Nancy Martin's Blog, page 13

Denise Hamilton Guest Blogs

Do you think you could turn your passion into a career?  Friend of the Tarts Denise Hamilton has done just that--twice!  And she smells sooooooooo good while doing both.

 

 

By Denise Hamilton  

 

Last year, I went back to journalism.

I became the perfume columnist for the Los Angeles Times.

It's a once-a-month gig, which I figured was do-able for a dame who writes crime novels full-time.

Besides, I needed some justification for the bottles colonizing my bureau, bedroom closet and bathroom shelves.

How many bottles?   

*Cough* I plead the 5th Amendment.

The idea for a column came last year while chatting with the L.A. Times Magazine editor, a savvy lady who shares my obsession.

"You know,"  I told her between sips of cappuccino, " the NY Times has a perfume columnist. They do reviews and profile the 'noses' who create perfumes and they write about it seriously as an art form. Which I love! The classic French perfumes, and many of the artisanal ones made by niche firms these days are fantastic. Here, smell this."

With that, I reached into a tote bag and brought out a half-dozen bottles from vintage Shalimar extrait to Donna Karan's spicy oud scent Chaos to Andy Tauer's "L'Air du Desert Marocain," which smells like all the good spicy things about the North African desert, without the camel dung and camel driver BO.

Editor, taking bite of croissant and spritzing carefully: "Hmmm. Would you consider writing this column for us?"

After settling on a monthly fee, we discussed the format. It would be for the general reader, not the perfume insider.

The first column would introduce me and describe how I fell down the rabbit hole into perfume obsession, starting with a French/Russian mom who had plenty of Chanel, Yves St. Laurence, Rochas and Dior that I plundered as a child.

Subsequent columns have featured Q&As with acclaimed noses like Olivia Giacobetti (she created L'Artisan's Premier Figuer, the first true fig scent); the versatile orange note in perfumerie (neroli, orange blossom, candied orange, petitgrain, etc) and  why perfumers use civet, musks and cumin notes that hint at sweat, sex and unwashed skin.

The answer: Despite our myriad disinfectants, deodorizers and soaps, humans are attracted – if only subliminally - to musky animal odors. So in the same way that bakers add a pinch of salt to sweets, perfumers add a little soiled sheets darkness.

Consider Jacques Guerlain, who dreamed up such classics as Apres L'Ondee Mitsuko, L'Heure Bleue, Shalimar and so many others. Guerlain once said that he included the smell of his mistress's backside in each perfume he created. And as Chandler Burr so helpfully elaborates in his wonderful book "The Perfect Scent," Guerlain "was referring to all three holes."

You'll have to figure that one out for yourself, my friends.

So now, when I need a break from stabbing, strangling, bludgeoning and shooting people, I put on some perfume and get cracking with the next column.

I get a lot of complimentary samples from perfume firms, but I also buy a lot of bottles myself, especially rare, vintage and discontinued ones, as I'm always trying to expand my historical knowledge about the art form.

I'm also planning a column about perfumers who use all natural ingredients, eschewing the aromachemicals that make up the majority of ingredients in many department store perfumes today. For those with perfume allergies, the naturals, made in small batches, with organic natural ingredients, might provide a viable option.

And in my September column, I've found a way to combine my love of crime fiction and perfume by writing about how mystery authors from the 1920s to the present have used perfume and smell as a clue to whodunit. These include Dame Agatha Christie, SS. Van Dine, Ruth Rendell and…moi.

The protagonist of  my new book Damage Control is a budding perfumista, a skill that will come in handy by the book's end as she seeks a clue to  identify the killer. 

I hope you enjoy it!   

Meanwhile . . . What's your favorite perfume?

Denise Hamilton's crime novels have been finalists for the Edgar, Anthony, Macavity and Willa Cather awards. She also edited Los Angeles Noir and Los Angeles Noir 2: The Classics, which spent two months on bestseller lists, won the Edgar Award for "Best Short Story" and the Southern California Independent Booksellers' award for "Best Mystery of the Year."

Denise's new novel, Damage Control, will be published by Scribner on September 6, 2011 and has already received a starred review in Publishers Weekly (excellent), a rave advance from Kirkus (In a novel that marries celebrity culture, surf noir and the bonds of friendship, Hamilton is at the top of her game) and kudos from James Ellroy (A superb psychological thriller).

Home Again, Home Again

By Cornelia Read

So with any luck, while you are reading this I will be driving a U-Haul truck from Exeter, New Hampshire, to Park Slope, Brooklyn.

 

That would be if New York can avoid tsunamis, tornadoes, typhoons, monsoons, and any other kind of natural/manmade disaster to which geography is heir for the rest of this week. (and yes, I KNOW that Route 66 doesn't go through New York. But still, it's such a great road-trip song...)

I will be returning to the city of my birth, the closest thing I have to a hometown. And I am feeling pretty fucking awesome about that.

I've only got temporary digs, at the moment--a rental in a brownstone that's been sold already, super cheap until the actual closing (through October, anyway.) Here's a pic of what will be my new block:

Pretty damn great, right? Small but with a garden...

At the moment, it is Thursday, and I am supposed to be packing. More than I have already packed. I pick up the U-Haul tomorrow afternoon,

and have to book the guy to help me load it, and have the post office forward my mail, and remember to turn off the electricity and cable before I hit the road. And all that other grownup stuff I so totally suck at.

I have actually made a list of all the shit I have to do between now and Saturday. It's a Word file. It scares me. I prefer not to open it. This is part of the reason I suck at being a grownup.

