Writers Plot

SHOOTING QUIETLY

Posted by Sheila Connolly

For the past couple of months I've been attending a Sheriff's Academy offered by my county sheriff's department. This is only the second time they've offered it. Our sheriff is a bright and innovative guy, and I applaud not only for his efforts to make this happen but also his willingness to take the time to participate personally.

I have learned a lot from this course (which is free). I thought my note-taking days were over, but I've scribbled up to fifteen pages of information in a single session. And it hasn't all been classroom-based: we toured the county jail; we inspected the mobile command unit that the department dispatches to various crises throughout the county and beyond; we discussed the criminal investigation unit; and we reviewed how warrants are served. I regret that I was out of town and missed the tour of the county farm (where at one time inmates worked to raise vegetables to feed the prison population) and the K-9 unit.

I returned in time for the last class, on use of force, which was eye-opening. There are very strict guidelines about permissible responses for an officer when confronting someone. The main message is, you may meet force with force, but you may not escalate. The guidelines are carefully spelled out, due to the current disposition toward civil suits. As a result, officers must tread a fine line, while making split-second decisions in dangerous situations. I have to admire any man or woman who chooses to be a police officer or a corrections officer (which is in some ways more scary, because you are called upon to manage a group of 70-80 prisoners by yourself, albeit with electronic surveillance, and you can't carry a gun).

The "use of force" class was presented by the person who trains all our county officers, and who is a recognized expert in self-defense. He is a compelling speaker, and obviously he knows what he's talking about, and he still maintains a balanced perspective and a sense of humor (how does he do that?). As the culmination of the class he led us through a hands-on experience with the virtual training exercise that officers use throughout the county, and no doubt in other places.

This is how it worked: a computer program presents you with a staged event (on screen), with real people (no, this isn't exactly a video game) who talk to you, and issue or wait for instructions. You are thrown into a hostage situation, confront a bomber speaking a foreign language, intervene in a domestic confrontation, track down a crazed shooter in a middle school, etc. Oh, and you are armed, with an electronic Glock, that weighs about what a real one would (but it's red plastic). You get to determine when or if you are going to shoot, and the "game" records your shots. When you replay the loop, you can see what, if anything (or anyone) you actually hit–and then you discuss whether you should have shot at all.

  I have to say, it's a real rush, and it gets your adrenaline up. But you also have to exercise some judgment. Case in point: don't shoot at the guy holding the baby. Duh. Apparently some eager officers-in-training do. It's also a little unsettling that one is permitted to take shots with very little clearance–the instructor kept prompting "go for the chin." Yeah, like we could hit a guy's chin while he's holding a hostage to his chest.

But I made one very interesting observation. This class was composed of a fair mix of civilians: male and female, ranging in age from early 20s to retirement, mostly blue collar. Some of them knew each other. Some had shot "real" guns before. When we were given instructions, we were told we should put ourselves in the place of police officers and act accordingly. This meant, as was explained to us, identifying ourselves as police officers and trying to defuse the situation before it gets worse. "Police. Put down the weapon. Step away from the woman. (Repeat as needed.)" In the real world, this is required procedure (and it's not enough to be standing ten feet in front of an armed suspect in broad daylight wearing a police uniform and carrying all the paraphernalia–you have to say it out loud). You should continue to try to talk to the suspect. Firing your weapon should be the last resort, and unavoidable.

What was interesting was this: nobody in the class felt any hesitation about firing his or her weapon to shoot the baddie on screen, but nobody was willing to say anything. Not one person stepped up and addressed the screen with "Police! Put that gun down, now!" And this troubled me (even though I have to admit I wasn't any more vocal than the rest of the group). Okay, we all know that what we're watching on screen isn't real; we all accept the concept of role-playing, and we willingly suspend disbelief to enter into the scenario. Apparently we're happy to blow someone away, but we won't talk to them.

What does it say about our culture, that we're comfortable firing a gun but we're too shy to speak to an imaginary criminal in front of a small group of our peers? What is wrong with us?

Edgar, Anthony and Shamus Nominee Bill Crider is Coming to Writers Plot!

Join us next Saturday, May 17th, when Bill Crider joins us here on Writers Plot. He writes so many mystery series, stand alones and short stories they would fill a storage unit. But wait. He HAS a storage unit-- filled with his collectible books. His latest novel and 15th in the Sheriff Dan Rhodes series is Of All Sad Words. You can get a sneak peek at his prolific career by visiting his homepage, http://www.billcrider.com and if you want to have some fun, also check out Bill Crider's Pop Culture Magazine at http://www.billcrider.com

You don't want to miss what Dr. Crider (yeah, he's got PhD in English, too) has to say next Saturday!

My Imaginary Mom

posted by Leann Sweeney

Mother's Day, like many holidays, is bittersweet for me. I want to change that, remove the "bitter" from that word, so please bear with me as I attempt to purge a few demons. I've thought these thoughts many times but never written them. Maybe it will help. Tune out if you'd like. But even if you read no further or don't comment, I'm sure some of you know about living with the less-than-perfect family and understand how that affects you for the rest of your life. I should be done with all this mommy dearest business--my gosh I'm more than a grown-up now--but apparently I'm not done. So here goes.

My imaginary mom never took a drink in her life.
My imaginary mom never spoke the words "You were a mistake."
My imaginary mom didn't just hand me the scissors and the paper dolls, she sat with me and cut out those fashionable cardboard people while we laughed and had fun together.
My imaginary mom didn't remove the double bed I shared with my sister, add rickety cheap twin beds and redecorate the room while I was at school.
My imaginary mom never recited that poem about the little girl with curl and how "when she was bad she was horrid" over and over.
My imaginary mom didn't drive drunk.
My imaginary mom didn't hide her empty liquor bottles in the basement--where I spent so much time trying to escape exactly that kind of behavior.
My imaginary mom listened when I told her over and over how much I hated my sandwiches with butter on them.
My imaginary mom came to all the plays I was in, read all the stories I wrote, and gave me hugs when I accomplished something.
My imaginary mom didn't drink Nyquil when she was out of the "good stuff."
My imaginary mom didn't add gin to her morning coffee.
My imaginary mom didn't buy my first prom dress without me.
My imaginary mom didn't show up wasted at my college graduation.
My imaginary mom didn't end up in a locked "quiet room" on the psych unit I worked on--and I didn't have to put her there.
My imaginary sober mom helped me plan my wedding, pick out my dress, arrange the flowers and food and in fact actually showed up.
My imaginary mom used her singing and artist talent every day she was alive.
My imaginary mom smiled more than she screamed or shouted or cried.
My imaginary mom went to AA, got her act together and survived to see BOTH her
grandchildren.
My imaginary mom isn't buried in a foreign country where I have no idea how to even learn if she has a gravestone.
My imaginary mom lived up to all she could be and was my hero.
My imaginary mom loved herself enough to love her children.

