Nancy Martin's Blog, page 15

Pirates and Other Strong Women

Laurie R. King is a longtime Friend of the Chronicles, and an Edgar-winning, NYT-bestselling author of the Mary Russell & Sherlock Holmes stories. And, lucky me, she is my personal friend. Last year's GOD OF THE HIVE was one of my absolute favorite books--suspenseful, witty and utterly poignant. Is there anything better than loving your friends and loving your friends' writing? I can't wait to be pulled back in time with PIRATE KING. ~Harley

PIRATES AND OTHER STRONG WOMEN

by Laurie R. King

I like strong women.  I write mostly about women, and not just because it's hard to think myself into a character who has to run a razor over his face every day, who considers football cool and heavily sauced chicken wings food.  No, the women I write about often do things most women, or even men, don't (although Buffalo wings don't enter into it, much) because after all, fiction should take us a step beyond ourselves.  I write about women who live real hard-core guy lives.  Strong women.

I've written about a cop, and a woman who builds an island house, and another woman who goes into dangerous cults for the FBI.  The series I'm writing at the moment has a young woman who meets, befriends, and kicks the stuffing out of the ultimate detective, Sherlock Holmes.  Deeply satisfying, as a writer and as a reader, for a young woman to face down and outsmart the smartest man out there. 

But invariably, when fiction comes up against reality, it loses.

Take pirates, for example—which I did for my upcoming novel.  A simple glance at the Wiki article on women pirates is deliciously tantalizing: the Moroccan sayyida al Hurra.  Jacquotte "Back from the Dead Red" Dalayahe.  And the Killigrew family, whose husbands (noblemen privateers) went to sea while their wives, clearly bored to tears by needlework, took to capturing ships that ventured near their castles, selling the goods for a little pin money—although the article scrupulously notes that since Lady Elizabeth may not actually have boarded the ship she took, perhaps she does not qualify for the title "pirate."

However, stay-at-homes are not the only lady pirates out there.  From China to the Caribbean, women proved that they were men's equal when it came to brutality and bloodshed on the bounding main.  Daniel Defoe, in addition to writing Robinson Crusoe (a novel that begins with Crusoe taken by pirates and sold into captivity—in the same Moroccan town to which the characters in Pirate King are taken, 273 years later) compiled a History of the Pyrates from testimony and trial records.  Defoe writes of:

Mary Read and Anne Bonny, alias Bonn, which were the true Names of these two Pyrates; the odd Incidents of their rambling Lives are such that some may be tempted to think the whole Story no better than a Novel or Romance.

Tempting indeed. Mary Read and Anne Bonny make me want to change historical periods, trading the 1920s for the 18th century, and put on some swashbuckling.  (In fact, nothing would make me happier than learning to swashbuckle at the Sussex Sword Academy, formerly the Sussex Rapier School, who no doubt teach "swashing and making noise on the buckler" better than any school in the world.)

And then I stop to think.  A typical ship of the time was maybe 80 feet long and 20 feet at its widest, and could have as many as two hundred men on board.  Ignore for the moment the stench—even residents of manor houses with plentiful water supplies tended not to bathe much—but just consider the mechanics of acting as a man.  Granted, shipboard life didn't require much locker-room display of flesh, since once you donned clothing, you tended to stay in it until it fell apart.  And many sailors couldn't swim, figuring that to learn would only delay the inevitable if they went overboard.  But surely in such close proximity, someone would have noticed that there was one young man who never grew a beard, never went shirtless, and never, ever peed over the side?

But of Mary Read, Defoe says, "Her Sex was not so much as suspected by any Person on board till Anne Bonny, who was not altogether so reserved in Point of Chastity, took a particular Liking to her…"

I'd guess the other 198 sailors on board were too busy talking about football and thinking about their next plate of Buffalo wings.

The eleventh volume of Mary Russell memoirs, out September 6, is Pirate King.  It is best described as: A Swashbuckling tale of Love, Murder, Detection, Poetry, Musical Interludes, & Thirteen Blonde Actresses.  Read an excerpt from Pirate King here, and pre-order a signed copy of Pirate King from the Poisoned Pen, here. 

 

 

Oh, those Nancy Girls!

By Nancy Pickard and Nancy Martin

 Okay, so every other Monday, the H Girls--Harley, Hank, and Heather--get their days in the sun.  The two Nancy's on this blog think we're overdue for a Nancy Day, but it's really an All-About-Names day, including YOURS.

There are studies that claim our names go a long way toward forming us, or at least toward forming other people's perceptions of us.  If that were not so, so many movie stars might not have changed theirs. Can you name the movie stars to go with these monikers?  (Answers below)>

Marlon Junior Brandeau

Maurice Micklewhite

Tula Ellice Finklea

Eric Marlon Bishop

Caryn Johnson

Julie Anne Smith

Sarah Ophella Colley Cannon

Margaret Mary Emily Anne Hyra

Annie Mae Bullock

Walter Willison

A hint.  ^^^^^^^

While you're figuring that out, we lipsticked Nancy's have a few things to say. . .