But... I have moved before (NYC to Long Island

to Hawaii

to Long Island

to Carmel

to Dobbs Ferry

to Long Island

to NYC

to Rhinebeck

to Bronxville

 

to NYC-for-the-summer-of-sophomore-year-in-college

to Dublin

to NYC-for-the-summer-of-junior-year

to Long Island

to Williamstown

to Syracuse

to around-the-world-for-a-year-with-a-backpack

to Syracuse

to Pittsfield

to NYC

to Boulder

(cover art forthcoming, if I can get this damn third draft finished after I unpack in Brooklyn...)

to Cambridge

to Berkeley

to Exeter

to... NYC again.)

It will happen. I will get off my bed and put on some REALLY LOUD MUSIC and actually start putting dishes in a box and throwing out more of my clothes (okay, not throwing out, carrying down to the garage in my current building to pile on top of the donations box, but still: DUMPING.)

And then... then I will be on the road again.

 

Please wish me luck, and forgive me for not checking in on comments... I'm trying not to drive off the BQE right now...

 

The Boobs Stuck Under the Bed in Paris Story

 

JOSHILYN JACKSON  

So recently in the brain-time-suck-inescapable-hellpit of TWEETLANDIA a bunch of darling peeps (see what I did there?) started sending around a link to a TRUE STORY I once whispered to my friend, the Internet, not realizing that once you tell the Intenet, it remembers, and it tells everyone, forever. The internet has no expiriation date and it Never. Gets. Full.

The story made a few Twittery rounds, and THEN it was @sent to a blogger I read religiously, who I have a big 'ol stalky weird INTERNETSCRUSH on, one who has no idea I am ALIVE, and when I saw my name in a link being @sent to her...I was a bit perturbed.

Bad, I was telling about the time I got my boobs stuck under the bed in Paris, BUT WORSE, the formatting was all screwed up. So. Since it is Labor Day weekend, and since, if the Internet is going TELL everyone this story I would like it done with the commas looking like commas instead of Hiroglyphics, and since, most importantly, EVERY ONE NEEDS A GOOD BOOBS STUCK UNDER THE BED IN PARIS STORY on Labor Day----this is actually one of the founding principles of the holiday---I am bringing it here, to you, the very best of all possible backbloggers. Happy long weekend:

I went to Paris when I was about 16 years old with a gaggle of big smartipantses from every high school in my hometown.

The hard sell at the schools was that we would PRE-get college credit for going, because we would look at a LOT of art and open our fresh pink American mouths wide to experience great heaping tablespoons of culture. Some true things about me in high school:

1) I was a GOOD kid. Except I had a foul mouth. I could, with pride, out-curse any chick in the school. In several languages. I could curse in languages I couldn't use otherwise to ask where a bathroom was or even opine that my pencil was yellow. I considered it a vital part of a complete vocabulary.

But to mis-paraphrase the immortal Adam Ant, I didn't smoke, I didn't drink, and I most certainly did not "what do you do."

How many shoes did I have? Two.

What kind were they? Goody.

I had never had an alcoholic beverage before I went to Europe, barring perhaps a sip of oversweet communion wine when I went to a friend's Episcopal service after a sleepover and maybe a parentally administered taste of champagne at New Year's.

2) In my freshman year, I went from being five foot nothing with the figure of a broomstick to being 5' 7" with a C cup front that can best be described as mighty. "The Mighty Rack" ---and THAT perfect phrase is stolen willfully from Julie at A Little Pregnant who has one, too --- was the biggest part of me. It was absolutely my widest point.

While in Paris, one of the EDUCATIONAL SPOONS we were to open wide and swallow was a trip to The Moulin Rouge to see very culturally laden but often top-free singers and dancers and every table of four would get a bottle of REALLY FOR TRUE French Champagne so we could experience a mild French culture laden buzz. No drinking age in France, right?

My parents had discussed this with me BEFORE I went, and said part of the reason they asked me not to drink at home was that it was ILLEGAL, BUT they knew this Champagne thing was happening and also that a wine tasting thing would be happening in Italy, and they encouraged me to enjoy these events in Moderation while using my Good Judgment. RIGHT! SO!

My good judgment told me that my friend Charlotte and I should CLEVRLY PLOT to be seated at a four top with these two girls from Catholic school who DID. NOT. DRINK.

Charlotte and I downed the whole bottle between us.

In the interests of culture, you understand.

Now, back at the hotel there was a beautiful lion man who ran the front desk. He was veryveryveryreallytruly French and he could not POSSIBLY have loathed us all more and he had deep limpid blue eyes and a noble nose and BLACK hair that had gone prematurely gray so it had I SWEAR TO YOU genuine silvery streaks and it was long and luxurious and thick and swept back into an ENORMOUS mane and all the girls loved to think of dumb reasons to go to the lobby to ask him things so he would sneeringly answer and make us all swoon.

When we had arrived he had stood NOBLE AND DRIPPING WITH FRENCH MALE ANIMAL HOTNESS before our whole group in the lobby and said, in his elegant sexy-accent, "Oh, Foul teen spawns, drink not of the liquors in the mini bar, for I will look and know and tell on you, and you will be punish'ed most mightily."

And every girl there sort of sighed and dreamed of what the punishment might be while the boys said, "DAMMIT" under their collective breath.

So anyway, after the show...we goback to the hotel, and Charlotte and I are BEYOND buzzed. We're  SO enriched by culture we couldn't walk a straight line. My ability to make good and wise decisions, never that keen to begin with, was wrapped in a cozy blanket of REALLY FOR TRUE French Champagne, and it had already nodded off.

A few of the boys had this GREAT idea to TRICK the lion headed Man-beauty below. They decided they would go from ROOM TO ROOM, to EVERY ROOM THERE WAS, and remove the caps from all the small bottles of CLEAR liquor in a delicate fashion so the little tabs did not break off and the little screw-caps could be put back exactly.