This blog is for all the real mothers who chose a different path, who gave and gave and loved every minute. This blog is for all the surrogate mothers I've had, the ones who didn't think it was strange or difficult to put their arms around me and love me, especially my Aunt Ruth, rest her soul. This blog is for my sister who has held my hand my whole life and wished for an imaginary mother, too. This blog is for the nurturing, beautiful women on the cozy lists who know what kindness really is. This blog is for all my friends, whether they are mothers or not, because you have filled a void in my life that I will be grateful for until I die. This blog is for my kids and for my granddaughter who remind me that I must work hard to be a real mom every day of my life because I had no teacher.

This blog is for all of you who never thought twice about being a real mom, no matter how hard it might have been.

May you have a million hugs and kisses for all you have done.

Living Large

Posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken

My husband fixed me lunch the other day--handed me a bowl of Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable soup. I was slurping it down when I noticed that something was different from my usual CVV soup: the alphabet letters were larger than usual. Wow, I thought--large print letters for us Boomers. Right on, Campbells!

Heck, I think they're on to something. What's next? Large print AlphaBits? Good as far as it goes, but let's run with that. We need large print maps--spreads where we can read the actual road names and exit numbers without a magnifying glass. Who keeps a magnifying glass in the glove compartment?

Not me, but I do keep several on my desk, where they come in darned handy to read the teeny tiny print in telephone books, newspaper stock reports, and the proverbial "fine print" on contracts.

Interstate exit signs are usually large enough to read from afar (assuming your view isn't blocked by an 18-wheeler) but street signs have a long way to go to be Boomer Friendly. Since this is Massachusetts, a lot of places don't bother with street signs--I guess they figure, if you don't know your way around, you don't belong there. When there are street signs, it's hard enough to read them in the daylight, but after dark? In the snow? No way. Planners should make these suckers the size of billboards, for heaven's sake. You know how people complain about older drivers, who tend to drive more slowly than road-rage-trained commuters? It's not really because the retired ones aren't in any hurry--it's probably because they're lost and can't read the street signs. Let alone the road map. (I am about to join the GPS generation; I have high hopes...)

Another place I've noticed that the printing is unreadable: nail polish bottles. Okay, probably the percentage of people trying to read the labels on Maybelline Express Finish nail polish is as minuscule as the print itself, but still. The label says "NEW Shade" in REALLY BIG LETTERS but it took quite a bit of squinting to make out the name: "Snow Bunny."

I have one of those daily crossword puzzle calendars; I can make out the day of the week and all that, and for the most part I can fill in the little boxes, but figuring out the even teeny tinier numbers on the teeny tiny boxes is almost impossible--even when I close one eye and squint.

This whole thing came to a head (literally) the other morning. I got up, picked up my glasses, grabbed my eye drops, and headed for the shower. A bit later, dressed but still uncaffeinated (read: not at my best), I tipped the drops into the left eye as prescribed, and howled with pain. There had been several little, very similar bottles, on my bedside table , and I'd gotten the ear drops by mistake. The print on the bottles ranges from pharmaceutical (incomprehensible) to much-too-small-to-read. And I've just gotten new glasses. (On the up side, I can now hear very well out of my left eye.)

Once we get the large type thing going, can we talk about the sound issue? Volume is either (mumble mumble) or LOUD, the former being the program and the latter the ads. In other words, the things you don't want to hear are deafening and the things you do are sotto voce.

Boomers, unite!

All Dressed Up and No Writing Done

Posted by Kate Flora

I'm back from the mystery trifecta--Malice Domestic in Washington, the Festival of Mystery in Oakmont, Pa., and The Edgars Banquet in New York City. After a few days of no high heels and no fancy, scratchy sequined or rhinestoned dresses requiring me to hold my breath, I'm beginning to recover from the demands of being glamorous. My feet are beginning to believe that they won't be forced back into the world's most elegant shoes, and then made to stand around politely for hours.

I do have a great story about the shoes, though. Last year, when I was an Edgar nominee, I visited my usual shopping venues, looking for something special to wear to the banquet which would be suitable to honor Finding Amy, the true crime book I sometimes feel that I spent twenty years writing to be ready for, and the memory of Amy St.Laurent, the lovely young woman whose murder prompted the book. My usual shopping venues, though, are the local Goodwill store, a huge second-hand store in Waltham, Massachusetts called Global Thrift, and the local consignment stores. Eventually I found a dress, but I still didn't have shoes.

To celebrate my husband's semi-retirement, we decided to spend two weeks in San Francisco. One day, while he was at the office, I went exploring, and came upon a second-hand store called "Out of the Closet." And there, on a shelf, I found my shoes. Black satin, peep-toed heels with a swoop of rhinestones across the toe. In my size. I carried them up to the counter and the young male clerk pounced on them. He turned them this way. He turned them that way. He admired the way the light sparkled across the toes. Then he said, sadly, "Oh, I wish I would of seen them first."

                    They were not his size.

Reentry is hard. I'm still trying to get my focus back so I can write my way out of Chapter Eighteen, where I've been stuck for about two weeks, waiting for enough peace and quiet to reread what I've already written so I can get back into the mind of my character and move forward. And I'm wondering if I want to do this anymore.