Q. The Brits use "Nancy-Girl," as a disparagement!  As in, "Blimey, don't be such a bleedin' Nancy-Girl!"  What do you think of THAT?

NancyM:  As much as they'd like us to believe it, not all Brits are descendents of Winston Churchill.

NancyP: I think they have no idea how tough a Nancy has to be, just from being named Nancy.They ought to be saying, "Blimey, he's tough as a Nancy-Girl!" My son and his two best friends all have moms named Nancy. A few years ago, they were using the "Nancy-Girl" epithet, and I said, "You do realize all of your mothers are Nancy's?" They looked shocked, because it hadn't hit them before. I don't believe they say that any more.

Q. Did you like your name when you were growing up?  Did you want a different name, and if so, what?

NancyM: I'm not sure why, but in my small town, Nancy was a very popular name.  (So was Randy.  Because the local OB-GYN was named Randon, who was very handsome and charming, and my mother thinks a lot of local women fell hard for him. There must have been dozens of Randys in my high school.) I have no clue why Nancy was so popular, though. There were 3 Nancys in my homeroom alone.  I was named after my aunt Nancy (who became a psycho-analyst and college professor and political activist--therefore an amazing role model) but part of me also believes I was named after Nancy Sinatra, because my mother ADORED Frank Sinatra.  She won't admit it, though. Me, I longed to be a Vanessa. 

 NancyP: I hated it. It was so. . .Nancy-Girl. I wanted to be Elizabeth, which is also pretty feminine, but not as "nice," probably due to a couple of Queens and a certain movie star.

Q. Were you a Nancy Drew girl?

NancyM:  Of course!  In my neighborhood, I always got to play the role of Nancy Drew, too, which I think contributed to me going into theater.  (How many writers were theater majors, I wonder?) My dad had a couple of very spiffy roadsters, and when I was allowed to drive them, I felt very Nancy Drew-ish. I did not, however, date nice boys like Ned.

NancyP:  I owe it all to Nancy Drew. And, hey, I was almost a theater major! But the real theater majors intimidated mousy me, so I went into shy, retiring journalism, instead.

Q. Here's a dinner party of Nancy's:  Nancy Sinatra, Nancy Reagan, and Nancy from Oliver Twist. Nancy Pelosi, Nancy Thayer, Nancy Hanks (Abraham Lincoln's mom), Nancy Wilson, Nancy Pearl of librarian and NPR fame, and rich person Nancy Astor.   In an arm-wrestling contest over the bananas flambee, who wins?

NancyM: My money is on Nancy Pearl.  (How many librarians have their own action figures??) Nancy Wilson a close second, if we're talking about the jazz singer. That Nancy Wilson is Da Bomb.

NancyP: My money's on Nancy Reagan who was one tough broad. Even though she's probably smaller than any of the rest, I'd bet on her to stare them down and in their moment of cringing before that deadly stare, their arms would weaken and bam!,she'd have them.

Q. Do you think our names form us?

NancyM: Nancy is a name that comes from our grandmothers' age, we had to fight the old lady stigma.  It made us stronger, more powerful women, don't you think?  Which makes me glad I was not a Vanessa. I'd have been a totally different person if I was Vanessa.  Probably nicer, though.

NancyP: I agree it made us stronger. For years I fought the "stigma" of being thought "nice." Nice Nancy. Blech. Then I realized I actually am fairly nice, so I stopped trying so hard. But the name still rests uneasily on my psyche.

Q. Does anybody call you Nan, or Nance, or any other variation?  Did anybody ever call you "Nanny" and live to tell about it?

NancyM: Actually, I was "Nat" within my family.  My sister used to call me "Nanny" when she really wanted to piss me off. Nowadays, I'm frequently called "Nance," which I don't think is a nickname enjoyed by any Nancy.  My husband calls me "Bunny."  But now I'm "Nanna," which I love.

NancyP: Nanna! Now there's a lovely variation on our theme. My dad once berated a girl who called me "Nanny" to tease me. Go, Dad! I went through an embarrassing phase a few years ago--probably when I was shifting into a new kind of novel (for me)--when I asked some friends to start calling me "Nan." (Rolls eyes at self.) They kindly obliged, but now I'm fine with "Nancy" again and I don't have the nerve to tell them.

Q. Why have we gone out of style? 

NancyM: I blame Nancy Reagan.

NancyP:  Works for me.

Q. Edna St. Vincent Millay published books under the name Nancy Boyd!   Did we know that?

NancyM: No kidding? What kind of books? Can I download one to my iPad? (And what would Edna think of that?)

NancyP: It's hard to find info on her fiction. 

