across the room, then my father would sit back in his chair and relax, having received the only gift that mattered.

Dick Cass:

So I’m marrying into a highly matriarchal family—my wife and her siblings raised by their mother; Anne’s grandmother widowed in her thirties, never remarried; aunts galore without benefit of living husbands—and it is the Christmas before we will marry. We are dressed up for Christmas dinner at my future mother-in-law’s house, as was her requirement, and I’m a little apprehensive especially about meeting Anne’s father’s mother, who has a well-cultivated reputation for saying what she means when she thinks of it.

At this time, she is deep into her nineties, and I’d say confined to a wheelchair except that she seems to dominate the chair more than it defines her. She is holding a delicate crystal glass of Dubonnet, which is her tipple, and gesturing to me with a crooked arthritic finger from her place by the fireplace, which is hung with greenery and red ribbon.

“You,” she says. “I hear the two of you are getting married.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’m eying the bottle of Macallan 12 on the side table and wondering how long before I can get to it.

“Are you planning on children?”[image error]

Feeling like there’s no good place to go with this question, I hem.

“Probably not,” I say, then toughen up. “Actually no. We’ve talked about it.”

She leans her regal head back and looks up at me with the bright fire of her mischievous nature and nails me.

“Good,” she says. “You’ll be rich.”

I laugh every time I think of her, long gone now, and only sometimes wish she were right about that one thing.

Bruce Robert Coffin:  Christmas has always held a special place in my heart. My childhood memories of the holiday stay with me even now. I remember how hard my parents and grandparents worked to make the holiday great. I still possess many of the decorations and ornaments that hung on my grandparent’s trees. I was fortunate enough to marry a lady who loves the season as much as I do.

I enjoy so many things about Christmas that it’s difficult to pick only a few to tell you about. I remember listening to Andy Williams, Bing Crosby, Perry Como, and Johnny Mathis on the record player, for hours as we decorated the tree or wrapped presents.  Then flipping the albums when the stack had finished playing and starting again on the B sides. The smell of a freshly cut balsam and the adventure that accompanied tying it to the roof of the Volkswagen and bringing it home. Watching the many television specials. Some of my favorites were and still are the 1951 version of Dicken’s Christmas Carol, starring Alastair Sim, a Charlie Brown Christmas, It’s a Wonderful Life, and the Walton’s Homecoming.

 

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I guess what I love about Christmas the most is connecting with old friends and coworkers, the people I may only see once or twice a year. We exchange greeting cards, emails, texts, and occasionally meet up for a drink or celebratory dinner.

Here’s to making new and lasting memories this holiday season. From our home to yours, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Vegan (GASP!) Baking for the Holidays, With Jen Blood

Okay, yes: butter makes things taste good. Eggs make things light and delicious. Regardless, the lovely Ben and I decided to go vegan last year in response to the poor treatment of animals in food production and concerns about the impact of factory farming on the environment. Ben has done better at this than I have; at this point, he’s hardcore. I learned a few months ago that I have thyroid issues that increase my sensitivity to gluten and soy, so I added locally produced eggs and fish to my diet. Since when I’m baking it’s typically for both of us, however, I tend to stick with vegan recipes — and have been super excited with the results. I thought since we’re celebrating the holidays here, I would talk a little about the intricacies of vegan baking, and include one of my very favorite recipes: vegan pumpkin donuts.

The biggest issue with vegan baking is figuring out how to get moistness and texture into a recipe with neither eggs nor butter. To accomplish this, there are several ways to go. You can make what are known as flax eggs, made from ground flax seed and water; you can use vegan butter, coconut oil, pumpkin, banana, or apple sauce… I’m sure there are other options out there, but these are my personal favorites. In this particular recipe, pumpkin and coconut oil achieve the desired results quite well.

I adapted this recipe from one I found at Persnickety Plates, and absolutely love it – I’ve tried others, but they never come out as well as this. So, without further ado… Let’s jump in.

INGREDIENTS

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WET

1/4 cup coconut oil

3 tablespoons canned organic pumpkin

1/2 cup almond or soy milk

1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon apple cider vinegar

DRY

1 cup flour

1/2 cup sugar

1 1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon freshly ground nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