This, I guess, is getting all dressed up and trying to look like a glamorous writer, when in fact I'm a slightly plump, slightly (some might say more than slightly) disheveled woman with untrainable hair who's pushing sixty and, at this season, would rather be in the garden, coaxing small green plants out of the soil than trying to figure out whether there's any value in wearing mascara. Not to mention the fact that in truth, I'm a deeply solitary person, uncomfortable socially in groups of more than four, and I've just spent the last week in groups of hundreds.

It's been a fun week, though. At Malice, I got to meet my blogboddy, Lorraine Bartlett, aka Lorna Barrett, along with sister New Englander Sheila Connelly, aka Sarah Atwell. It was a treat to match a face with all of the messages that fly back and forth between the Writer's Plot writers as we discuss our work, our blogs, our marketing, and our conference-caught colds.

I also got to visit with my publisher, Jim Huang, who has truly filled my heart with joy at his sponsorship of my character, Thea Kozak, and the series that I like so much. Here's a picture of me and Jim and Sisters in Crime national president, Roberta Isleib.

Indeed, despite the distractions of leaving home, abandoning my plants, playing dress up and losing my place in my story, I'm glad I did it. Because last Thursday night was the best event of all. On Thursday, my Level Best Books business partner, Ruth McCarty, and I took the train down to New York to celebrate the fact that one of our writers, Mark Ammons, a first-time writer with a delightfully great story, was getting the Robert L. Fish award and was nominated for an Edgar.

The Edgars truly are the Academy Awards of the mystery world. For a night, we shed our comfy sweats, straighten shoulders that have been bent all year over a keyboard, and strut our glamourous selves. And we do it to celebrate the craft of writing. To applaud the writers who do it best. To remind ourselves and the world that all the hours we spend alone in our rooms, living in our heads, imagining story until we sweat blood and our eyes are red and gritty and we despair of ever finishing anything, never mind writing anything good...to remind ourselves that all those hours are a shared insanity and obsession...and that they're worth it. For a night, we abandon the voices in our heads and leave our imaginary friends behind and come into a glittery hotel ballroom and celebrate our art.

So we may end up with weary feet, but we also come home with full hearts, reminded of why we do what we do, and how much we like and admire our collegues who also do it.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

FOR SALE: I used pair black satin Bruno Magli rhinestone shoes, size 7. Or maybe not. They've been to the Edgars twice. And isn't there something about third time lucky?

An overnight success

Posted by Lorraine (L.L.) Bartlett, aka Lorna Barrett

I know Kate and Sheila have mentioned the Malice Domestic conference and the Festival of Mystery in Oakmont, all of which took place last week--so this is definitely last week's news.  But I have pictures and must share.  :)

It was terrific to see Sheila again and to finally meet Kate at Malice Domestic, and all three of us had some wonderful experiences.  But before I get into that....

My latest book, MURDER IS BINDING, has apparently exceeded everyone's expectations (especially mine).  I've been told there's actually real buzz about it.  Online groups are reading it.  I'm getting fan mail.  People are signing up for my online newsletter.  Trumpets herald--fireworks explode, champagne corks fly, confetti falls! 

Here're a few of the highlights (yes, this is bragging, but it's not likely to ever happen again, so I'm going to wallow in it).

March:  Murder is Binding gets a Publishers Weekly review.  (Sheila got one in February.)  How did this happen?  Berkley hired/promoted a new publicist who is dynamite!  She pushed to get all her "first-in-a-series" books out there.  Her hard work = my (and Sheila's) good luck. 

Murder Is Binding is declared the #4 bestselling book for the Mysterious Galaxy bookstore.  (Sheila's Through A Glass, Deadly is #9--tied with none other than Joseph Wambaugh!)

April:  My Amazon, Worldcat, and Ingram numbers go through the roof.  I don't know why, but I'm not complaining.

At Malice Domestic, the book sells out from two dealers.  I brought down more copies, and they sold out, too.  (I also brought copies of my first book, Murder On The Mind, and it sold more than it did two years before--didn't hurt that it was paperback and a lot more wallet friendly.)  Sheila and Kate also sold out!  (Are we popular or what?)  And the Writers Plot gift basket the group put together for the conference's charity got $100 at auction. 

People I've never met were "thrilled" to meet Lorna Barrett.  I felt like a movie star.  Readers had me sign books, programs, autograph books, and even tote bags. (Although I have to admit when I sign the name, sometimes when I get to that "r" in Lorna I have to remember not to put in a second one.)

Murder Is Binding started out on the Barnes & Noble mystery bestsellers list at #12, rose to #10 and then to #8.  Weeeee!  (It didn't hurt that the Community Relations Manager at my local Barnes & Noble is mentioned in my acknowledgements for giving me pointers on running a bookstore.  B&N featured her and the book in their internal newsletter, distributed to over 700 stores. The book is made a lead title.)

In less than a month after its debut, Murder is Binding goes into a second print run.

May:  The Mystery Lovers Bookshop (host of the Festival of Mystery) announces its April bestseller's list.  Murder Is Binding is #1 on their paperback list.  (Sheila's is #9, and four other members of our Sisters in Crime chapter (Guppies) also appear on the list!!!  If that isn't an endorsement of this chapter for unpublished mystery writers, then I don't know what is.  (That's Deb Baker and Sheila, who sat together at the Festival of Mystery--both successful, published Guppies, brag-brag.)

A lot of people assume that Murder Is Binding is my first book.  It isn't.  It's actually my eighth novel.  And I'd been writing at least twenty years before I decided to write a novel.  So that means it took me about thirty-five years to become an overnight success.

Everyone thinks success just kind of happens, but in actuality, it takes two things: hard work and just plain dumb luck.  I've sent out almost 2000 bookmarks, hundreds of postcards, and advance review copies.  (The manager at my local post office says I've spent enough money there to own a course of bricks in the building.)

I've networked for the past year to get the name (Lorna Barrett) and the book's title out there.  I can't begin to tell you how many hundreds of hours I've spent on MySpace looking for booksellers, libraries and ... readers!

There's no doubt Murder Is Binding has received a helluva lot of good luck.  I've got my fingers crossed that a little of that luck rubs off on my next book, Dead In Red (under the name L.L. Bartlett), which comes out next month.  It's from a small press and in hardcover (always a hard sell).  And lurking in the background is the pressing need to stop promotion and get back to work on the next book in the series. 