I've read that she did short stories and novels, but the only example I can find is a book called, DISTRESSING DIALOGUES, which is apparently a compilation of stories and essays she did for Vanity Fair. It's availble from Abe's Books for a mere $50.00.

I love this quote I found: "Millay mocked her own reputation for romanticism. She addresses her celebrity in a November 1922 column signed with her nom de plume Nancy Boyd: "the girl sitting at the next table was Edna St. Vincent Millay . . . eating an enormous plate of sauerkraut and sausages . . . Such a shock. I had always imagined her so ethereal."

So what's in YOUR name?

Marlon Brando - Marlon Junior Brandeau

Michael Caine - Maurice Micklewhite

Cyd Charisse - Tula Ellice Finklea

Jamie Foxx - Eric Marlon Bishop

Whoopie Goldberg - Caryn Johnson

Julianne Moore - Julie Anne Smith

Minnie Pearl - Sarah Ophella Colley Cannon

Meg Ryan - Margaret Mary Emily Anne Hyra

Tina Turner - Annie Mae Bullock

Bruce Willis - Walter Willison

 

Forbidden Books

Forbidden Books

By Emily Arsenault

 

This is Brunonia, and it's my day to post, but I've been sidetracked. Every summer, there is a book I just cannot put down, though it keeps me from sleep and deadlines. Last year it was Nancy Pickard's The Scent of Rain and Lightning. This summer it's Emily Arsenault's new book: In Search of the Rose Notes. I loved this book! A beautifully written story about estranged childhood friends who once investigated the disappearance of their teenaged babysitter, the narrative draws the two back together as adults to explore this still unsolved mystery.  See? Aren't you hooked already?

Since her book took me away from my deadlines, including my post today, I have asked her to take over for me and write something for you. I think it's only fair. 

Welcome, Emily…

Chicago.

A man is about to get on a routine flight.

Suddenly, he pauses. He doesn't know why—but he's got to walk away.

An hour later the plane goes down in flames.

It's dismissed as chance . . .

If those words sound familiar to you, you probably grew up in the 80s. They're from the commercial for Time-Life's most popular series, their "Mysteries of the Unknown" books—about psychic powers, alien abductions, and other paranormal phenomena.

I was around ten when these commercials started airing, and I wanted these books in the worst way. One thing I was given freely and often—and not just on Christmas and birthdays—was books. But my parents never ordered anything from the television—not even those awesome knives that that cut through shoes and tin cans. Ordering merchandise from 1-800 numbers on television ads seemed like a very exotic practice . . . something that was just not done in our relatively frugal household.

So I never asked for the Time-Life books—just quietly pined for them—pined for all of extraordinary knowledge and understanding I would have if I only held them in my possession.

Somehow, in the drama of adolescence, I managed to forget about those books. I didn't think of them again until I was in my early thirties, and starting my second novel. In an earlier form, In Search of the Rose Notes was a book about a Connecticut neighborhood, some grim adolescent memories, and a mysterious death. But I kept worrying that the book was too dark—not just for readers, but for me. I needed something to lighten it up.

Then I thought of that Time-Life series I always wanted. I wasn't sure, at first, if or how I'd incorporate it. But it seemed like it could be fun to try. I was a grownup now (kind of), and I had a credit card, and I could buy as many as I wanted. I picked a few up from a used bookstore, ordered a few more from Amazon.

The titles were so enticing, the ordering of one usually led to the ordering of two or three more. So mysterious, so promising of secret and life-changing knowledge: Phantom Encounters, Mystic Quests, Cosmic Connections, Psychic Powers. (Eventually, I ended up using those titles for sections of In Search of the Rose Notes.)

How lucky I was to finally get to have the books, to read them for hours and call it "research," to deduct their modest price from my taxes. As I read through them, I began to reshape my manuscript. There would be two eleven-year-old girls. They would own the books. And there would be a mystery in their neighborhood, to which they'd attempt to apply the information they learned from their reading.

Reading the books as an adult, it struck me that it was probably best I hadn't gotten them as a kid. When I was eleven, I probably would've taken their contents very much to heart (Angry, murderous ghosts! Aliens with medical probes!). Some of the material in the books is pretty intense, and I was the sort of kid who could give myself a complex from overthinking a particularly emotional episode of Family Ties.

Reading the Time-Life books as an adult also reminded me what it was like to be that strange and scary and vibrant age I was trying to capture in my novel—when some forms of magic still felt real, when there was mystery everywhere, when a book could easily change everything. 

What about you? What forbidden book (or books) did you covet as a kid?

Tanline City

by Barbara O'Neal

I am a Colorado girl  woman, born and raised.  Rocky Mountain High and all that—the scenery is splendiferous and the weather is unbeatable and people take their exercise in the outdoors.  They do everything outdoors, all summer long. 