Then they DRANK UP ALL THE CLEAR LIQUORS and refilled the bottles with water so they looked full and unmolested. I watched them hatch this plot, and my good judgment let out a lingering snore and declined to object when a boy suggested it might be culturally enriching as ALL GET OUT to experience...

GIN.

He had already drunk up all the clear liquor in my room, so we went to the room of a tiny, pretty doe-eyed girl named Jodi Gup, who let us in to ravage her minibar.

Okay, look, let me just say here that CHEAP LUKEWARM GIN IS VERY VERY BAD. It tastes like petrol and it burns and hurts.

While I was busy choking to death, I accidentally DROPPED the little oh-so-carefully-removed cap and it went scampering off under Jodi Gup's low bed.

Now, Gorgeous Lion Man-Beauty aside, this was not a ritzy place. This was a tour for HIGH SCHOOL KIDS. The TOILETS in the hotel were FRIGHTENING FLOOR HOLE LOOKING THINGS (

I got down on the floor to go after the cap, but the earth started to spin REALLY SUPER FAST so I turned onto my back. Then I pushed myself along the floor with my feet, stuffing myself under Jodi's low bed, going after the cap.

There was this sort of BAR THING under there and I managed to goozle the mighty rack UNDER the bar. My head hit the wall then, and I looked left and SAW THE CAP! I grabbed it. But then...I couldn't get back out.

I could have easily slid my belly and hips under the bar, but my head had hit the wall and I couldn't get out that way. And I couldn't get the boobs to go back. They had passed under once, but they absolutely refused to go the other way.

By then the boys had moved on to ravage the mini bar in the next room. It was just me and Jodi Gup (who was MAYBE 5 feet tall and probably couldn't bench press a puppy) and her roomie, a girl whose name my memory has entirely repressed, and they could not lift the bed.

It was made of IRON or LEAD or possibly BLACK HOLES, so DENSE was this cot-bear-trap of a metal bed. It would not be lifted. So Jodi, none too sober herself after her little nips of French Culture and Vodka, went and got, well, everyone.

Everyone and all their friends. The ENTIRE TOUR ended up in Jodi's room alternately laughing their butts off and trying to make a getting-my-boobs-out plan that did not involve beautiful, evil lion-man knowing what we had done to the minibars and destroying us.

Jodi stood at the door welcoming late comers and helpfully explained over and over what the problem was. ("Her boobs stuck under the bed, doncha know.") Finally I think it took about 4 boys, ALL OF THEM THRASHED BEYOND IMAGINATION on clear liquor, to lift the incredibly heavy bed just a FEW INCHES so another boy could grab my ankles and pull me out, and I SHOULD have gotten college credit for the rest of that evening, because I spent it learning SO SO VERY much about what French toilets look like from REALLY REALLY close.

As a bonus, I learned that cheap gin burns as much coming up as it does going down, and I made an important and mature decision I have stuck with to this DAY, which is that when I became legal, I would be a top-shelf-or-nothing girl.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I feel obligated to point out that THAT WAS JUST ONE NIGHT THOUGH! In Paris, I pretty much spent ALL the rest of my time at the Louvre and an assortment of Medieval Chapels!

I didn't even get drunk ever again. Oh, except for that wine tasting. I seem to remember making out in the hotel lobby with an excrutiatingly lovely Spanish boy on Holiday with his parents and little sister. He spoke about nine words of English, all of which seemed to be about me being a most beautiful lady.

Thank you for sending me to Europe. I experienced really a lot of art and also culture and also Spanish French Kissing in Italy. It was completely great.

Love, Me

Do you have a good Boobs story to honor the long weekend? And drive our August Doldrums hit count up? The blog is pretty dead because of the holiday, but I bet if EVERYONE tells a good boob story in the comments, the google traffic will go right to the moon! (If no, you can just yell BOOBS in the comments and run away.)

Guest blog by Randy Susan Meyers

Holly: Randy Susan Meyers has been THE most gracious guest blogger as I have jerked her date for blogging around all over the place. Please welcome her -- I certainly can relate to her subject today.

PHOTOSHOP BOTOX FOR AUTHOR PICTURES

First, there was Vaseline on the camera lens.

Next up was rose-colored lighting, shooting through pantyhose, and soft focus.

And then came Photoshop.

No one tells the truth of course, so for the "me-too-ism" of writers everywhere, I will set aside my vanity and offer the unadulterated, unvarnished, unphotoshopped truth. These are the things I did to prepare for my author photo:

1) Googled 'how to look good in photos' and found advice. Very helpful advice.

2) Went for a professional make-up 'consult' (would that be tax deductible?)

3) Visited the 'hair whisperer' and told him, "Do what you will. Just don't cut it short." Which he did. But I loved it. Price: Very high. Satisfaction: Priceless. Cost if husband finds out cost: there will be lawyers.

And don't even ask about clothes. I bought and returned several boutique's worth. I tried on every combination of outfit and accessory.

My sister Jill Meyers, a person for whom I never have to pretend, is a talented photographer and a super-talented sister.  To make the best author photo, she studied portrait-shooting technique, bought the talented Marion Ettinger'sbook Author Photo for inspiration, and invested in equipment to make me glow (and look, ahem, less mature.)

Jill did a wonderful job. She shot literally hundreds of photos, and we reviewed and eliminated, consulted and polled until we found 'the one.' Then she really went to work. With a stroke of her magic computer pen, lines disappear. Adjust the lighting: I warm up, I cool down. I flushed, I blushed, I smoldered.

How far could we go? I'd already applied make-up with the skill of Bobbi Brown herself.  Worn the pearl earrings that cast the most glow on my face. Chosen the green shirt that matched my eyes (that is was, in reality, a slightly raggy Gap tee shirt wouldn't show in the shoulder-up picture.