Pressure?  You bet. 

But then...I knew the job was dangerous when I took it. 

I SEE DEAD THINGS

Posted by Sheila Connolly

Last weekend's Malice Domestic was a delightful opportunity to visit with many friends and to meet new ones, not to mention those known only on-line, but others in the blogosphere have already written well about it, so I won't add my two cents here.

After Malice, and after the wonderful Festival of Mystery in Oakmont, Pennsylvania, that followed, I treated myself to a side trip: an excursion to Monticello, which I had never seen. It added many miles and hours of driving to an already-long trip, but it was definitely worth it.

I'm still wondering why I was so obsessed with doing it, in the face of my own objections–time, gas, cost. In part I considered it a research trip for my orchard series: Jefferson experimented with apple varieties, and I wanted to see his orchards, which are still maintained. In fact, I could have brought home an apple tree, if I had been driving all the way, and I may still order one next year. I'm particularly enamored of Esopus Spitzenburg, one of Jefferson's favorite apples, although it originated in New York's Hudson Valley.

In part it was curiosity about the man himself, and what he created in that hilltop that he called home. I have to admit I came away impressed. I've seen the PBS specials, heard all about the cute wine dumbwaiter, the rotating book rack, the device that makes two copies of a document at once. Yet when I saw all these, and their setting, I could picture the man himself, somewhere far away, lulling himself to sleep with fantasies of the next improvement for his ideal home.

Or maybe I was just looking for spring.

I live in New England, where spring comes late. It still hasn't quite arrived: it wasn't until this week that leaves finally began to appear on the trees around here, and my daffodils are still emerging one by one. Not so in Virginia. There everything was blooming all at once. There was color everywhere, pink and white. The trees were leafed out. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and all was well with the world.

And then I had to come back north. As I made the trip I felt like I was watching spring fade away, or viewing a movie in reverse, as colors dimmed or disappeared. On the plus side, you could say that I get two springs this year–the southern one and the northern one. On the minus side, there is no way I can recreate that richness in my own little corner of the world. Because I kill plants.

I have a brown thumb. I'm good at removal: I have hauled out bushes taller than I am, and even a tree now and then. I have rototilled ivy patches into submission. I can prune with the best of them. I just can't make things grow. Lawns, annuals, perennials, hanging baskets, permanent beds, you name it–they all look pathetic. Even if I manage to keep a plant going for a few years, never does it prosper and spread itself. Nope, it sits right where I put it, looking feeble.

I have a neighbor across the street who is a dedicated gardener (she keeps gifting me with cuttings and plants, and I dutifully stick them in the ground and hope she doesn't notice how poorly they are doing). She is out there at all times of year except mid-winter, weeding, trimming, transplanting, mulching. I am grateful because I get to observe the opulent results of her efforts, while she gets to look at my scrawny weedy beds. My apologies, Shirley–you're a hard act to follow.

My only consolation is that I have turned my toxic touch to something more practical: writing murder mysteries. There death is expected. Isn't it nice that this talent of mine is good for something?

Trash or Treasure?

posted by Leann Sweeney

When I say trash or treasure, I am speaking about my file full of rejection slips. It is one very thick file, folks. Lately I have been throwing out lots of paper--or rather recycling lots of paper--in the hopes that one day we will move to build our lake house in South Carolina and not have to take along a ton of stuff that I don't need anymore. That's when I came across the reject file. But for some reason I couldn't toss it with the rest of the old manuscripts and rough drafts that went into the recycle bin. And I couldn't spend too much time looking through those letters, either. More than a decade later, the pain of just seeing all those letters still lingered.

Every rejection letter had at one time made me cry. I'd walk to the mailbox, see the return address from an agent or editor I'd queried and my heart would skip. For the few seconds it took to get back into the house, I was happy. Then, just as quickly, I was crushed. So why in the heck would anyone want to save a pile of pain? I didn't know why, but when I first pulled out that file, I simply couldn't throw it out . This week, however, I was actually able to pick up those letters and go through them. Surprisingly I didn't feel anything aside from amusement and that's when I knew I'd made the right decision to wait on tossing them.

If you are a reader, you probably know little or nothing about this part of every writer's life. If you are an author, you know it all too well. If I hadn't published five books, I'm not sure I'd be willing to even touch that folder except to slide in another rejection every now and then. I'm certain I would never consider throwing that folder out. But in just the few months since I began the paper purge, my attitude has changed. It's not a pile of pain, it's a pile of persistence. And all part of this amazing journey.

One of my favorite rejections was from about 1994. It was my own query envelope--unopened, mind you--and stamped on the front were the words "Return to sender. Not taking any new material." And get this, the name and address of the agency I'd sent it to had been obliterated by a black Sharpie. I couldn't even tell who to be mad at! Now that's cold, but you know, it's also pretty damn funny. Did they think I might stamp my own words on that envelope, something like "Return to addressee. I am a stalker and I won't be daunted?"  and drop it back in the mail? Not likely.

As I have gone through the letters, many of them just form rejections or my own query with "not for us" scribbled on the top, I've been wondering how many of these agents and editors still work in publishing. I know one of them does. Her name is Ruth Cavin and she is a legend--the mystery editor at St. Martin's Press. She gave many unknowns a chance, but sorry to say I wasn't one of them. But I do have that query that she sent back with the words "send it on--I'll take a look" scrawled on the bottom. I could almost hear the heavy sigh that probably went along with her writing that and sending it back to me. The manuscript was rejected but it was done quickly and professionally--unlike the young editor who was cleaning out her office and ran across my book--A YEAR AFTER I SUBMITTED IT. I would never have been so unkind as to admit something like that if I'd sent it back no doubt unread. Couldn't be that cruel.

But I am reminded that the best/worst rejection I ever received isn't in that file. I went to a convention, met with an agent, pitched my book and then left the room knowing this was not the person to help me. For the first time ever, I did not send my manuscript to her, even though she told me to. Guess what? Six weeks later I got an e-mail telling me my book just wasn't right for her list. How many people can say they have been rejected without even submitting? I may be the only one raising my hand on that one.

