CLP Blog Tours Interview and Excerpt: The Bitches of Brooklyn by Rosemary Harris
**Interview**
When did you know writing was for you?
I really never set out to become a writer – but a mummified body was found near my home in Connecticut and the details in the newspaper were sketchy. I did a little snooping and thought what I learned would make a fun story – so I wrote one. That was four books ago!
How would you describe your books?
To date, all of my books are light in tone but at their heart touch on issues like friendship, marriage, trust and loyalty and they all have a bit of a mystery in them. Some more than others. A reader described my latest book, The Bitches of Brooklyn as a cross between Pretty Little Liars and Sex and in The City. I’ve never seen the first but I took it as a compliment.
And despite the frisky title – bitchiness is in the eye of the beholder – the characters are good friends who simply go through the ups and downs that most women do.
Why was The Bitches of Brooklyn a book you wanted to write?
Two things converged. One was the serendipitous viewing of Hollywood classic, A Letter to Three Wives, and the other was an actual all-girls’ weekend where one of my closest pals didn’t show up. In the movie, the missing woman has run off with someone’s husband. Happily that’s not what my friend did, but it did get me thinking. How well do we really know our old friends? Particularly if we haven’t seen them for a while, or only see them infrequently? Are we still as close as we once were…?
What is the hardest part of the writing process for you?
I’d say promotion! In this day and age, with fewer and fewer bookstores and so many books being released, connecting with readers is the most difficult part of the job. I’ve driven all over the country to meet readers, librarians, booksellers, garden and women’s groups. I’ve spoken at mystery events and county fairs, AAUW meetings and church groups. While I LOVE to do that (just invite me!) and I’ve met some awesome people it does take time away from writing. That’s one reason I’m delighted to be on a blog tour for this book.
What are your favorite genres to read?
I read anything that strikes my fancy. I believe the most interesting books defy categorization. A well-written book is a well-written book. And there is so much crossover. Just finished The Wrong Girl by Hank Phillippi Ryan and started As Husbands Go by Susan Isaacs.
What do you want readers to take away from your story?
I hope readers of The Bitches of Brooklyn will feel as if they’ve met five fun, interesting women – not without their problems or flaws – who are making their way through life and hit a bump in the road. And they make it through with humor, affection – some bitchiness – and a fair amount of wine and baked goods.
How important do you think social media is for authors these days?
I’m still trying to figure that out. It goes without saying that authors need to have a social presence – a website is the least of it. Facebook, Twitter, etc. – people should do what they can based on the amount of time they can HAPPILY commit to. I have facebook fan (http://www.facebook.com/RosemaryHarriswriter) and profile pages, a group blog (www.jungleredwriters.com) and a rather moribund twitter account (@rosemaryharris1)
What would be your advice to aspiring writers?
I was extremely lucky to have published the first book I ever wrote. It is unusual. It’s hard work. Re-writing is key. I don’t know any writer for whom the words just flow. I re-wrote the first 50 pages of my first book, Pushing Up Daisies at least a dozen times. And you know what – if I had to do it all over again could, I’d probably make some tiny changes. The more you write and read other people’s books, the more you learn.
And not everyone will like your book (hey, there are books on the bestseller list that I wasn’t crazy about) but that’s okay. Different strokes.
**Excerpt**
Chapter One
As deliveries went, this one was somewhere between a balloon telegram and a bulletproof vest wrapped around a dead fish. Most gift baskets arrived with cards bearing congratulations or condolences. Rarely were they sent with the simple two-line message Jane Monaghan stared at, then read, in disbelief, a second time.
A skinny delivery boy hovered in the doorway, the screen door flapping and creaking as he shifted his weight. Jane fumbled in her handbag for a tip. Why did she never have singles when she needed them? As she poked through the tissues, keys and various black electronics cases in her voluminous bag, the boy peered inside the house, curious about the women renting the old Beninger place. He remembered the first year they came. His mother had warned him to keep his distance and his father had slipped him a sly wink that he’d been too young to interpret.
They weren’t bad looking, neither young nor old, that gray area between youth and invisibility. Still good for a nooner, he fantasized, using an expression he’d heard his uncle Billy use, if he could cut one from the herd. Especially the small, dark-haired one sprawled on the loveseat near the fireplace. She had a nubby throw tossed over one leg but the other was exposed – tan, taut and barely covered by denim cutoffs. Still pretty hot, even if she looked old enough to have been his babysitter – and after all, what boy hadn’t had that fantasy?
The hot one and the boy made eye contact. Having been on the receiving end of similar looks for close to twenty years – longer than he’d been alive – it took Tina Ruggiero all of thirty seconds to read his mind.
“Come back in a few years, sonny. You’re not entirely hopeless but, let’s wait until that acne clears up.”
The boy’s naughty daydream evaporated, his face reddened and he reverted to bumbling, pimply errand boy. His eyes grew watery. He even seemed shorter, if that was possible. Jane abandoned her search for singles, shoved a five in his direction and kicked the storm door shut.
“A day without a verbal castration is like a day without sunshine?”
“Come on,” Tina said. “He deserved it – gawking like that. Half the people in this town think we’re practicing witchcraft and the other half think we’re gay. Not that I don’t think you’re all cute. I just wanted to set the record straight.”