Now I had to answer the question: is it Kosher to erase my lines? Would it be like using Botox? (Is it ok to use Botox? Is it less bad to use only Photoshop Botox?) After a second of agonized deliberation, I decided. Just a few minor, um . . . .adjustments. The furrows between my brows came from worrying over my children, for goodness sake. Would softening those badges of motherhood make me a bad person? And what about those pesky forehead lines? The puppet lines by my mouth?

Jill went to work. And I loved the final product. Perhaps too much.

What if my sister had made me look so good that no one would recognize me in real life?

A friend of mine, a lovely-looking woman whose book was about to be sold, vowed to have her picture taken sans artifice. So that no one would be surprised when they met her.

Since my book came out, people have recognized me when I came to do a reading. No one asked me what century the picture was taken.

Okay. There was one. (I did promise the truth, right?) The woman who gave me a facial, the one who stared at me under those glaring lights of truth – she asked when the picture was taken.

Maybe my friend had the right idea. Jill did such a good job with that photo. I worry:

Was it cheating to use Photoshop? (But everybody's doing it!)

You be the judge.

Here I am, trying on glasses in a store (awful glasses!) circa this year as compared to my author photo: 

Randy Susan Meyers is the author of The Murderer's Daughters, released by St. Martin's Press in January 2010. Her family drama is informed by her work with batterers and victims of domestic violence, as well her experience with youth impacted by street violence. The Los Angeles Times deemed the books, "A knock-out debut." The Murderer's Daughters was recently chosen the Target "Club Pick" for February/March and chosen as a Massachusetts Council for the Book as a "Must Read." The Murderer's Daughters was just named a finalist for the Massachusetts Book Award.

Guest Blogger, Cherry Adair

Heather Graham: I'd like to introduce Ms. Cherry Adair as our guest at TLC today. Wait? You say she needs no introduction? That's quite possible. Cherry has received all kinds of awards and hit almost every list created for writers. And she does much, much more! Cherry isn't just friendly and kind (with a wickedly warm sense of humor, quick wit, and the ability to have you laughing in a flash) but she gives away "scholarships" and has "Pips" out there who win not just books in her giveaways, but wonderful opportunities. She has the same life were all living one--hectic, confusing, and torn constantly between or home situation and work--but she manages not only to produce, but encourage others to keep the upper lip, get out there and go forth, and be her "Pips!" And now, beware! The one thing Cherry isn't is shy! If you know Cherry, you'll already enjoy. If you don't know Cherry, you're in a for a treat. Come on now "Pips," pay attention!

 Living in Seattle, I'm used to rain, drizzle, downpours, showers, cats-and-dogs, sprinkles, and everything in between. Normally we have the hot, glorious sunny days of Summer to off-set 8 months of gray. This year, one newscaster pithily claimed we'd had 87 minutes of Summer all year. Not true - we've had 3 days of summer. Three. Freaking. Days!

Most of the time I don't really notice the weather. Despite living on a lake with a spectacular view of Mt. Rainier, I write facing a wall. As it is, I'm easily distracted. (Especially when I'm writing the dreaded first draft.) To be clear, I'm sidetracked by a worm crawling on a leaf in my garden. Imagine how diverted I'd be by a snow capped mountain reflected in the sparkling lake right outside my door.

I know I'd be much more aware, and annoyed, by this incessant rain if I had to drive to work every day. The closest I get to a commute is to put on make-up, dress and do my hair before making the journey downstairs to my office, which is just at the foot of the stairs. and a convenient ten feet from the kitchen. (A perfect location J) Instead of a lake/mountain view, I look out over my front garden.

Like writing (that #@%^* first draft), I love to have gardened (and hate to weed). And like writing, once the first draft, and clearing of the bed is done, you can't pull me away. The fact that there have barely been any notable sunny days has no impact on my flowers. Rain or the invariable lack of shine, my lavish and glorious garden flourishes.

Bulbs come up where I don't remember planting them, flowers bloom where I was sure I hadn't planted anything, weeds thrive everywhere, and every year shrubs and trees grow bigger.

 

I have to admit, I'm not terribly well rounded. I write 23/7, which means everything revolves around the book I'm currently writing, the book that's coming out in five minutes, or planning activities around a book in the near future. It's all about The Book. And having it be all about The Book means I have tunnel vision.

A garden is a metaphor for life. Rain or shine, good or bad, life goes on. My garden reminds me that to have a more balanced life, I need to tend to my family and friends. My garden reminds me that friendships will continue, even in rocky dry soil. But also that friendships wither if I forget or get too busy to tend them. My garden reminds me that with hard work (even digging in rock-hard, dry stony ground) something beautiful will grow. It reminds me that anything worth having is worth putting in a little elbow grease. It reminds me to be patient, and that while I look impatiently for that glorious orange dahlia in this bed, it might come up over there instead.

Gardening reminds me to be patient, to expect and welcome the unexpected. It reminds me that there are worms and gophers, slugs and bugs, but there are also colorful butterflies and shimmery hummingbirds.

So I go out into my garden every day, rain or shine. Summer or pretend-Summer. I pull a few weeds, I joyfully jettison a few slugs, and amid all the dirt and mud, slug guts and occasional buried dog bones, I am surrounded by colors plucked from the sunset, painted by nature. Cultivated by me. It's satisfying, even on gray days, knowing that I worked my ass off to get it this pretty.

 

Like all things in life, we reap what we sow.

 

Cherry

 

Disasters and Lasagnas

By Sarah

I gotta make this fast because I don't know for how long I'll have power. Living in Central Vermont, near  Ground Zero Irene, our lights have been turning on and off ever since winds started picking up early Sunday morning. Let's just say it adds a kind of urgency to one's writing.