Which is the problem for me at this time of year.  It's the battle of the tan lines. At 7000 feet, the atmosphere is thin.  There is virtually no humidity.  The two conditions mean that the sun is intense.  I am naturally prone to tanning and never think much about sunscreen except on my face, where it goes on in thick layers.*    I also spend at least a few hours at day outside. Walking the dog, puttering in the garden, hiking; even going to the grocery store or running errands means another layer of tan. 

All of these things mean I have tan lines.  Lots of tan lines. Sharp lines at the shoulders and chest where tank tops and swim suits end.  Fainter lines on upper arms from t-shirts and upper calf from capris and fainter still on the thigh from shorts. 

But the worst, most embarrassing emblem of Colorado Womanood are my feet.  The are deeply
tanned with big fat stripes across ankle and toe from Tevas.  Not the cute ones with tiny little straps that you can wear in public, but the solid granola style that you can actually wear to hike or bike or anything else you like.

If I did not have to go anywhere else, I would live in those Tevas.  In my neck of the woods, they're perfectly acceptable footwear, along with heavy duty sunglasses meant to cover the entire eye area and keep irises from burning.  (Oh, I forgot those tanlines—the goggle look.  Not quite as extreme as the ski-goggle tan, but bad enough.)  In Colorado, Tevas are kinda sexy. They mark you as a woman who can Do Stuff. 

And I am that woman.  I like that marker.  However, I sometimes travel to other places.  Worlds where shoes become an entirely different conversation and the standards of hipness are…um…not the same.   Every summer, before the annual conference of the Romance Writers of America, Facebook posts are all about shoe finds, complete with brand names I've never heard of and would get me laughed right out of my own town,  while I am freaking out about my tan lines and how to hide them.  I try alternating shoes—I have a whole collection of other sandals I wear for Real Life, as when I go to the store or out to dinner or even just down to Pueblo to see my mother.  I don't actually wear the Tevas all the time.  (And believe me, I do know never to wear them in Europe, where one could be laughed right off the streets.)

But nothing helps.  Last weekend, I went to Minneapolis for a reunion of the women with whom I hiked the Camino de Santiago last summer.  This is an athletic, outdoorsy lot.  One friend in particular has contests with herself to see how many sports she can do in one day (basketball, rollerblading, golf, swimming, hiking), but she does not have these tan lines.  We all went water-skiing and swimming.  I was the only one so tattooed by the sun, and trust me, the feet were silly looking indeed.

I would love to make a resolve that this will ever happen again, but it will.  By the end of September, my feet will be as dark as coffee beans and the tan will not fade until February.   I'd like to  say that I'm going to replace these sturdy Tevas with something more appealingly feminine, but that's not going to happen either.  I might buy a second pair, but for the sturdy Stuff I Do, like hauling bags of mulch and soil, digging holes for trees, and hiking modest mountain trials (for the big ones I do wear actual shoes) I gotta have Tevas. 

So it will all happen again next summer.   Ah well.  I guess you gotta be who you are. 

Do you have footwear native to your neck of the woods?  Or tales of woe when you travel outside your locale? 

*I know, I know. Don't lecture me—I should be slathering it on everywhere, but I just don't.  I already have to wear entire bottles of lotion from head to toe (see note about humidity), and I really don't want another reason for mosquitos to add more unsightly bites to my bare arms and legs. 

 

Let Our People Go

By Nancy Pickard

 I saw a wonderful little movie recently, called, "Beginners," about a youngish man trying to get his life back on track after his charming, maddening father dies of cancer.   The young man is Ewan McGregor--always a plus--and his father is Christopher Plummer--also, always a point in a movie's favor, in my opinion. A lot of the movie portrays how the dad came out as a homosexual after years of miserable heterosexual married life, and how wonderful it was for him in the four short years he got to be an openly gay man.

It really moved me to see the awful pain that results to us and to the people we love when we deny who we are.  The young man, as a little boy, lived in a mysterious-seeming family where his mother was painfully, hilariously quirky and often depressed, and his father was mostly absent.  The boy, their only child, could never understand why everything seemed so off-center all of the time. And then his dad "came out," and that explained so much, as the saying goes.  The hiding affected all of them, and made life so much harder than it might have been if only the dad had been able to be who he was, instead of living a furtive life of lies.  Of course, if the father had been able to be who he was from the start, then the boy would never have been born, and that would be a different movie. Wouldn't it be lovely if movies like this never needed to be made?  Wouldn't it be nice if people saw a movie like this and looked at each other in bewilderment and said, "What was that?  Was that science fiction?"