Jane wasn’t sure the exchange wouldn’t have the opposite effect, convincing him she was a witch, only he’d spell it with a “b.” Which was fitting since that’s what they’d been dubbed a long time ago when they were teens, The Bitches of Brooklyn. Were they really? Depended who you asked.
“A new wrinkle has been added to our weekend,” Jane said.
“Oh no please, not another one. I already have a new wrinkle, that’s why I cut bangs.”
“I wondered what the new hairstyle was about.”
Jane carried the oversized basket to the wooden dining table where Clare Didrikson and Rachel Weiner, two of her closest friends, sat with their morning coffees.
The table and chairs were like all the furniture in the rented house – ancient wood or wicker upon which thousands of summer memories had been made, or brand new, from the discount store, because who would buy good furniture for a house through which total strangers traipsed for three months out of every year? Or suffered from too much sun and too much damp. Jane pulled out a chair and read the card aloud to the group.
“It’s a joke,” Tina said. She flung off the blanket and hopped over on her one good ankle to join them. “Just like her to bail at the last minute and then pull a stunt like this. She’s probably laughing her ass off somewhere, ordering the next fruit basket with the next cryptic message. Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes! Go to the hayfield, there’ll be a volcanic rock that has no earthly business in a Maine hayfield. She’s always so melodramatic. Can’t she just admit something better came up?”
It was not the first time their missing friend had cancelled at the last minute even though the dates were fixed well in advance. The four were always understanding but there was always a trace of resentment, too. As if the others were expected to understand that the fifth woman’s time was more valuable than theirs.
The four women settled around the table in the weather-beaten Cape Cod bungalow they’d rented every summer for the last six years. They met for the same late summer weekend when husbands and partners were otherwise engaged, either of their own accord or dispatched so the women wouldn’t feel guilty about leaving four men, one daughter, one veterinary practice, and two businesses for much girl talk and more alcohol in an ocean beach setting far removed from their Brooklyn beginnings.
Initially, they had played “remember when” and speculated on what had happened to still-missing friends from the old neighborhood. That first year Rachel brought her laptop and their old high school yearbook, and between drinks and steamers they Googled and giggled over former boyfriends and teachers, most of whom had lost their hair, gotten heavy, or somehow morphed into ordinary mortals instead of the brooding geniuses and bohemian heartthrobs they’d once seemed. After that, it was agreed – no laptops at The Weekend.
But it wasn’t all about the old days. The five women had forged new friendships. What felt better than familiar but new – the safety net of people who knew your background and your history, but, because of the time spent apart, brought the freshness of anecdotes and stories you hadn’t heard a hundred times before. And they’d helped each other professionally, with contacts and as trustworthy soundingboards.
Clare reached over to read the card for herself, looking for…what? Some explanation hidden between the lines? Some tone or nuance conveyed in the elegant script of an anonymous clerk in a gift shop? She chewed on her lower lip but said nothing.
Jane tugged on the purple ribbon at the top of the basket, untying the bow and noisily releasing the twisted cellophane. She flattened the ribbon and wound it around four fingers as if saving it for some future use, which wasn’t likely since they’d all be home in a few days. A hidden staple pierced one slim, unmanicured index finger and she sucked on it while poking through the basket with her undamaged hand.
“At least she sprang for the good stuff.” Jane held up a red foil-covered brick. “Real cheese, not cheese product.”
“And candy,” Rachel said. “Just what we need.”
Tina and Jane plundered the basket, Jane moving through the items and inspecting ingredients. “Cream crackers, no partially hydrogenated anything so far.” Jane was co-owner of a small bakery called Sweet Dreams and paid attention to such things. Tina wasn’t so picky. Two grunts and an arched eyebrow told her the others were less appreciative of their missing friend’s nutritional considerations. “Belgian chocolates. Scottish cookies,” Jane said, still sucking on her punctured finger.
“Please don’t get blood on anything,” Tina said. “If there are shortbread cookies, I’ve got dibs. I don’t care if they have lard in them but I draw the line at bodily fluids.”
Despite Rachel’s protestations, the chocolate would disappear first. No chance to melt or develop that mysterious white stuff around the edges. Then the cheese, the crackers and the fruit, one step up from artificial and typically chosen not for taste but for their ability to retain an unblemished appearance despite being shipped thousands of miles. All the food would go, even the boring sucking candies, and all that would remain was a tasteful brown basket, some purple ribbon and the note -
Apologies for the short notice but I won’t be making our little reunion this year. I’ve run off with one of your men.
Author Bio:
Rosemary Harris has been a bookstore manager, a video producer and a public television exec. Her debut novel, the Agatha and Anthony-nominated, Pushing Up Daisies , was followed by The Big Dirt Nap , Dead Head andSlugfest, all titles in her Dirty Business mystery series. She is past president of Mystery Writers of America’s NY Chapter and Sisters in Crime’s New England Chapter. Like some of the characters in The Bitches of Brooklyn she was born in Brooklyn but now lives in New York City and Fairfield County, Connecticut.
To learn more about Rosemary and all of her books visit her atwww.rosemaryharris.com and Like her on facebook atwww.facebook.com/RosemaryHarriswriter
Trade paperback and ebook available at Amazon and bn.com now!
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00E3XMPN0
http://tinyurl.com/kydqs39