Now, I know a lot of you live in Florida or out in the Great Plains of the Midwest where tornadoes touch down with alarming regularity and "Cat #1" storms are for amateurs. So forgive me, please, for acting like my nervous Aunt Betty who used to scream at every firework on the Fourth of July. We're just not used to watching our streets turn into rivers up here or our roads crumble like children's sand castles at high tide. All we can say is jeezum crow!

Snow, yes. We do snow well. Ice is never pleasant but we can handle that, too. A blizzard? Geesh, we're pros. Because we take that kind of weather seriously. We know from experience what it means when 8-12 inches of white stuff is blowing in overnight. It means load up the wood stove and hunker down. We know better not to run out in our skivvies just to see what it's like outside. Or to get on the roads because we're bored. But rain and wind? Not so much. Our attitude up here is - how bad could a little unfrozen water be?

That is, until Irene.

Which might explain why my daughter's boss at Woodbury Mountain Toys rolled her eyes when I insisted Anna stay home during the 35 mph winds and the rain that dumped up to 11 " in 24 hours.  Or why on our blessed local radio WDEV, to which I was glued during the storm, boneheads would call in to complain that they went out for a ride and "couldn't go no place" 'cause every place they go had either a log or a cave in or, shoot, a wall of rushing water.

"My girlfriend was getting kind of pissed," one caller said. "So I had to go home."

Yup. That's Vermont.

 Oh, crap. The lights are flickering again....Gotta shut down the computer and wait for the electric cooperative road crew to finish resting up..... TO BE CONTINUED!

 Okay, I'm back. Heard about Michele Bachmann's statement and figured it had to be hyperbole, no? I mean, what are WE being punished for - gay marriage? I'm sure that's why God has isolated at least ten Vermont towns and when I mean isolated, I mean not even the National Guard can get to them by land. 

A lot of people up here are looking at this latest disaster metaphorically. Vermont towns used to be self sufficient. You had your crops, your cows, your town hall and school. If you had to go someplace else, well, I suppose you could cross the small bridge, but really why would you? The only way Vermont became a tourist destination was because of the Communists. Like the Red Menace.

President Eisenhower, while fearing the military industrial complex, also realized that this part of New England would be impossible for the army to cross in a hurry should the Russians come marching in. So, he connected us to the real world through the I-91 and I-89 interstates. Until the late 50s, early 60s, you really couldn't get here from there because the towns were bridged by winding two lane roads that took for-ev-er.

Now those roads are underwater and the covered bridges have fallen. It's the end of an era, no doubt, and probably the end of what was already a touch-and-go agricultural season. Everyone at the farmer's market on Saturday was saying things like, "get the last of the blueberries before the hurricane" and wondering how their apples would survive in the winds.

Someone on my Facebook page griped that the Midwest gets this kind of treatment all the time and no one makes a fuss. Maybe that's true. But this is the biggest disaster to hit my state in over 100 years and I think it's acceptable to bring in some attention.

Now, here's my favorite video of the whole thing. Wait for the punchline because that's a quintessential Vermonter speaking. Enough excitement. Time to check on the lasagne.

Also:

 

Thank God it wasn't worse!

 

Sarah

 

 

 

 

Sleepy Camp

by Harley

Last month my Book Group e-mailed everyone about the August meeting and I said I couldn't come because I'd be driving my 11-year old to sleepaway camp.
Except that I was e-mailing from my smartphone, which changed "sleepaway" to "sleepy" without me noticing.

 And then came the e-mails from Book Group:

"Sleepy Camp?"

"Are there activities, or is it just sleeping?"

"Can anyone go?"

"I'm in."

Book Group is moms who met when our kids were first graders. Most of us have 3 children. One has four. One has a singleton, but she does visual effects for films, which means long months on location. One's in a master's program, another's working on her Ph.D., one has a husband who works on the east coast (we're in L.A.), one's surviving cancer. What we have in common besides 11-year olds is: zero spare time. It's wildly optimistic of us to even have a book group.

When moms have no time, what's the first luxury to go? Sleep.

Dads too—although sleep-deprived females are at greater risk, health-wise. But we're all tired.

Back in my acting days, the only way I'd wake up at whatever godforsaken time I had to crawl out of bed in order to be on set an hour before sunrise was to promise myself naps. Which usually meant sleeping through lunch.

I'm a fantastic napper. I know it's un-American; I believe I was switched at birth and am actually Mexican, or Greek, that my people were People of the Siesta. Anyone who knows me (Heather) will tell you I'll sleep anywhere. Under a banquet table. Onstage, with an audience watching. At parties. My dream job is sleep-study research subject.

 If deprived of naps, I find myself doing small things over and over, like staring at the TV Guide channel, trying to understand this:

Xanadu:  Movie, Fantasy. (1980) Olivia Newton-John, Gene Kelly, Michael Beck.  A mythological muse helps an artist and a former big-band clarinetist open a roller disco.

 Or pondering Celebrity Mugshots. Sorting socks. Studying the Costco coupon book. Eating chocolate.

People who sleep less than 5 hours weigh more than those who sleep 7+ and gain more weight over time. How is that fair? It's not.

Which is why the world needs Sleepy Camp.

Here's the curriculum: First, everyone gets 10 hours of sleep a night, minimum. You return home with a sleep surplus, which will see you through until Thanksgiving if you're very frugal.

Not that you must sleep at night. Sleepy Camp accepts all circadian religions. Nocturnal types can wander the grounds, practicing moonlight Wiccan rituals, or hang in the Lodge, where the Reschini Room features all-night Trivial Pursuits and singalongs with the cast of Glee. When sunrise comes, it's off to bed, with black-out curtains straight from Vegas.