COATING

2 tablespoons sugar + 1 teaspoon cinnamon, mixed well

EQUIPMENT

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Donut pan

Pastry decorating bag

INSTRUCTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, and spray donut pan with cooking spray. If you’re going with the whole vegan theme, make sure you choose a non-butter spray (canola oil works well).
In a medium-sized mixing bowl, mix together wet ingredients: coconut oil, pumpkin, non-dairy milk, vanilla, and apple cider vinegar. Whisk well.
In a separate bowl, mix together dry ingredients: flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, nutmeg, and cinnamon.
Now comes the tricky part, because even if you’re using coconut oil that’s at room temperature, it gets super clumpy when mixed with cool ingredients like almond milk. So, take your wet ingredients and warm them for 25 to 30 seconds in the microwave (make sure they’re not in a metal bowl when you do this – because I have done that. Trust me, it doesn’t work out well). Mix well to get rid of lumps.
Add wet ingredients in with dry, and stir well. When done, you should have a fairly wet batter. A really, really tasty batter – and because there are no raw eggs, you don’t have to worry about poisoning yourself if you’d like to snag a bite. Go, vegans! [image error]
Now that you have your delicious batter, it’s time to make the donuts. The original recipe I went by says you can just use a Ziploc bag with one of the corners snipped off rather than a pastry bag, but after doing this half a dozen times and getting myself completely covered in donut batter, I splurged and bought a 16″ Wilton decorating bag at Jo Ann’s.  It was totally worth it. Whether you’re using a Ziploc baggie or going all in with a decorating bag of your very own, do what you need to to get your batter into the donut pan, filling about 3/4 of the way.
Use a small spatula to smooth batter out in each receptacle to avoid wonky-looking donuts. [image error]
Bake for 10 – 12 minutes, then remove to cool. [image error]
While donuts are cooling slightly, mix your cinnamon sugar. Then, remove donuts, dip in the cinnamon sugar, and plate. Or devour, depending on your preference – they’re pretty amazing while still warm. [image error]And that, my friends, is how to make vegan pumpkin donuts. Historically, they’ve always been a hit when I’ve made them – even with non-vegans! Add to that the fact that they’re simple to make and take very little time, and they make a great addition to any holiday spread. Whether you choose to make these, use your own recipes, or order out for pizza and Holy Donuts, I wish you all the best this Christmas. I’ll see you guys next year!

Jen Blood is the USA Today-bestselling author of the Erin Solomon mysteries and the Flint K-9 mysteries. Learn more and sign up to receive your complimentary Jen Blood starter library at www.jenblood.com. 

 

 

“When Did You Start to Write?”

Lea Wait, here, thinking about the question, “When did you start to write?” It’s a question writers are often asked, but it’s not easy to answer.

Does the questioner really mean “When did you start writing fiction? or “When did you start publishing?” or “Have you always wanted to write?”

I always answer that I decided to be a writer when I was in second grade, just beginning to feel a mastery of words that allowed me to read by myself. I wanted to create stories; to someday have my name on a book shelved with all those other wonderful books in the library. That seemed an impossible dream, so I never told anyone about it. But it never left me.[image error]

In the New Jersey suburb where I attended school, students in grades one through six had an hour off for lunch. There was no school cafeteria, so we all walked (or were picked up and driven) home. Thinking back, it must have been a real pain for families (usually our mothers) to always be available for one hour in the middle of each school day. But at the time, no one questioned it, so far as I knew. It was just the way it was, the way all little girls had to wear dresses to school and boys had to wear slacks and shirts.

My home was only about three blocks from my school, and no other children lived near me, so I always walked alone, even in rain or snow.

(My mother would only pick me up at school one day each year: the last day. Her car would be packed to the brim with my two sisters, our current parakeets, and one suitcase each. We headed to Maine the minute that last bell rang in June.)

But from Labor Day until late June  I walked those three blocks between my house and the school four times a day. I knew exactly where the sidewalk buckled, and what the houses I passed looked like. I didn’t know who lived in most of those houses, but I knew where an aggressive dog was often tied up and how to avoid the yard that was his domain.

One house I passed four times a day was on a corner. It was large and rambling and mysterious, and surrounded by a high wall. I longed to see the inside of that house, which never looked inhabited, and I made up stories about the people who might have lived there, and why they weren’t living there now.

Books, and the stories they held, were a major part of my life. They had been since I’d lived with my grandmother when I was three or four and she’d read poetry to me and taken me to her local library near Boston to borrow books we could read together.

I told myself stories about what might happen in school, or at home, or maybe in the next chapter of the book I was reading. (I usually ate my lunch quickly and then was able to sneak in a chapter or two before heading back to school.)

I remember the moment, when, walking home in fifth grade, I realized that those stories in my head included dialogue, and were in paragraph formats. My imagination was automatically following the patterns I’d learned from reading.

I didn’t write my stories down — but they were part of my life, and, perhaps more important, part of how I saw and explained my world.

So — when did I start to write? I think it was before I could put words on paper. It started when I “wrote” stories in my head to explain the world I lived in, and that I dreamed one day of living in.

I may have only been in elementary school, a little girl with straight hair wearing a dress and saddle shoes walking back and forth to school, but I was already beginning to use the tools, the words, that would define my life.

 

The Best Christmas Gift

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Vaughn

Those of you who know me are aware that when it comes to the holidays I can make Scrooge (prior to the visit from Marley’s ghost) look like the epitome of Christmas. This attitude is due to a number of events that I won’t go into. Now to the subject of this blog.