Nope, I don't think I need that big old file anymore. We recycle on Fridays and I now have more paper for the garbage pick-up. Oh, maybe not one piece, though. I think I'll keep those seven words Ruth Cavin wrote as one small and special reminder that I never gave up even when I was rejected by the best.

Mirror, Mirror, who's that on the wall?

Posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken

While some of us were cavorting, rubbing elbows and enjoying general hilarity at Malice Domestic XX last week, others were hard at work. Yeah, conferences are a lot of work, too--schmoozing and buying books and networking.  (Wine? What wine?) But the others (we know who's who, don't we?) were spending hours every day slaving over piles of manuscript pages, or trying to find a decent wireless internet site to do some fact checking.

There are people who can do this concentrated work at home. I'm not one of them. I have to pull up stakes, pack up a hundred pounds of paperwork, plus technical gear and enough office supplies to start a corner store. Then I schlep off to the Cape or the Berkshires or to Maine or wherever I can carve out a spot and hunker down.

If you can get past the logistics, it's a fine way to get real work done. Best of all, I usually land in a space that's neat and clean and if I'm lucky, there's a heated swimming pool thrown into the bargain.

I enjoy hotels and condos as well as the next guy, except for one thing. Why do they have all those mirrors? At home we have bathroom mirrors over the sinks. We short people can see from the neck up—just enough for me to think, “Not bad for my age.” We also have a cheval glass in the bedroom, but I don’t pay much attention to it, and when I do, it’s to check out some outfit I’m trying on.  Clothed. At work there is a full-length mirror in the staff coat closet, but it’s usually dark in there and I’ve never paid much attention, besides which, I'm still clothed.

But in the past three months, I’ve been to three hotels or condos, and they all have one major flaw: mirrors. Lots of mirrors. Big mirrors. Mirrors in the dressing area, mirrors in the bathrooms. (No, NOT mirrors on the ceiling over the bed! What do you take me for?)

These mirrors, unlike the ones at home, take in a lot more than the “neck up” view I’m accustomed to. These mirrors Tell All. Yikes! You get out of the shower, and there you are, in all your radiant, dripping glory.  Not clothed! Nekkid. As a jaybird (question: why is a jay bird more nekkid than any other bird? Did you ever see a dressed bird--except for the ones on the table at Thanksgiving....) Nekkid, as in Every ounce shows. Nothing hidden. At every vacation I swear to never eat anything but apples and whole grains again. I think maybe we should put some full-length mirrors around our house, in strategic locations, like the refrigerator door, the bedroom closet door, or maybe the bathroom. Then I come to my senses, thinking: Nah, who wants to wake up to that?

I did get a lot of work done last week on the long-overdue, now-on-my-6th-editor updated book Children with Cancer: A Reference Guide for Parents. I never did get to the heated pool, though. That would have required putting on a bathing suit. Ack! Maybe in the dark, but certainly not in front of all those mirrors!

Eeyore livelies Up

Posted by Kate Flora

The title of today's post comes from a reggae song urging the listener to "lively up yourself." Sometimes writers, who spend far too much time alone in our rooms living in our heads, need to take that advice, so this week I left my room and headed south to the Malice Domestic conference in Crystal City, Virginia, to a great event at the Barnes and Noble in Annapolis, Maryland organized by my friend, Marcia Talley, and then on to the Festival of Mystery, sponsored by Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pennsylvania. It was a blast, and it reminded me of one of my earliest perceptions about the mystery writing business: that mystery writers are the most interesting and generous group I could ever hope to be a part of.

Part of being at a conference is catching up and remembering how much I like my colleagues. It is about celebrating who is up--such as Guest of Honor Charlaine Harris, an overnight success now after twenty-seven dedicated years. Charlaine is wonderfully funny, and despite the incredible success of her Sukie Stackhouse vampire books, absolutely grounded. She did her interviews and gave her Guest of Honor speech in the same natural, self-effacing way she has always done everything, and her pure delight in this recognition by her peers, in the presence of her beloved family, brought us all to our feet to celebrate the moment with her.

There are also the authors who need consolation--those whose series have been dropped or their latest book rejected by an editor. There are the aspiring authors I know to be talented writers who are still struggling, a year after I last saw them, to get an agent or interest an editor in their books. Most of us have been there. It is a very up and down business, so when we say, "I feel your pain," we really mean that we have felt it. May even be feeling it right now, but they are more in need of consolation. And there truly is some comfort in knowing you aren't alone, and hearing stories of others who have recovered from these doldrums and gone on with their careers.

I especially like the moments when my friends triumph. Watching New England sister-in-crime Hank Phillippi Ryan win an Agatha for best first novel was pure joy. Hank is slim. She is glamorous. She has the wardrobe we would all die to own and be able to wear. And Hank is nice--genuinely nice. She is unusually generous. She is lovely and talented. She is exactly the girl we would have hated in high school except that she's for real. She's not just being nice to get your vote. She IS nice. And so her sisters from the New England chapter clapped with tears in our eyes when she received her silly little teapot. (Hank is second from the left.)

Other highlights: Going to the Guppies (Sisters in Crime's web group The Great Unpublished) lunch and exchanging hugs with blog buddy (or, more aptly, blog wrangler) Lorraine Bartlett, or Lorna Barrett or whoever she decides to write as next. Lorraine truly fits the bill of "people in this business who are seriously nice." She hounds me to publicize myself, and when I lag, she does it herself! It was the best fun to watch her sell stacks of her Lorna Barrett book, Murder is Binding, while smiling her sweet smile and exuding the great vibes of someone who is really having a wonderful time.

Going on to Annapolis with Marcia is more great fun. Even though I am "grown up," Marcia is the person I'd like to be when I really grow up. She's the smart girl who also has good manners. She's the really fine writer who mines the emotions of the everyday. She's the author of the memorable first line: WHEN I GOT CANCER, I DECIDED I WASN'T GOING TO put up with crap from anybody anymore, which appears in Sing It to Her Bones.

At Marcia's yearly writer's sleep-over, I get to know new authors and catch up on all the gossip in the business. We all do a fabulously well-attended event at Barnes & Noble (where the CRM is a peach) and then go out to Cantlers and eat seafood by the water. Spring is farther advanced than in New England, and driving down the winding roads among the flowering trees and trailing wisteria is heaven.