Whenever you wake, there will be breakfast.

For those with insomnia and/or hot flashes, there is Sleepy Camp Cocoa, containing estrogen and melatonin with a splash of Xanax.

Beds are California kings, with a choice of TempurPedic or pillow top, water beds for the hippies, futons for the ascetics. Pratesi sheets for all. You share your bunkhouse with people you've dreamed of being close personal friends with, dead or alive, from Gary Cooper to Anderson Cooper to Alice Cooper. Dylan Thomas, Thomas Hardy, the Hardy Boys.

Everyone thinks you look cute in your p.j.s.

Because of the extra sleep we're getting, everyone goes home 15 pounds thinner.

There are no hurricanes.

No outhouses.

No mosquitoes.

Proposed Sleepy Camp activities:

    Pedicures

    Cookie Time

    Gossip

    Lake Fun (everyone thinks you look cute in your swimsuit)

    Library Hour

    Naps

    Let's See What's Going on in the Refrigerator

    Campfire Rituals:  Camp songs by Stephen Sondheim. Ghost Stories with Stephen King. S'mores by MFK Fisher and Julia Child.

    Other: ____________________[fill in the blank]

 

 Who's in? Please specify roommates and activity preferences.

 

 

Seven Pieces of Advice to a Young Writer

HANK: To introduce Sara Gran, I have to name drop.

(I was once at an event with Paul Simon--no , that isn't the name drop. He was talking about name dropping. And he said the best name drop he ever heard was from John Lennon. Who said to Paul Simon--"When I was talking to the Dalai Lama the other day....")

 Anyway, this is just about that good. I was at the Agatha's this year, sitting next to Sue Grafton. (Told ya.)

On the other side of Sue was this very very cool woman, funny, hip, clever, and obviously a favorite of Sue's. I found out later, after a dinner full of dish and hilarity, that Sue, being asked for a blurb by Sara's editor, had almost tossed Sara's new book--without reading it-- in the "no" pile. Then, for some cosmic reason, decided to give it a go, and then--was totally hooked. Sue's blurb: "I love this book." Can't do better than that, right?

 Anyway, everyone else is loving the book, too--amazing reviews--and now, Reds, Sara has some Sara-type insight to the wonderful world of publishing.

 Seven Pieces Of Advice To A Young Writer

                        by Sara Gran

Ten years ago this fall I published my first book. God, am I old! But being old is fun, and I've learned a little along the way. I've just returned from a teary, emotional tour for my new book, CLAIRE DeWITT & THE CITY OF THE DEAD, and lately I've been thinking a lot about what I wish I'd known when I started in this business. Ultimately, that's a topic too big for a blog post (maybe a five-volume bound set would do the trick), but here's a few tips for all the kids out there with stars in their eyes and a contract waiting for them to sign it.

Ladies, what are your best pieces of advice for "baby" writers? Which mistakes did you make starting out?

 1. Trust no one. Horrible, isn't it? Of course, your agents, editors, publishers, and publicists aren't bad people (probably). But things change fast in publishing, which makes it hard for folks to keep their word. Every business has a bullshit factor, of course, but in publishing it's shockingly high. I'm not saying to close your heart or give up your compassion, but take everything, especially promises, with a grain of salt. Or an ocean.

2. Keep records. Lord, I know all you old hags like me out there agree with this one. Start some kind of a simple bookkeeping method to keep track of payments you should get and payments you do get (which may but probably will not correlate). Believe me kid, you don't want to be rereading your contract and scrutinizing royalty statements in ten years to see if you got that on-pub check for that second novel in Germany (and the answer is no, you didn't—because you weren't keeping records!).

3. Find your allies. In the crime and mystery world, most of the other writers play pretty nice. Trust your gut and find good friends. You might live across the country and you might not talk every day, but you'll need each other and enjoy each other as the years go on. I was just emailing with a pal I've never met, but have known for ten years, when both of our first books came out.

Your friendships with other writers will keep you sane, healthy and happy, and serve as your reality check when an editor tells you a check that's twelve months late is perfectly normal. But keep one eye open for the drama queens/kings, sociopaths, users, and social climbers, and avoid them at all costs. Stay with the nice folks. It might take them a little longer to succeed, but they get there eventually, and when they hit the big time it tends to last.

  4. Understand that you're in vaudeville now. Sure, you can be the kind of writer who stays home and turns down interviews. Or you can be that brutally honest person who says what everyone's thinking on Twitter. Sounds good to me. But you know what doesn't sound good? A day job! I want my books to sell and for better or worse, a part of that today is showmanship. Learn to give a great presentation. Buy some decent clothes for events. Tweak your natural inclinations to develop a wittier, less offensive, public version of you. Create a character you can play when you have to go out in public. Not only can this sell books, it makes it hurt less when things go wrong. And it makes it all so much more fun.

 5. Write what you want to write. Seems like the more books a writer sells the more people want to tell her (and maybe also him) what to do. "Sure, kid, that mystery was great, but if you really want to reach audiences you need to write a paranormal vampire thriller with the characters from Mad Men…"

Well, that might be a great idea, and I'm not saying you should ever turn down a good job offer; if someone wants to give you fifty grand to write the Mad Men vampire saga, cash the check, write the book, and use a pen name. It could be something wonderful. That's the short-term game. But never stop doing what you want to do, first because you absolutely have to or you will go crazy, and second because eventually, it'll sell.

The books that last aren't usually the books that people ask us to write. They're usually the books that sold two hundred copies on release and then went out of print for ten years. When Fitzgerald died his book were not, as commonly reported, out of print. They were sitting in the warehouse with no customers.

 On his deathbed, Jim Thompson told his kids: never sell my rights. That's the long-term game. Feed your soul first and the money will follow, even though it might take a while to catch up. In the meantime, enjoy the short-time game, too—it has its own charms.