A week before Thanksgiving I got a message from Lorie Voisine, a teacher at Fort Kent Community High School asking if I would be willing to visit the school and speak to a group of students. As most writers would do, I jumped all over the opportunity to speak with aspiring writers and I agreed. We settled on Thursday, December 7th as a good date to do it. When she asked if I would have books for sale I was surprised. The last thing she said caught my attention. WENDIGO takes place in the north Maine woods and the towns along the Canadian Border, including Fort Kent. This must have caught the eye of some one at the school and Lorie informed me that reading the book had become the thing to do at the school. Now I was thoroughly interested. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever believe that one of my books would be the rage anywhere, let alone at a high school. The book was so popular that the library and faculty were ordering more copies.

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Still not certain what to expect, I arrived at the school at the appointed time and was met at the door by Lorie. She informed me that over thirty students had signed up to attend. I entered the school library and got the first of several surprises I was to get that afternoon. When I was introduced to the librarian she was reading the book. In short time the students came in and I got the the second surprise, almost half of them had their personal copies of WENDIGO!

I spoke for about my journey from a junior high school student to published author for thirty minutes and then opened the floor for questions. Surprise number three, the questions asked were thoughtful and the majority were on writing and the writing process.

In short as the afternoon passed I asked if they had a writer’s group in the school. The answer was no. I replied why not? I’ll bet you have a Science Club and a Math Club. Then I said, “If you decide that you want to start a group I’d be more than happy to assist in setting it up.

Two days later Lorie messaged me to thank me and she said, “The students went back to their classes and started talking to others about my talk and surprisingly they emphasized the fact that I had told them to read, read, read–especially in the genre they wanted to write.

As I write this blog I realize that I took away as much as I gave at that talk–and isn’t that really what Christmas is about? I had never seen so many copies of one of my books in the hands of readers and sold books too. Most importantly, I left there in a rush to get back to my word processor to write my next book.

MERRY CHRISTMAS & A HAPPY WRITING NEW YEAR

Star Wars: Pantsers vs. Plotters

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Tis the season for Star Wars, so excuse me if I use the popular movie franchise to talk about the difference between novel Plotters vs. Pantsers.

Us writers typically fall into one of these two categories. While some authors claim that we’re equally divided, we certainly don’t live in harmonious union. Don’t get me wrong. Some of my best friends are Plotters, happily typing away from their evil Deathstar planet. I don’t get too upset that these Plotters are hell bent on world domination. But I’ll be totally honest with you, reader. When the subject comes up there’s a bit of value shaming involved. Plotters proudly pull out their hundred page outlines, waving them through the air if it were a lightsaber in the hands of an imperial stormtrooper. It’s meant to shame us Pantsers into coming over to the Dark Side.

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But I’ll never go over to the Dark Side and become a Plotter! Not when we have the Force on our side.

For those of you not familiar with these terms, I will explain. Plotters are the Darth Vader’s of the writing universe. They spend weeks and months detailing their novels. All their subplots and themes are written in colored ink. Every character has a name. There are separate notes for “character motivation” and “Timelines”. They do a “Hero’s Journey” synopsis and a meticulous “Story Map”, which they cover the walls of their office with. Oh, and there are index cards. Hundreds upon hundreds of index cards. Plotters are the evil force in the writing universe, and Pansters fill the ranks of the Rebel Alliance. Plotters snuff all the creativity out of their story, we believe. They seek to control the universe and expand their control over the literary domain. They are proud of their accomplishments and hold up their massive outlining tombs as a badge of honor.

Pantsers, on the other hand, have the Force behind them. We tend to live fast and free, and live and let live, and often write by the seat of our pants. We’ve been freed from orthodox convention and see ourselves as underdogs in this galactic war. More often than not, we are made to feel inferior because of our quiet preference to use the Force (Subconsciousness) to our novel’s benefit. We are the Yodas of the writing universe, only desiring to write by instinct and be left alone. We create wholly using the Force, writing under the motto: May The Pantser Force Be With You!

All kidding aside, this Star Wars analogy is a fun way to explain the two methods, but it does have some truths. And I must admit, I’m often jealous of those writers who can produce a detailed plot outline for their novels. It must make the writing so much easier. When done well, it’s merely a matter of execution: writing the novel.

So why have I never been able to successfully write an outline? It goes to the point that every artist creates differently. We’re all unique and our brains process and produce differently. What works for one writer has no relevance for another. Or maybe I’m just jealous.

I must, however, take exception to this conflict and introduce a wholly different concept; an idea that is quite contrary to the accepted wisdom. I posit that Pantsers are actually highly advanced Plotters, but who are just too timid to admit it. I argue that the first drafts of our novels are merely exceptionally detailed plots outlines. Mine usually run between eighty to ninety thousand words. Now that’s pretty good outlining.