 It got me thinking about how hard human beings work to try to keep other human beings from  being the humans they really are.  I thought of my cousin who was one of the early deaths from AIDS, and how his struggle to be who he was turned him hard, sharp, cynical, and angry.  It changed him from the loveable boy he'd been, when he was "suspiciously effeminate, into a pissed-off man who liked to shock people--especially his family--and hurt them.  He was only getting his own back--he'd been hurt, too, and he was still too young to have time to get wiser, so he lashed out everywhere, at everybody.  I think what he really was, was bi-sexual.  Once he took home an African-American girlfriend, and I'm not sure which was the bigger shock to his parents--the black woman or the boyfriends.  He wasn't pleasant to know, by then.  I had adored him as a child, but I walked away from him eventually, because I got sick of being on the receiving end of his nastiness, and I was on his side! Thank goodness we had another cousin who knew him better and loved him more; she took him in and nursed him in some of the last weeks of life.  She says that in the final days he started softening back into the sweet human being he used to be and might have continued to be, if only. . .

 It's just so sad when humans pen up other humans in little dungeons of "Should" and "Ought to Be."  I'm reminded of a horrific description in one of books of The Game of Thrones, by Geoge R. R. Martin.  Here, one of the characters threatens another character with imprisonment in an "oubliette". . .

"We have oubliettes beneath the Casterly Rock that fit a man as tight as a suit of armor. You can't turn in them, or sit, or reach down to your feet when the rats start gnawing at your toes."

The photo above?  That's the entrance--from the top--to an actual oubliette.  I think that's what it would feel like to be gay and be forced into an oubliette of straightness.  Or to believe in one (or no) religion and be forced into another.  Or pregnant and forced to go through with it when you desperately don't want to.  Or. . .or. . .or, there are so many different examples of the dictum:  "You WILL be who we say you are, go where we say you can go, do what we say you can do, and you will stay in that stiff, agonizing, and twisted position all of your life, which is possibly the only life you will ever have."

It's not always about big things like sexuality or religion, either.  Sometimes it's just the little daily denials that add up--the little squashings of childish joy or exuberance, the rejection of a child's intelligence or introversion, the rejection of their athleticism or their love of being a cheerleader, for god's sake, if that's who they are.  We can find all sorts of reasons to reject who people really are and what they really want to be, and how they want to get there.  And sometimes we reject ourselves for the same "sins."  How dare we want what we want; how dare we be that way; how dare we, how dare they. . .

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this, except that after seeing that movie and another one called, "Buck," I'm just in a mood to grab people's clutching hands, and unloosen their fingers from other people's bodies and minds and souls, and plead, "Let go of him.  Let go of her.  Please, mercy, just let them be." 

And, p.s., I'm sick of stories like this one headlined, "Baseball's Still Not Ready for Openly Gay Players."    Oh, grow up.  

 

Whose fingers would you like to unclutch from other people's lapels?  When have you, yourself, managed to let go and let other people be themselves?  Has anybody ever given you the lovely gift of letting go their tight grip on you?

 

Taste Buds in Your Eyes?

Margaret Maron

Many years ago, I blacked out for no apparent reason and fell flat on my face.  I broke a tooth and needed 13 stitches in my lower lip, which left me with a couple of tiny numb spots.  Most times it's not a problem, but every once in a while, when I drink from a straight-lipped mug, I might dribble a few drops—usually when I'm wearing a light-colored top, of course. As a result, I always go for a flared-rim mug if one's available.

I have written elsewhere about the ceramic Scottish mug I've used for the last 30 years, but it's not just the flared rim that makes me reach for this particular mug every morning because I have other backups in the cupboard.  I don't know if it's a combination of memories, the comfortable handle or what, but coffee just tastes better in this mug than in the others. 

On the other hand, if I'm having hot tea, I want it in our thinnest porcelain tea cup, not a ceramic mug. 

Stainless steel spoons are just fine for morning cereal or noonday soup, but for stirring sugar into my tea cup, it must be the hundred-year-old sterling silver spoon that I keep for this purpose alone.  That spoon occasionally goes walkabout and if I can't find it, then I'd just as soon forget about the tea altogether, thank you very much.

We own two sets of cereal bowls.  One is part of our everyday china, the other is Corelle. Both are plain unadorned white, yet if all the Corelle bowls are dirty when I'm ready for cereal, I will dig one out of the dishwasher and wash it by hand rather than use one of the other bowls.  For tomato soup though, I always prefer one of the others.

Ice cream tastes better to me when served in a martini glass and eaten with a long-handled gold colored teaspoon.  You can pour my bourbon and most wines into whatever's handy—anything from Baccarat crystal to a foam cup, but my favorite Riesling needs to go into an etched crystal wineglass that cost $2 at a flea market.

I have bought my husband many different egg cups over the years.  He keeps going back to the same old blue-and-white pottery one that's badly chipped.

When I was researching Uncommon Clay, I bought several sandwich plates from different potteries.  He will always reach for the sandwich plate with a crow on it. I want the one with the abstract design.  

I guess this just goes to prove that gustatory enjoyment depends on more than the taste buds alone. I'm sure I couldn't tell one bowl from another in a blind taste test, but with my eyes open?  Oh, yes.