 
6. Learn to love reading contracts. There's just no way around it. Find a way to make it interesting.

7. Have fun, and never forget how lucky you are. Old bitter folks like me like to complain, but you know what? I love this job. I have an editor I like and respect, a team I trust working on my books, I've made extraordinary friends and met fascinating people, and I just got a free trip across the country, during which my only obligation was to talk about myself incessantly. Sure, I've also been screwed every way possible, but that happens in other jobs, too—and besides, it was worth it. This job keeps you on your toes and never lets you forget that you're alive. And I get to play with imaginary friends all day—what other job can top that? Some people literally work in coal mines all day. Wow. I'll try to remember that the next time I complain about a late royalty check…

Ladies of Lipstick? What advice do you have for the kids out there—or for me?

HANK: See what I mean? Love to hear your advice...about writing--or hey, about anything! And please report in on your hurricane status. We're eager to make sure you're all okay... 

 **************************************************

 Sara Gran is the author of the novels Dope, Come Closer, Saturn's Return to New York, and the Claire DeWitt series (HMH 2011). Her work has been published in over a dozen countries in nearly fifteen languages. Born in Brooklyn in 1971, Ms. Gran lived in Brooklyn until 2004. Since then she has traveled widely and lived throughout the US including Miami and New Orleans. She now resides in the state of California. Before making a living as a writer, Ms. Gran had many jobs, primarily with books, working at Manhattan bookstores like Shakespeare & Co, The Strand, and Housing Works, and selling used & rare books on her own. Visit Sara at www.saragran.com.

The Mall Cop and the Wounded Warrior

Hi, Elaine Viets here. I never blurb novels unless I like them. I loved "Die  Buying, "  the first book in Laura DiSilverio's new mall cop series. It's a good mystery for a good cause. Laura is donating the proceeds to the Wounded Warrior Project.

Laura was a warrior herself. She served 20 years as an Air Force intelligence officer before retiring in 2004 to write and parent full-time. She's discovered that "parenting" a teen and a tween mostly consists of chauffeuring them from band practice to volleyball to drama class and using the drive time to solve school/friend/boy/self-image crises.

By Laura DiSilverio

In my first mall cop mystery, "Die Buying," Emma-Joy "EJ" Ferris, a security officer with the Fernglen Galleria, likes her job, although it's usually more humdrum than the military policing she did until an IED left her with a bum knee and a medical retirement at 30. 

 As a mall cop, she apprehends shoplifters, discourages teens from skateboarding on the escalators, and tries to catch the taggers spray-painting Bible verses on cars. She also copes with her 83-year-old Grandpa Atherton, a long-retired CIA operative who likes to "keep his hand in" by purchasing all the latest techno-gadgets and spying on mall customers and shopkeepers.

EJ's boredom vanishes when someone "liberates" all the reptiles from the Herpetology Hut, known to the mall denizens as the Herpes Hut. The renegade reptiles include a 15-ft python. Then a body turns up posed as a mannequin in the window of an upscale boutique. EJ must quickly catch the killer since fear of another murder is emptying the mall faster than you can say "All sales final."

When the idea for a mall cop mystery series first popped into my head, I didn't know why my protagonist, EJ Ferris, was a mall security officer. As I got to know her, I realized that being a mall cop was not the fulfillment of her life's dream. Not too surprising, I guess. She was stuck as a mall cop, I decided, because of an injury. From there it was a short step to discovering she'd been an Air Force cop and had had her life shattered by an IED, as so many of our military men and women have.

 WWP exists to foster the most successful, well-adjusted generation of wounded warriors in our nation's history. Its purpose is to raise awareness and to enlist the public's aid for the needs of injured service members; to help injured servicemen and women aid and assist each other; and to provide unique, direct programs and services to meet their needs. The organization has helped tens of thousands of wounded warriors since 2003. You can read more at

http://woundedwarriorproject.org. 

  Let me hasten to point out that there's nothing remotely military or political about the series, but I'm donating the profits from the first book to the Wounded Warrior Project (WWP), a non-profit organization that helps wounded vets get their lives back on track. My husband and I are both military veterans (he's still a Reservist and I'm retired) and he's done several tours in Iraq. WWP is an organization we've supported for some time.

In "Die Buying," EJ struggles, as many injured vets do, to come to terms with the limitations that her injured knee puts on her. She has applied to 18 police departments in Virginia and been turned down by all of them. Despite that, she continues to think of her mall cop job as "temporary" and sends out resumes looking for "real" police jobs. She hopes that finding the murderer before the condescending Detective Anders Helland does will convince the police that her detecting skills are not impeded by her knee. She also learns to accept her leg's appearance a bit more as she helps an overweight co-worker, Joel, start an exercise program to give him enough confidence to ask out a girl he finds attractive.

I hope you'll enjoy EJ and her mall family, including her co-worker, Joel; her roller-derbying best friend, Kyra; the mysterious (and attractive) new owner of the cookie franchise, Jay Callahan; and the always worried mall manager, Curtis Quigley. 

NOTE: Read more about the series at www.lauradisilverio.com

DogLandia in the suburbs

I am pretty sure it is a covenant in my neighborhood that you own a dog. At least one, and we still smile indulgently if you have three, even three big dogs, as many do. I meet a great many of these dogs on my morning walks through the clipped and landscaped parkways of Briargate, because I am walking my own dog, Jack.  There used to be two, but Sasha, the sixteen year old terrier, died a couple of years ago.