Lee Child claims that he does absolutely no research before writing one of his novels. Amazing, huh? So that begs this question: how do writers come up with their ideas? In my case, once the seed of an idea hits me, I utilize mental tent poles. I think of myself as a nomadic scribe, traveling to spaces that are creatively more fertile than others. Once I come up with the initial idea for a book, my mental tent poles provide me with a loosely based map of where I hope to go. When things change, I simply pull out my shallow poles and stick them into the new locations. Thus they keep shifting depending on where my imagination wanders, and where my characters dare take me. The few times in my life when I made detailed outlines, I found my tent poles had been so deeply pounded into the ground that it was difficult for me to pick up and move. The novel then died of malnutrition.

I suppose what I’m saying is this: flexibility is the key to Pantsers like myself. We develop a novelistic way of thinking that allows us to internalize plot devices while at the same time freeing us from the rigidity of central planning. Pantsing allows us to be nimble and cut through the red tape of outlining. It gives us greater currency to utilize the Force—subconscious—then it does to rely on the Dark Side of plotting. Grass roots creativity versus Top Down dictatorial control.

Just joking, my Plotter friends.

So us Pantsers should stand tall and proudly proclaim our identity. There’s room for all of us, so don’t be made to feel like second class citizens in this wonderful universe that we call literature.

And may the Force be with all of you authors the next time you sit down to write.

i hope you all enjoy happy holidays and a wonderful New Year. And don’t forget to check out my new novel, THE NEIGHBOR (Kensington), which is now on presale and comes out April 24, 2018. https://www.amazon.com/Neighbor-Josep...

 

Top ingredient for successful writing: Imagination

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You just KNOW there’s a body in there, don’t you?

One thing that always gets a laugh when I give an author talk is when I tell the audience that I always expect to find a body when I open the door of an outhouse at a state park or somewhere else remote.

Doesn’t everybody? I ask.

Cue hilarity.

The thing is, I’m not joking. Seriously.

One thing we’re always asked as authors is where we get our ideas. Not only by curious readers, but I’ve also been asked that by aspiring writers, too, including a high school student who recently had to interview me for a school project.

There are so many answers to that. I could probably talk about nothing but that for hours. But the bottom line is imagination.

I’m not sure where imagination comes from, but I know what it leads to: wondering “what if?”

What if I open that door and there’s a body?

It’s taking what’s expected and turning it on its head, or at least sideways, and then imagining where it goes from there.

Imagination isn’t only essential for good fiction writing, it’s also the key to good non-fiction writing, even news reporting. And no, I’m not saying reporters make things up. I won’t get into that today, but you can read my post from last February “You know what folks? We’re not making this up” for my take on that.

The worst journalism is writing that suffers from lack of imagination – someone tells a reporter something, and he or she parrots it to readers instead of saying, “What if there’s more to the story?” The best news stories are the ones that come out of someone saying, “How can we look at this in a new way?”

The best fiction, too, is a product of imagination – when writers veer away from the same old stuff.

As a judge for many years in a self-published book contest, one of the biggest issues I saw with those books was a lack of imagination. Dialogue that sounded just like all the dialogue in a million buddy movies (I call it “Die Hard” syndrome). Characters that we’ve seen a million times before. Plots that a reader can predict from the first page. Lack of voice.

I think sometimes writers are afraid to follow their imaginations because where it goes is somewhere they haven’t been before, and they don’t have the confidence to think that’s okay.

Albert Einstein said something like imagination is more important than knowledge. The point being, you can have all the facts in the world, but where are they going to take you?

If I have one piece of advice for aspiring writers, it’s to let your imagination run free and find out.

Weekend Update: December 16-17, 2017

[image error]Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by Maureen Milliken (Monday), Joe Cass (Tuesday), Vaughn Hardacker (Wednesday), Lea Wait (Thursday), and Jen Blood (Friday).

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

 

 

 

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

For Your Reading Pleasure

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here. Of late, over on Facebook, writers have been tagging each other to post the opening paragraphs of a work in progress. I put up the first scene from the book I just turned in, next year’s Liss MacCrimmon adventure, Overkilt. That’s right. A WIP, by definition, isn’t going to be available to for awhile. In some cases, we may be talking years. So, upon thinking it over, and because I was badly in need of a blog topic for today, I’ve decided to share the first scene of the new book you can buy right now, in either hardcover or ebook. This is the opening (from my original manuscript, before some minor copy edits) of X Marks the Scot, the eleventh Liss MacCrimmon mystery. Hint: books make great Christmas presents.

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Chapter One

“That is one ugly portrait,” Sherri Campbell said.

“I know.” Despite her agreement, Liss Ruskin raised her paddle to signal that she’d start the bidding at twenty-five dollars.

The auctioneer ramped up his patter, hoping to encourage others to bid. A dark-haired man standing at the back signaled that he’d go to fifty dollars. Before Liss could get her paddle in the air, someone else went to seventy-five.

She hesitated, despite being egged on from the platform set up beneath a large awning in the open area behind the Chadwick mansion. Surely the bidding wouldn’t go much higher. This wasn’t the original, after all, only a very good copy of a moderately famous depiction of  a bagpiper. She upped the bid to one hundred dollars.