What about you? Are certain spoons or dishes  "must haves" for certain foods? 

Family Vacations

Family Vacations 

By Kathy Reschini Sweeney

I am writing this from Stone Harbor, New Jersey.  Stone Harbor is between Atlantic City and Cape May in south Jersey and we have been coming here for at least 35 years - we can't seem to remember the first year we came.  It's a pretty straight shot across Pennsylvania so we usually see lots of familiar faces from home.  After so many years, we also see familiar faces here.  Places, too.  Uncle Bill's Pancake House for breakfast.  Hoys 5&10.  Miniature golf courses.  The Fudge Kitchen.  Springers for ice cream.  New places too - like Tutto Gelato - the Queen to King Springers.

Every summer, we come here and spend time with my Mom and with each other.  We do things here that we don't take the time to do at home.  Jigsaw puzzles.  The annual viewing of "Murder by Death" (this year, a special occasion in honor of the late Peter Falk).  A trip to the Christmas store - is there a law that says all beach towns must have at least one Christmas store?  Lots of fish and seafood and fresh fruit - plus Jersey tomatoes and Jersey corn - yum!

This year, we pulled out the DVD sets from the television show M*A*S*H*.  None of our kids - mine or my nieces and nephews, had seen the show and I have to tell you, it aged very well.  I dare any one of you to watch an episode that involves Frank Burns and Col. Flagg without laughing out loud at least once.  It's funny, in a sad way, how a show that aired 30 years ago written about a war that happened over 50 years ago that became a critical commentary about a war that started  40 years ago resonates equally today, when we have 5 wars going on with no end in sight.

Over on the news channels, it's all bad.  Apparently, no country in the world has enough money to pay their bills, and the markets are in a panic.  Everyone is appalled at how much money we've spent.  Where the hell did it all go?  (Hint: see paragraph above).  In other highlights, people are running around killing other people - and that's not counting the wars.  Maybe it's because we have instant access to news, but I don't remember a time when there was such widespread deadly violence that crossed all borders.  Race, economics, age, gender, urban and suburban, academic and secular.  Humans are shooting each other.  Madness reigns.

But when we are all together in Stone Harbor, whether it's over slices from Peace a Pizza, or the fabulous deserts Miss Sloane made, we do the only thing that saves our collective sanity.  We laugh. We rented an electric car that we dubbed the "Flintstone Mobile".  We drive around and sing songs - everything from Mulan's "I'll Make a Man Out of You" to Chamillionaire's "Ridin'" to Cee Lo Green's "Forget You" - (PG lyrics only).  We do puzzles and riddles and we crack each other up constantly.  My jaw hurts from smiling and my stomach hurts from laughing.

Here on this 7-mile island, between the ocean and the bay, we return to our family's place, summer after summer, because it is a place that holds great memories and the promise of new ones.  Amid the chaos and turmoil in the real world, this is our place of emotional refuge.  We are so, so lucky to have one.

Where is your family's place?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Necon, Lizzie, and Steampunk Salem

 

by Heather

I'm recently back from a crazy business-family trip. It started out with Necon—Northeastern Writer's Conference, in Bristol, Rhode Island, and ended in Salem, Mass.

 First off, Necon is belovedly crazy. Where else can you enroll in the Fussball or Dart Olympics? Beyond the Saugie Roast and Author Roast and zany fun stuff, there are fantastic opportunities, like watching comic and book cover artists work (Matthew Dow Smith, now working on Dr. Who, created a likeness of me as a superhero!) If you've a mind to go, write to papanecon@gmail.com.

There's an added benefit—it's just a twenty minute drive to the Lizzie Borden house. A group of us—Brent Chapman, Lisa Morton, Dennis Cummins, my Dennis and myself—met Corrine De Winter and four of my five offspring at Lizzie's. Lee Ann, the charming owner, has restored the house to its 1890s appearance, down to a replica of the couch where Andrew Borden lay when he took his "twenty-one whacks."  In reality, a hatchet was the suspected murder weapon, and Andrew Borden received eleven whacks (one so violent it knocked his eyes from its socket) and Lizzie's step-mother received eighteen or nineteen (hard to tell when inspecting a crushed skull).

 The house is beautiful, and beautifully kept. An exceptional guide, Will, took us through, and a medium was called in. I'm not at all sure about the medium; a table rocks beneath your fingers (a little table!) and she's convinced that Andrew was pedophile. Most of this was contrary to what the guide had told us. (He gave us facts, just facts; we had to plague him to give us his opinions)

It's fun, and, unless you have true strength of heart, spooky. I don't believe that Lizzie is haunting that house. She hated it. If she's a ghost, she wouldn't be haunting a place she loathed in life. But, hey, Mr. and Mrs. Borden could be hanging around. God knows, they fit the criteria for violent deaths.