Now, Jack is a chow mix. A chow mix who was rescued from a highway at five weeks and brought to me by my sister in law who knew I was grieving my old dog, who'd been put down six weeks before. Now, if you know anything about dogs, you know chows don't have the best reputations, and deservedly so. They were raised to be protection dogs for the Chinese royal family (or so I hear) and so they are both utterly devoted and very protective of their beloved. They are also very pretty, furry dogs, which means people want to hug them. Also, if you know anything about dogs, you know there are important socialization things that happen to puppies with their mother and sibling-pack between the ages of 1-8 weeks. Jack lost three weeks of introduction to Dogness. So, I am not only the emperor, I am his mother, and he is not a dog. Exactly. Except when he is.

So, I have a gorgeous, fluffy, puppy-looking creature that all children want to hug, housing the neurotic, nervous heart of a terrified pup who was abandoned on a superhighway. Not always the best combination of qualities in the suburbs, where every expects all dogs to be big hearted, friendly golden retrievers. I can't calculate the number of times I've seen a joyful creature flying down the paths, ears sailing out behind, tongue lolling, and the owner, seeing my apprehension, calls out, "Oh, don't worry. She's friendly." The trouble is, Jack is pretty sure that dog is going to kill me, and it is his sworn duty to protect me at all costs. He and I stop, and he sits down at my side, very close to my calf, and looks up at the bag of chicken breasts in my hand. I call out, "Mine is not, really. Can you leash her, or something?" (I do not mean to sound like a cranky person, but there is a leash law in this parkway. Because, well, not all dogs are golden retrievers, any more than not every girl is going to be Snow White, with long shining locks and a smile for every creature in the Realm.)

I know all the dogs on this route after years of walking them. Every dog and every human, but mostly the dogs, and I know most of their names, unlike the humans. We all walk our dogs every morning, somewhere between 7:30 and 8:30, depending on the weather and how long it takes to get breakfast. Notable is Jack's nemesis, Tiger. He's a rotweiller-ish mix with a brindle coat and a long nose who has to wear a nose harness along with his other leash because he snarls at other dogs. His brother is a dachshund who seems a bit myopic and never seems to notice what's going on until Jack and Tiger start lunging at each other. Their mother is a hearty professional woman of some sort who also wears her Avon Walk t-shirt, both the white and the pink (which represents completion) for walks. We don't get time for long chats, but I ran into in the grocery store once, and we were both proud of that accomplishment, a marathon one day plus a half-marathon the next in the high mountains around Breckenridge (from whence I write this piece, by the way.)

There are others--a pair of ordinary black dogs, walked by a vigorous middle aged woman in great shape, who probably runs Pikes Peak or something; a couple of Corgis on their stumpy legs, walked by either an old woman or an old man, both humans very hearty and plump, who like to sing out hellos! in a somehow British fashion. Sometimes I see the Airedale and his dad, a military man, jogging through. Once Sasha, getting deaf and hostile, slipped her leash and attacked that good-natured Airedale for no reason at all. I had to lunge for Jack, eager to Protect, smashed my face on the way down and cut my lip, while the military guy fought off the crazy terrier with a stick he carries for that purpose. Sasha finally gave up, ran down the path to be captured by a couple of old women. The Airedale was bitten and bleeding, and I called out my name and phone number to the military guy. He waved and ran on. Two or three days later, walking Jack by himself since Sasha was healing and in time out for bad behavior, I ran into the military guy without the Airedale. I apologized profusely, explained about the deafness and that we'd never had this trouble, and could I pay for hte vet bills? He waved a hand. "Things happen," he said. "I was a medic in Afghanistan and patched her up myself. She's fine." Which might be weird in your neighborhood, but I live in a town with five military bases.

My favorite dog is a black Scottish terrier named Barney. His mother is a 70-something woman who wears the heavy black sunglasses that make me worry that she has macular degeneration. She walks Barney in a stroller, and not a cheap one, because he has something wrong with his legs that makes it hard for him to walk for very long at a time. Mainly, they walk so Barney's mom can talk to people, I think. I see her stopped talking to Tiger's mom (Tiger and Barney are fine) and the very lean 80-something who walks the route by himself every day. Barney took a disliking to Jack a long time ago, so we don't stop to talk, even though Jack is now a very mannerly soul who has even been known to sit down on his own when we see another dog coming. But one day, Barney exploded out of his fenced yard and went for a run. The parkway would be safe enough, but there is a very busy street bordering the subdivision. Jack and I had just crossed it toward home when we saw Barney barreling down the sidewalk, hell-bent for the street. Except that when he caught sight of Jack, he made a detour and headed straight for my dog, who outweighs him by at least fifty pounds, deterimined to kick some chow ass on his once chance. Jack heard the challenge and took the stance, ready to kill. I could see Barney's mom running after him, screaming, more afraid of the street than anything, and I had visions of poor old Barney being eviscerated by Jack, who would probably end up being imprisoned and put down as a dangerous dog, all right in front of our eyes. Blood, destruction, death! So, as the ragamuffin terrier attacked the chow, I screamed and stomped and yelled and maneuvered to keep him out of the street. At one point, the terrier bit Jack's paw, and he bit back and my heart exploded, because it looked bad right across the belly, but finally the little guy gave up and ran back toward his mother, who was sobbing by then. A burly park worker caught Barney and delivered him safely to his mother, who buried her face in his unrepentant fur, and carried him home. Now, every time I see her, she says, "I love you, Jack!" And if she is with another person, she says, "You see that dog? He saved my Barney's life! I love you, Jack." Jack likes it. He prances when she says that. Barney sits docilely in in his stroller when we pass. There is no more snarling. They have evened things out in their own dog way, which as nothing to do with ours, but it doesn't matter. In Doglandia, the humans and the dogs together make the whole. Do you have a dog park or dog world you regularly visit? Do you have a dog that would not qualify for Dog Citizen of the Year?