The “Piper to the Laird of Grant” that belonged to the National Museums of Scotland had been painted in 1714. Its subject was a man named William Cumming, a member of a family of musicians who had already been in the retinue of the leader of Clan Grant for some seven generations by the time he took his turn. Since Liss’s own family, the MacCrimmons, had also been famous for playing the Highland bagpipe a few centuries back, it would be appropriate to acquire the portrait and hang it in Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium, the shop in which she sold Scottish imports and Scottish-themed gift items and clothing.

“Beautiful piece of art! Look at those legs.”

The auctioneer, an out-of-stater brought in by the new owner of the Chadwick mansion to sell off the contents, probably thought he was being funny. A few people in a crowd of perhaps a hundred and fifty, encouraged him by laughing.

The legs in question were clad in hose knit in a different pattern than the kilt, and the kilt itself had been painted in a tartan no member of clan Grant would recognize in the twenty-first century. At least the banner and the depiction of Castle Grant in the background appeared to be fairly accurate.

The dark-haired man bid one hundred and fifty dollars.

The other rival bidder, a sturdy specimen who was sixty if she was a day, waved her paddle in the air and called out that she’d jump to two hundred.

So much for twenty-five dollar increments! Liss winced, but nodded when the auctioneer looked her way, the signal that she’d up the bid by another fifty. She’d already gone over the limit she’d had in mind when she started. That was the trouble with auctions—they brought out the competitive spirit in nearly everyone.

The woman bid again, followed by the man, bringing the high bid to three hundred and fifty dollars. Liss swallowed convulsively but gave it one last shot. In for four hundred dollars, she surreptitiously crossed her fingers.

Neither of her competitors lifted a paddle.

“Sure you don’t want to make another bid? Sir? Madam? It’s a real bargain! No?” He shook his head, as if he took the disappointment personally. “I think you’re making a big mistake! No? Sure? Well, then—going once!”

When he paused to give the other parties one last chance to reconsider, Liss held her breath, but the only person who moved was the photographer who’d been shooting pictures of the event.

“Going twice.” The auctioneer made it sound like a question, but this time he hesitated only an instant before banging down his gavel. “Sold! Item goes to the little lady with paddle number twenty-two!”

Liss expelled a puff of pent-up air. She’d paid way too much, but she’d won. She was now the proud owner of an authentic copy of a truly ghastly portrait of an eighteenth-century bagpiper.

“Next up, a trunk full of books and papers. I’ve got no idea what’s in here, folks. Could be stock certificates for all I know. You’ll have to bid to find out if you’ve made your fortune.”

Sherri gave a delicate snort. “Unless leprechauns hid a pot of gold in there since I last saw it, that’s a trunk full of junk.”

“Old books can be valuable,” Liss reminded her.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to bid on it.”

Liss shook her head. Aside from the fact that three people were already waving their paddles in the air, she didn’t see the sense in wasting money on an old steamer trunk, no matter what it might contain.

“The books looked like ledgers to me,” Sherri added. “Dull business stuff.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Sherri, Liss remembered, had been stuck with the thankless task of comparing the contents of the house after a theft had been discovered with the inventory made when the town took possession of the property for back taxes. That had been the only way to determine which items were missing.

Liss placed her paddle on the grass beneath her folding chair, further reducing the chance that she’d give in to temptation a second time. When a light breeze stirred the warm air and dislodged a strand of her dark brown hair, she resisted the urge to reach up and tuck it behind her hear. At an auction, even an innocent movement like that could be taken as a bid.

She hadn’t come with the intention of buying anything. Plain old curiosity had brought her back to the Chadwick mansion. Nearly eight years earlier, she had spent a good deal of time surrounded by the items that were now up for sale. She’d volunteered to turn the abandoned house, an example of high Victorian architecture built on the outskirts of her home town of Moosetookalook, Maine, into a Halloween attraction. The project had not exactly gone as planned. Perhaps they should have known better than to think it would, given that the house had once been owned by a notorious gangster.

Sherri hadn’t bothered to sign up to bid. She was in attendance because she was Moosetookalook’s chief of police. Crowd and traffic control were her responsibility. She didn’t expect any problems. People who came to country auctions were usually courteous to each other, but there were bound to be problems if everyone decided to leave at the same time. Cars, vans, and trucks filled the small parking area next to the mansion and extended in a single line all along a quarter-mile of winding driveway and out onto the shoulder of the two-lane rural road beyond.

If Sherri hadn’t been in uniform, she’d never have been taken for a cop. She was a petite, blue-eyed blonde. In her private life she was a wife and the mother of three. She was also a textbook example of how appearances could be deceiving. As Liss well knew, her friend was fully capable of taking down an angry drunk twice her size. She could have him in handcuffs before he knew what hit him.

A four-poster bed was the next item offered for sale. It looked a good deal better than the last time Liss had seen it. All those years ago, it had been covered with dust and cobwebs. Someone had taken the trouble to clean and polish all the furniture in the auction and had done what they could to spruce up other items, too.