The girl's road trip ends in Oakmont, PA, where Richard and Mary Alice, owners of Mystery Lovers Bookshop, have rented a church hall where we will all assemble to sign books. With the jammed parking lot and readers lined up for a block, waiting to get it, it looks more like a landrush than a book sale, and it is the peak event of the season.

After the event, we all go back to the bookstore, where we eat pizza and drink wine and sign the bathroom wall. Marcia tells me about a great collection of short stories I have to buy. Ellen Crosby bemoans the loss of her luggage, containing the dress she needs to wear to be a presenter on Thursday at the Edgars.

For this week, beginning at Malice and ending with the Edgars, the mystery community really feels like a community. I meet new authors, catch up with friends, get filled with story ideas and inspired by the talent, humor and perseverance of my peers. Tomorrow I'll take the train down to New York to watch a first-time author I published received the Robert L. Fish Award for the best crime story of 2007 by a new author. I'll hope, throughout the Edgars banquet, that he will also be coming home with an Edgar.

By late Thursday night, when the Edgar banquet is over, I'll be ready to come home, close the door, and dig deeply back into Joe Burgess. But for now, I am out in the world, getting lively and being reminded of how lucky I am that I decided to write mysteries. I cannot believe that the writers in any other genre could be this wonderful.

Down Memory Lane

Posted by Lorraine (L.L.) Bartlett, also known as Lorna Barrett

When my husband and his first wife divorced over two decades ago, he got custody of the pictures.  That's not surprising--he took 99% of them.  For years I've encouraged him to sort through them and give unto Caesar what is...er, rather, to distribute the pictures to his kids--or at least one of them and she can sort through them and distribute them as she sees fit.

So it came to pass that I hauled up this fifty-ton box up from the basement (for hubby has a bum knee) and he started the process of sorting through more than forty years of photos.  The top layer was the most fun--at least for me.  These were pictures of our courtship and first few months of marriage--before we started merging our pictures. 

Look!  It's baby Henry.  I remember the day Frank got Henry (who--after we said "I do"-- became my boy).  He came over my house and said, "Your cats are as big as cows!"  (Mind you, my Cori, who was the inspiration for Miss Marple in my Booktown Mysteries, never weighed more than eight pounds in her entire 20-year life!)

Hey, there we are at (what is now our) cottage!  How many family picnics and weekends did we go to back then?  This picture is of me--doing what else?--editing one of my stories!  Note I'm chewing on a pen cap.  Wonder which tooth I broke that required a crown--I have twelve--most of them there because of chewed pens/caps.)  As it happens, as I typed this, I had my hair pinned up the same way.  Some things never change.  (And I still have those earrings, too, Jan!)

Hey, there I am skinny!  And isn't that a pretty veil?  Guess what?  It was made by my Writers Plot cohort, Doranna Durgin.  Isn't it gorgeous?  She took a million tiny pieces of white leaves and pearls and wire and ribbon and the little princess veil and voila!  Skullhead actually looked pretty on her wedding day.  (I was so thin that years later we still call that version of me "Skullhead." And Nutrasystem kept telling me I needed to lose at least another10 pounds.)  And where's the veil now?  In a box in my closet.  Every so often I take it out and admire its craftsmanship.

And yet more cat pictures.  I think we must have a thousand pictures of our cats--all nine of them (although we currently only have four).  St. Kate and Sir Hendrick did NOT get along.  Then how come we have so many pictures of them together?  This picture is of Henry and (and Frank's son) Larry looking out our old front door.  There was some kind of animal out there--but what it was is now lost to time.  (Note my lovely garbage can on the right. Can you believe I STILL have it???  Talk about a superior product!)

It's hard to believe we were ever so young (or at least me), and pictures of the cats long gone bring a smile to my lips--and a tug to my heart. 

The rest of the pictures in that box have no meaning for me.  They're of people and places and circumstances I had no part in.  It's rather sad, really, so see him cast these pictures of ex-family into a box.  But those times have no meaning for him anymore, either.

Actually, that's good for me.  Ex-wife didn't know what a prize she had and so cavalierly tossed aside.

I CALL IT RESEARCH

Posted by Sheila Connolly

One of the things I love about being a writer is that so many interesting activities can be lumped into the category "research." For me, that means touring glassblowing studios and tramping through apple orchards at all seasons of the year, and digging through archives, and poking around other people's basements, and going to antique shows so I can take pictures of arcane machinery that I might want to use in a book, sometime, maybe.

I've always loved learning how things work. My father was an engineer specializing in mixing systems, who worked for a company that made gears. That may sound dull, but the gears were ten feet tall, and operated a weird and wonderful range of machines. His projects ranged from pumping coal slurry across the Mojave Desert to mixing the elastic for ladies girdles (I hope somebody here remembers what a girdle was). So I figure I came by this curiosity naturally.

In the series that will debut this summer, my heroine inherits an apple orchard and decides to manage it to make an income. She's a city girl, and clueless about all things agricultural, but she's smart and willing to learn. The first book, One Bad Apple, deals with her arriving at this decision (while trying to figure out who stuffed the body of her ex-boyfriend in her septic tank); in the second (as yet unnamed) book she wrestles with the ongoing organic vs. pesticide controversy. As my husband is an entomologist, I have many resources available for this. The third book, which I will begin in the fall, is going to be about...food!

I have set the series in a small, struggling New England town, with no industry and few amenities such as restaurants. So, since I am endowing the town with an economic renaissance, I will give them a decent restaurant. Not just any restaurant, but one of the trendy contemporary farm-to-fork kind, which utilizes fresh and wholesome local produce. This one will be opened by a pair of transplanted Bostonians, who are as clueless about running a restaurant as my heroine is about running an orchard. But all will be well in the end, as soon as they clear up who murdered the latest of those pesky dead bodies that keep showing up in this quiet little town.