We're up late, of course. And it's a strange house. The front staircase leads to the girls' side, and the back staircase leads to Mr. and Mrs. Borden's rooms. (And to the attic, where we stuck Brent, and my sons Derek and Shayne) While Dennis and I had the "murder" room again, my daughter Chynna wanted me with her and her sister Bryee—on the other side of the house. By 4 AM, I knew I wasn't going to make it any longer and went up to bed--on the other side of the house.

The place was dark, with only Dennis Cummins still awake, in the front parlor, watching DVDs. I went down the back stairs, through the kitchen and murder parlor, and up the front stairs to the murder bedroom for my computer. Did Mr. Borden reach out and grab me? No. But my footsteps were moving pretty darned fast. Among the perfect Victorian décor, Lee Ann has a number of headless dressmaker dummies in period clothing—a few with actual Borden garments. There is nothing in that house that scares me like those mannequins! I ran by them—moving like a bat out of hell.

Then, on to Worcester, where we had a great time visiting family and playing candlepin bowling, heading off to Higgins Armory, and visiting O'Connor's, a super Irish pub where they make the best shalalie sticks known to man .

Then, Salem. I have a book coming out on August 30th that brings the Krewe of Hunters to Salem when a boy is accused of having—you guessed it—axed his family to death. I've always loved Salem. There were a few new museums since I was there last, many seeking to explain the truth behind the witchcraft craze, a few dedicated to pure horror fun and fest, a terrific pirate museum, the House of the Seven Gables (by the way, the gables were gone for a while and then put back!) Ghost tours, witch tours, and vampire tours. What's not to like? This year, my daughter got it into her head that we had to do the Segway tour, and so we did. Not without misgiving—I was sure I would end the day as road kill. But it turned out to be a lot of fun—and we had a cool, knowledgeable guide.

And now . . . a few of my old favorite shops have started adding steampunk pieces! Go figure—the wiccans of Salem getting into steampunk. (Population 40,000, and about 4,000 practicing wiccans.) Laurie Cabot—official witch of Salem since the seventies—has added pieces by her daughter to her wares, and she had me at the first hat. I bought it, of course, and some jewelry. At the Fool's Mansion on Essex Street they've got some nice pieces too. Right when I'm heading into a series called Steampunk Annie. Hey, convenient, or what?

Anyway, I'll be heading back again next year. I get to be a special guest at Necon, the family's in the Worcester area, and I'll always love Salem. (Years ago, did a Séance at the House of the Seven Gables for a book called The Séance. Okay, so the book took place in Florida! Have to admit, it was super cool doing a promo piece at the House of the Seven Gables. I don't think that Nathaniel Hawthorne was hanging around—he hated his association with the "hanging" witch judge!)

 September 23-25, I'll head back p to see blog sisters—Brunonia has created a TLC panel and I'm delighted to be part of it. A few TLC bloggers are special guests, so it'll be wonderful.

Yeah, Salem! Go, Steampunk wiccans! 

 

Wedding Secrets

 
 
By Elaine Viets                                               

Young brides are beautiful.

 

I believe that.

But since I know you well, I'll confess: Young brides are beautiful to those who love them.

To the rest of us, they're like puppies: Cute, but hard to tell apart.

Here's another wedding secret: Perfect weddings are dull.

The bride and groom and their families want them. But some of us secretly hope things go slightly off-kilter. We're silently rooting for the best man who makes a drunken toast, the cougar cousin on the prowl, and the fistfight in the parking lot. They add spice.

 

Just so we aren't the ones going viral on YouTube. (http://youtu.be/2vAObB6wSnE)

 

David and Pam learned both these wedding secrets the hard way. Here's what Pam says happened:

David and Pam were invited to the wedding of a colleague's son. They didn't know the bride or the groom, but they bought a present and went to the church on a Saturday afternoon.

"Even with the AC it was hot," Pam said. "The Catholic ceremony was long, with a lot of standing, sitting and kneeling. The music was provided by the friends of the bride. The soloist had a somewhat trained voice. Trained to sing slightly flat. It was nice, traditional, predictable boring music. Too much Jesus. I think the couple made more promises to Jesus then they did to each other.

"The wedding invitation said 'reception to follow' so we hung out and when nothing happened, we went home. We fell asleep reading."

Pam woke up and realized the invitation wasn't quite right. The reception didn't follow – it was four hours later that evening at an upscale hotel.

"It was now 5:56," Pam said. "The reception started in four minutes. I woke up David, rapidly redid my makeup and hair, put on my fancy dress and we arrived at the hotel before dinner. We put our present on the table with the others."

The wedding dinner was a feast. "We ate little beef Wellingtons."

 

Pam and David didn't know anyone at the reception, but they weren't surprised. "Brides all look alike if they're slightly overweight and wearing white. So we ate and wandered around looking for someone we knew."