“I’m amazed this stuff is in such good shape,” she whispered to Sherri. “Did the last owner ever do anything with the place other than install better locks?”

“Not that I heard.”

The Chadwick mansion had been sold twice since that fateful Halloween. The first time, the town had let the place and its contents go for a song, anxious to be rid of the burden of keeping trespassers off the property. Liss had never met that buyer. The next she’d heard of him, he had died and his heirs had unloaded the property. The new owner proposed to knock down the old house and build senior citizens’ housing in its place.

Both before and after the portrait of the piper was auctioned off, a steady stream of  household furnishings came up for bid. Many of the items seemed familiar to Liss, even after such a long time. She’d definitely remembered that standing wardrobe chest, and the hall tree that stood more than six feet tall, and the avocado green kitchen appliances that dated from the 1950s. There had been dozens of framed pictures in all sizes and shapes, and almost as many pedestals, tables, and curio cabinets.

“This auction offers nothing if not variety,” she remarked when the auctioneer’s helpers brought out a parlor organ that was at least a full century older than the stove and refrigerator.

Another bed followed the organ, this one elaborately carved. The same bidder bought it and the matching highboy that was offered next, paying what Liss considered an exorbitant amount of money. He was undoubtedly “from away.”

“And now,” the auctioneer announced, “what you’ve all been waiting for—the original owner’s outstanding collection of the taxidermist’s art.”

First up was a stuffed pheasant that had seen better days. It appeared to be molting. The moth-eaten moose head that came next was just as repulsive, but people bid on both and seemed happy to win them.

“No accounting for taste,” Sherri muttered.

Quickly losing interest in wildlife that had been dead longer than she’d been alive, Liss shifted her attention to Sherri. She watched her friend scan their surroundings with her professional cop’s eyes. The crowd was beginning to thin out now that the best items had been sold and only more stuffed birds remained. A small traffic jam had developed at the rear of the covered area, where winning bidders went to pay for what they’d bought and collect their prizes. A few buyers were growing impatient, but so far no one had caused any problems.

Liss was in no hurry to leave. She’d bummed a ride to the auction with Sherri, which meant she’d be staying at the site until the bitter end. She was content to amuse herself by people-watching.

The dark-haired man who’d bid against her for the portrait had purchased at least a dozen framed pictures, making her wonder if he was after the ornate wooden frames rather than the artwork. She doubted the frame on the Grant piper was all that valuable, but perhaps he, too, had been caught up in the bidding frenzy. Either that, or he’d been miffed to discover he had competition and had driven up the price out of spite.

As Liss strolled closer to the line of people waiting to pay, she looked around for the second rival bidder. She didn’t see the older woman in the crowd but she did catch sight of the steamer trunk that had been sold right after the portrait. A woman small enough to fit inside it was attempting to haul it toward the parking area. She gave a mighty heave that moved the trunk a few inches but wasn’t making much progress overall. If it was full of ledgers, as Sherri had said, it must weigh a ton. Liss increased her walking speed.

“Can I give you a hand with that?”

The woman gave a start and turned wide hazel eyes upward to meet Liss’s gaze. At five-foot-nothing, she was a full nine inches shorter than Liss. Somewhere in her mid-twenties, she had curly light yellow hair. In the bright sunlight and displayed against equally pale skin, it almost looked white.

As if to emphasize her lack of color, the trunk’s new owner had dressed in black slacks and a burgundy-colored tunic. It had loose, gauzy sleeves gathered at the wrists, but it struck Liss as being much too warm for a nice day like this one. The outfit stood out for another reason, too. Almost everyone else, Liss included, wore jeans and t-shirts. An estate auction in rural Maine was not an occasion to dress up, especially if you expected to cart off heavy pieces of furniture when it ended.

When the woman didn’t say anything, giving the impression that the offer was unwelcome, Liss forced herself to smile and try again. “You look like you could use some help.”     It was second nature for her to be friendly and helpful to strangers, especially those who were out of their element, but it belatedly occurred to her that a woman as tiny as this one might well have a streak of independence twice her size. She’d have trouble lifting a folding chair, let alone a steamer trunk full of books, and that must gall her.

A cute-as-a-button turned-up nose wrinkled and the blonde huffed out an exasperated breath. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you! I didn’t think it would be so heavy.”

She spoke in a high, little-girl voice that was a good match for the rest of her. A smile blossomed on her face, revealing dimples in both cheeks and sparking a memory Liss couldn’t quite grasp.

“I’m Liss Ruskin,” she said aloud.

“Benny Beamer.”

Liss blinked at her.

“Yes. I know it’s a silly name, but Benny is less of a mouthful than Benedicta. Don’t you just love old family names? Is Liss a nickname, too? Or did I misunderstand? Is it Lisa? I’m babbling. Sorry. It’s been a long day.” She put one hand to the small of her back. “I think I pulled something.”