Therefore I must do food research. Poor me. I confess that I have been a foodie for many, many years, and I even worshipped at Alice Waters' iconic Chez Panisse in my youthful days in Berkeley. But going to restaurants is a passive approach, and I want more hands-on experience, which led to my signing up for a local cheesemaking demonstration, described previously in this blog. More recently I ventured into Cambridge to witness an event staged by the Chefs Collaborative, entitled a Pig Fabrication.

In my literal mind, fabrication means making something. What this event involved was watching chef Jamie Bissonette (of Boston restaurant KO Prime) disassemble a whole pig into the pieces we recognize from the supermarket, in an hour or so. Presumably one can move on to fabricating something wonderful from the pieces (and the charcuterie samples were delicious!), but the class was about what comes from where.

Let me say up front that the insides of the pig had already been removed, save for the kidneys. It was a relatively small pig, about 140 pounds, or so said the chef (gee, I remember when I weighed 140 pounds, in college. I was larger than the pig carcass.). But the late piggie still had head, tail, feet and everything in between.

The class was made up of an interesting mix of people: some chefs, who, surprisingly, had never seen where their meat came from; a few food writers; some local students; and a few anomalies like me and my daughter–maybe thirty people in all. Chef Jamie was fast and funny, and clearly devoted to his calling, and we all watched with rapt fascination as he dismembered the creature, transforming it from animal to potential dinner.

And I have to say this class was immensely valuable to me. I wanted to hear someone who respected–or more, revered–food. Who reveled in the process of making something wholesome and still subtle that other people would enjoy eating. While I had known intellectually that any thrifty cook would save all the bits and pieces and turn them into sausage, I had not realized the wide range of end products that could emerge, depending on how they were handled. I did not know that long, slow cooking will reduce even cartilage into something tender and toothsome (there was a very pretty pate made up solely of pigs ears–really).

And that's what I want to bring to my fictional restaurant–the passion for food. In 1900, 38% of the population of this country was involved in growing or raising food products; by 2000, the number was 3%. For a century and more we have embraced the ability to ship food faster and further, which now means halfway around the world–asparagus from China! lamb from Australia!–but along the way we've lost sight of the richness of flavor that comes only from food that you picked that morning, or the day before. I'm excited to find that a lot of other people–farmers, restauranteurs and consumers–now recognize this and celebrate it. And I plan to sample as much as I can.

I love research!

Something Only a Library Could Love

posted by Leann Sweeney

During our week of library posts, I'd wanted to talk about a sixth grade experience but I didn't have all the pieces of the mystery. Memory lapses do create mysteries. I didn't get many responses when I queried our reunion list. That list has more than a hundred names. A great guy who we dubbed "Bod" back in the day did a lot of work collecting the e-mails of many of the folks who graduated in1967 from Lewiston Porter High School. So with his help, I sent out a message hoping someone, anyone could fill in the gaps about that 6th grade project with a library connection.

By a show of hands, how many of you ever helped make a six foot world globe? No hands up? If you did raise your hand (and someone nearby looked at you like you were nuts), I'd love to hear from you. Anyway, that's what we did in Mr. Macaluso's sixth grade class. It took the better part of the school year. And why did I want to talk about this? Because once that school year was over and we were free for the summer, I vividly recall walking into the public library in our small town and saw our globe dangling in the center of that very small place. I was stunned and proud and I wondered how the heck it got there. How did anyone get it out of the classroom? No doors or windows were six feet wide that I knew about.

But like most twelve-year-olds, I had the attention span of a gnat and once I walked out of the library with my Agatha Christie's in hand, I forgot that I'd been contemplating a real life mystery. We do save certain memories, though, even though many of them end up fragmented or distorted. Too late for last week's blog,  I began to receive e-mails from some of my classmates and even though I learned how that globe ended up in the library, I learned how wonderful it is to have the technology to help us reach back into a past that might well have remained only a fragment. (I also learned some other things that were buried in my mind just beyond my grasp until  some of us worked together to resurrect them.)

The globe  had a chicken wire base  (someone thought it was a weather balloon) and was coated with  paper mache and  salt dough for the topography. When  the school year ended, several dads assisted in the process of taking the globe apart in such a way that it could be reassembled. Yup, Mr Macaluso even challenged the dads. And how many sixth graders learn that though we do math in base ten, you can do math in any number base. That one was tricky for me. I'm not a math person. But we had a speed reading course that has served me well even after all this time. We once had to give talk about a country in front of the class using the accent of that country. Hard, but fun. And then there was the meatball row. That wouldn't fly today--some parent would whine how it was humiliating--but the meatball row was in the back of the room and there sat all the kids who didn't follow the rules. They were there for the week. And they didn't like that small jail sentence. Discipline is lost in schools today. Teachers are afraid they might get shot or fired or find themselves on the evening news. Sad, huh?

So this was my best school year ever, the memories triggered by library week and a six foot globe that no one else but a librarian could love. What do you remember about your best teachers? What did they give you that you have used to this day? Tell me. I want to know because heck, this stuff just makes me smile maybe because Mr. Macaluso challenged us all to think beyond the ordinary, to challenge ourselves. I'm still doing that today.

 

Another Taxing April

Posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken

Life. Things go along in a manageable fashion for a while, and  I deal with it, and then comes the curve ball. A daughter hospitalized in The Big City, many gallons of gasoline from home; or the skylight over my side of the bed starts to leak; or the dryer breaks down; or I get my annual cold. Wham! In a couple of days, I'm about a month behind in everything. And it takes two months to catch up. Don't you hate that?

So you'd think I could plan better on the predictable stuff. Like taxes. April 15 cometh and the taxman taketh away. If he's not after more money, he sure is after my "spare" time.

In short,  I hate it. I tried, as our situation became more, well, taxing, to rely on experts. I'd land in some poor guy's office around the middle of April, boxes of receipts in hand. There were two problems with this: first, it cost a lot, and second, the experts often made as many mistakes as I could.

I remember once telling a state auditor, over the phone, that I did my own taxes because I figured I could screw them up myself. I was talking to the auditor, of course, precisely because I had screwed them up, but we worked things out without a face-to-face confrontation, and I kept that gentleman's phone number on file until he reached his well-deserved retirement.