 

They didn't find anyone. "Finally I said, 'Something's wrong, David. We should see someone from your office.' "

Pam asked a few discreet questions and discovered "we were at the wrong reception."

They quietly stole their present off the table, slipped out of the room and went to the next banquet hall in the hotel. This reception was just as proper and predictable as the wedding.

"We got to our reception just as people were sitting down to dinner," Pam said. "All they were serving was cheese and crackers."

Pam and David wished the couple well, then left.

"Just as well we went to the other reception first," Pam said. "Too bad we didn't leave that couple our present."

Then it would have perfect.

 

Rantfest

By Cornelia Read

Okay, so what a sucky week THIS was. I mean, not just because it seems like 97% of my family is completely insane, and other weirdness... but just, like DUDE! GLOBAL MELTDOWN!

And yet, here's what Yahoo! Thinks I need to know as news headlines, generally:

What Happened to Gerard Butler?
- E! Online (US) - Top Stories - 59 minutes ago



Poor Jennifer Lopez Has Had a Pretty Awful Week
- E! Online (US) - Top Stories - 1 hour ago



Comedians rally in support of Jerry Lewis
- Entertainment News Headlines - Yahoo! News - 1 hour ago



Lovebirds Jennifer Aniston and Justin Theroux Still Going Strong
- E! Online (US) - Top Stories - 2 hours ago



Arnold Schwarzenegger's Misidentified "Mistress" Drops $40 Million Bomb on Gawker, Enquirer
- E! Online (US) - Top Stories - 9 hours ago



Good Kitty! Anne Hathaway's Catwoman Costume Revealed—How's She Compare to Halle and Michelle?
- E! Online (US) - Top Stories - 11 hours ago



Wardrobe Malfunction! Nicki Minaj Suffers Nip-Slip During GMA Gig
- E! Online (US) - Top Stories - 8 hours ago



ABC: Sorry about Nicki Minaj wardrobe malfunction
- Entertainment News Headlines - Yahoo! News - 6 hours ago



ABC apologizes for Nicki Minaj's costume slip up
- TV News Headlines - Yahoo! News - 7 hours ago



Wall Street suffers worst selloff in two years

 

Are YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? Jennifer Lopez has had "a pretty awful" week? Boo fucking hoo. How about our national Standard and Poors rating being dropped to AA+ for the first time in the entire history of the country, motherfuckers? How about starvation in fucking Somalia, again?

Not to mention those five cops who opened fire on a bridgeload of civilians in New Orleans, post-Katrina. How is that NOT murder, when they killed two people and shot four more, for no fucking reason? Okay, so they were found guilty on however many counts of whatever, but seriously... YOU'RE A COP AND YOU SHOOT PEOPLE WHO DON'T HAVE GUNS, (including a developmentally disabled guy, which REALLY PISSES ME OFF, and THEN YOU TRY TO FRAME THE GUY'S BROTHER...) and the best we can get is "violated their civil rights?"

How about "hey, asshole, you took the faith of your community and KILLED THE PEOPLE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE PROTECTING and now we're GOING TO SHOOT YOU."

Really. I mean, I'LL SHOOT THEM. With a crossbow, if need be. I'm really good with a crossbow.

Yes, I am in a really bad mood. I have been yelling at my television all week, which is really, really annoying me, as it's what my first stepfather has spent the last thirty years doing--only he got to do it in Hawaii. And he's an asshole. I hate doing anything he does. Really. Except voting for smart people.

So, maybe I should just shoot the television and get it over with.

And, you know, people are starving--did I mention that? And stuff. Like, people are still getting their limbs blown off in idiotic wars that have nothing to do with ANYTHING. AND, HELLO, KILLED in idiotic wars that have nothing to do with anything.

And the only people doing intelligent commentary on ANY OF IT, at least in this country, are comedians. Seriously.

I mean, FUCK THE DEBT CEILING, already:

 

Let's get the WPA up and running. Let's fix some bridges and build new ones and make sure sewage isn't leaking into our water supply and put people to work doing stuff that ACTUALLY MATTERS, okay?

I would like to move elsewhere. I am sick of stupid people ranting about side issues that don't matter, and then ripping us all off and flying around in untaxed private jets. And I am sick of hedge fund managers. And buttheads generally.

Sorry, my vitriol runneth over. Here endeth the rant.

If you could make someone who's a stupid butthead (or a group of them) understand ONE IMPORTANT THING that doesn't have to do with wardrobe malfunctions or Jennifer Lopez's no-good, very bad week, what would it be?

Please share. I need perspective, here. I need to renew my faith in intelligent humanity.

And in the meantime, I think I should go watch this about fifty times in a row:

 

While snorting a couple of ounces of Prozac.

(OH, and also? Michelle Pfeiffer and whatsherface were REALLY SHITTY CATWOMEN. Give me Eartha Kitt and/or Julie Newmar, any day.

 )