Liss couldn’t help but sympathize. “It’s Liss and it’s short for Amaryllis. My mother is named Violet. She was going for a flower theme.”

Working together, they maneuvered the heavy trunk another few feet, but it was obvious they weren’t going to be able to move it much farther. Liss rested her fists on her hips and assessed the situation. “Maybe this would be easier if we unloaded it first.”

“I don’t have any boxes for the contents and I don’t want to risk damaging anything.”

“Are you a book dealer?”

“Oh, no. This is research for an article I’m writing on businesses in the 1920s.” Her grin broadened and her sausage curls bounced as he head bobbed. “I can hardly wait to dive in.”

At Benny’s words, Liss pictured her poised on the edge of the open trunk as if it were a swimming pool. The image was quickly replaced by an iconic scene in black and white from a very old movie, and Liss suddenly realized why Benny’s appearance had seemed so familiar. Benny Beamer had the look of a grown-up Shirley Temple, the moppet who had been a child star back in the 1930s. She wondered if Benny knew the words to “On the Good Ship Lollipop.”

“We need a dolly,” Benny said, cutting short Liss’s imaginings.

“The auctioneer probably has one.”

“He’s still selling stuffed birds.” Benny dimpled again. Liss didn’t suppose she could help it.

“Tell you what,” she said. “You stay here with the trunk and I’ll go find some muscle. I have to pay for what I bought today anyway. The cashier should be able to flag down one of the auctioneer’s helpers.”

Liss left her new acquaintance sitting on top of the steamer trunk in the warm June sunshine. Odd what some people considered fascinating reading, she thought. When it came to running her own business, Liss’s least favorite part of the job was the bookkeeping. There was no way she could see herself getting excited about a stranger’s statements of profit and loss, especially when those records were nearly a century old.

She paid for the portrait she’d bought and collected it, but by the time she located a man with a dolly and turned to point him in the right direction, Benny had already been rescued. Her white knight was a muscular young man strong enough to hoist the trunk onto one shoulder as if it contained nothing heavier than feathers.

Amused, Liss watched them move away. Benny was self-reliant and had the brains to write articles on obscure subjects. She was also smart enough to know when it was to her advantage to fall back on her natural assets. Young women who were pretty, petite, and helpless-looking could get away with murder!

With a shrug, Liss half-dragged and half-carried her own purchase toward the far end of the driveway. Sherri had deliberately parked the cruiser there to make sure she didn’t get blocked in, as she might have if she’d chosen a spot closer to the house. Liss took her time, passing scattered groups, some silent, some chatting and laughing, and being passed by other people less burdened with their purchases than she was. As she trudged along, the auctioneer’s increasingly frantic attempts to raise the bid on a worse-for-wear stuffed owl grew fainter and fainter.

Liss didn’t anticipate much of a wait when she finally reached the cruiser. A good many cars and trucks had already left the site and the number of vehicles parked on the shoulder of the narrow road rapidly decreased even as she watched. She caught sight of the steamer trunk again as Benny’s hero loaded it into a white van. The dark-haired man who had bid against her for the Grant piper nodded to her as he stacked framed prints in the trunk of a dark blue hatchback.

At that moment, Sherri came up behind her. “Ready to go?”

“You’re not staying till the bitter end?” A steady stream of departing auction-goers continued to pass by them.

Sherri shook her head. “They’ve mostly cleared out. There aren’t enough people left to snarl traffic.”

Opening the back door of the cruiser, she reached for one end of the portrait frame at the same time Liss tried to pick it up from the other side. Just as they started to lift, Liss lost her grip. As if it had a life of its own, the painting leapt out of her grasp to land with considerable force on one corner of its frame, striking the tarmac with an ominous cracking sound.

In slow motion, the portrait tumbled forward to land on its face. Liss stared down at it in dismay. The wooden backing had split open, leaving a gap through which she could see the reverse of the stretched canvas . . . and something else, something that did not belong there. She bent closer to work it free.

“Talk about a cliché,” she murmured.

“What is it?” Sherri asked.

“You’re going to think this is crazy,” Liss said, “but I think I just found a treasure map.”

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Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of more than fifty 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. New in 2017 is a collection of short stories, Different Times, Different Crimes. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com

 

 

Looking at Shame and Slipped Disks in an entirely different way

John Clark reflecting on a couple accomplishments from my checkered library career. One, The Publishers’ Hall of Shame, ended in 2008, but made a real impact on both the library and publishing world. It began while I was the mental health librarian at AMHI. I started noticing complaints by fellow Maine librarians about new books falling apart. They would get a brand new hardcover book, catalog it, check it out and a day or so later, the patron would return it with an angry or guilty look. The book would be split, separated into two halves held together by the spine.

As you might imagine, given the tight materials budgets most libraries had to work with, this was pretty distressing. When I offered to create a website listing books that fell apart quickly, the response was immediate and enthusiastic. To avoid any possible conflicts, I created it on my own personal website. It wasn’t long before the submissions started rolling in and it became clear there was a collective sense of frustration and powerlessness among librarians.

In short order, two other things happened that were pretty amazing and ultimately satisfying. First, I was asked if it would be okay to publicize what I was doing on other library listservs. I responded by saying that submissions from any library would be welcome. I hardly expected the wave of reports that followed. Not long after that, I got a phone call from one of the biggest printing firms in north America. It seemed that the book publishing industry was aware of the page and had started to have a level of concern about the specifics (title, publisher, number of copies reported).

The Hall of Shame was in existence for several years and I have to believe it got results as the number of books reported started dropping about six months after I had that conversation. I told the fellow that one simple change would get and keep them out of hot water. Use better glue. Skimping on it to save a few cents per book was backfiring on them. While they might be able to get away with cheap binding for casual readers, it was a deal breaker for libraries.

I have resurrected the pages where the reports were available here: http://www.hartland.lib.me.us/shame.html

The other project got its name from a description given to those of us who worked the evening shift at AMHI when I started there in 1970. Many of us partied after work and dated, sometimes for short periods of time, sometimes for a bit longer. We were all in our early twenties and uninterested in settling down, so we became ‘Interchangeable Parts.’

When libraries began lamenting the difficulty in obtaining replacement cassettes for audio books after one broke, I offered to house broken sets and maintain a list on the Hartland Library website. Since we had a new van delivery service in the state, it was easy to send broken sets to Hartland. I called it Maine’s Interchangeable Parts, or MIPS for short.

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(I also handled VHS video extras as part of MIPS until DVDs killed them off)

A fair number of libraries sent their busted beauties and a couple times every month, I was able to send out something needed by another library. After several years, cassettes were pushed aside by CDs, so I began receiving and listing them as well. Eventually cassettes went away completely, but TV series on DVDs took their place.

When you’re talking about a set costing 30-70 dollars, getting a replacement disk can really help your budget and get a careless patron off the hook. In the past year, MIPS has evolved yet again. There’s a huge disparity in library budgets, not only in terms of population, but in location. The further north you get, the slimmer the material budget tends to be and schools are always in Tight City.

Fortunately, a number of larger libraries recognize this and when they weed their audio and video collections, the weeded items come to me to be added to MIPS as complete sets. Two weeks ago, I flipped three boxes of unabridged young adult audio books on CD from a southern Maine library to the library at the high school in Guilford. That means kids in Piscataquis County now have access to some seventy books, many of which aren’t part of the collection in print form. Since there are many students who have trouble reading print, but can absorb spoken versions better, who knows the positive effects of this transfer upstate. If you want to see the full MIPS list, go here.

http://www.hartland.lib.me.us/Mips%20CD%20and%20DVD%20list.htm

A Matter of Perspective

[image error] Jessie: Looking out the window at eight, yes eight, fresh inches of  snow.

Writers tend to fall into two camps on the subject of writing or rewriting and which it is they prefer. Lovers of first draft enjoy the unbridled fun of seeing where their thoughts will take them, where the story could possibly go. Revisers prefer winnowing out the chaff and finding all the good stuff hidden in amongst the junk. The grass is always greener and I find I envy the passion and openness first draft aficionados say they feel.

I’m a reviser all the way. For me, first draft is about as much fun as a bout of stomach flu on a transatlantic flight. I type with my shoulders creeping up around my ears. This is probably a defense mechanism attempting to muffle the voice in my head reminding me I have no idea what I am doing or where I am going. Lately, I’ve caught my shoulders up around my ears even when I am not typing.

But some time ago, a new thought occurred to me. I love to throw parties; big parties with silly themes, sparkling stemware and elaborate finger food. I realized, just maybe, first draft could be like mailing out party invitations to people I have never met and then finding out who they are once they arrive.

I write loose outlines for all my books now and have come to think of them a bit like having written down a menu and a shopiing list but really having no idea if everything will work out. I’ve realized, as I put words on the screen, a scene at a time, it is like opening the door to greet guests and get to know them. I see how they look, get to know their sense of humor, find out what they prefer to eat. Do they hug the corners or head for the biggest group of strangers and take center stage? Do they prefer blue drinks with pink umbrellas or dry martinis with three olives and a whisper of vermouth? Do they have more fun if they help in the kitchen or would they rather supervise the music?

With this fresh perspective I’ve been learning to enjoy first draft. I sit at the keyboard each writign session with a sense of anticipation and with the expectation of a good time. I feel like an enthusiastic and experienced hostess instead of a bad driver lost in an unfamiliar city at rush hour. I may never end up liking first draft as much as I do revisions but if I keep convincing myself that working on first draft is like eating a serving of my second favorite dessert I might just make it all the way to the second draft without needing a chiropractor. When I get done with my current one, I may even throw a party.

Readers, how have you convinced yourself to see something differently? Writers, do you prefer working on first of subsequent drafts?