For the past few years, I've spent April 15 filling out extension forms and getting them to the post office by closing time. I then spent August 15 scrambling, trying to get everything done. Then I actually read the fine print and realized that the final "drop-deadline" (as we say in Sisters in Crime) was October 15! What a relief! So I spent the next couple of years scrambling around trying to get everything done on October 15. The upside of this system is the (in good years) arrival of any refund in time for Christmas shopping. The downside is obvious: I was a nervous wreck for months.

This year I decided I would do better. I kept some running totals on various business expenses and was able to tally them in only a few hours (as opposed to an entire weekend most years). I gathered all the receipts and sat down. Looking at the pile, I decided to try a tax software program. Our credit union has a link to one of the biggies, and I clicked. Hey, it said "Free!" The click was free, but that was about it.

In a relatively short time (well, half a day or so), I had our federal and state taxes all prepared and ready to file electronically. The total for the "free" filing came to $129.95 with tax. Sheesh! I went off to a conference for the weekend and let the taxes wait. Sunday night I looked them over again and e-filed them--a whole 48 hours before the deadline. I went to bed feeling pretty good.

That lasted until Monday, when I got the email announcing that the state return had been accepted but the federal was "rejected". I was not to worry, though, because I only had to take a couple of small steps and the software would walk me right through fixing some minor problem.

They lied. I spent over two hours trying to make the "simple fix"--but I could never figure out what it needed. The links to "fix" the problem were not to be found anywhere on the website. Naturally, since it was by then the evening of April 14, all of the "help" sources were jammed. I did have the opportunity to email the company what I thought of their product. Stamping my feet like a tired toddler, steam coming out of my ears, I let 'em have it.

Like they cared.

I just put the whole thing away. We don't owe the government any money. Like Scarlett O'Hara, I'll think about it tomorrow. Or October 15. Yeah, I should be calm by then. Probably. On the up side, the state refund is already here. Four days. Not bad at all.

The Journey of a Thousand Books

Posted by Kate Flora

This week, my tenth published book was delivered by the Fed. Ex. man to my front porch. I confess that I am dizzy with excitement, because....

Thea is back!  To celebrate the publication of my seventh Thea Kozak mystery, Stalking Death, I invited you to join me on a journey exploring the unique connections available between readers and writers in the 21st century.

Stalking Death takes educational consultant and amateur sleuth Thea Kozak to a small, prestigious New England boarding school where minority scholarship student Shondra Jones claims she is being stalked by the grandson of the school's largest donor. Shondra is a tough, strong athlete. She's also isolated, scared, and only sixteen. Her claims are rejected by the administration, who believe she's only doing it for attention. Thea doesn't think she's heard the whole story, but when she tries to convince the administration to conduct a full investigation, she's fired, leaving Shondra to take matters into her own hands. But when one student ends up dead and another arrested, the administration calls Thea back. Now, if she can survive the sinister forces active on this elegant old campus, Thea may be able to separate the guilty from the innocent. 

Stalking Death has taken some major detours on its way to publication. I began work on the book soon after completing the sixth Thea Kozak mystery, Liberty or Death. When Liberty was delayed for two years, I set Stalking Death aside for other projects. But the characters and the story haunted me. I couldn't put those powerful interviews with police officers and victim's advocates about stalking out of my head. Shondra Jones was one of the most interesting characters I'd ever created--it was a real challenge to imagine a 6' 3" young African-American woman who excelled at basketball and failed at human relations, who was exploding with fear and anger. So, though I'd vowed not to write another book without a contract, I finished the book and sent it to my editor. 

The book sat on my editor's desk for a year without a decision before the Thea Kozak series died the not uncommon death of a midlist series. My agent advised me to give up and move on. But I cared about my story and my characters and hated to let them go without a fight. After two years, I took Thea's fate back into my own hands and got the book back on the road to publication through Jim Huang's Crum Creek press.

It has been a long and bumpy journey, but I know Thea's many fans will rejoice with me in seeing her adventures continue in print, and new readers will delight in Thea's tart voice and strong principles.

What is The Journey of a Thousand Books?

Ultimately, the fate of books and their writers lies in the hands of readers. This is particularly true when a book is published by a small press with limited marketing resources. But my writing career has often been about taking chances, so I'm excited about exploring whether word of mouth and writer/reader connections can help me share this new Thea story with readers. I'm excited about moving beyond the anonymity of ordinary marketing instead of leaving this story, which represents such a passionate act of my imagination, in the hands of publishers and distributors, and making a real connection with my readers.

I have set myself a goal of selling a thousand books--a small number in the spreadsheet of publishing's impersonal statistics, but a large one in the realm of personal connections. I'm asking readers to send me pictures of themselves with their copies of Stalking Death. I'm asking my friends and supporters in the library world to send pictures of themselves and their libraries. Along with the pictures, I'm asking them to tell me a little bit about themselves and their stories. In this way, I hope to explore the relationship between readers and writers, between the story I've imagined and how it is recreated in a reader's imagination. I'd like to know where the book is being bought and read. I'd like to hear how readers make their choices and how a writer can reach them in this fast-paced and anonymous world.

On the Journey pages at www.kateflora.com, I will post stories and pictures on my website as part of the book's journey. Whenever a benchmark is reached (first 100, 250, 500, etc.) I'll draw a name and award a prize.                                                            

This may be 21st century marketing. This may be one more crazy thing we authors come up with because we believe in our books. But mostly, this is a sentimental journey by an author who is determined to see her characters not just survive, but triumph. Please join me.

Stalking Death
Crum Creek Press/The Mystery Company
ISBN: 1-932325-06-9

And what annoyed YOU today?

Posted by Lorraine (L.L.) Bartlett, also known as Lorna Barrett

For years my family has teased me saying I came with no "owners manual."  That if a book was written about what I liked (food and otherwise), it would be a pamphlet.  I guess I am a bit opinionated, especially when it comes to things like food.  But they were right.  There are a lot of things that bug me.  And why not vent it to the world at large?  So here are several of my pet peeves, and in no particular order.

1.  Liver.  In any way, shape or form.  Or being told, "Try this chicken liver wrapped in bacon--it's delicious and doesn't taste a thing like liver."  (Lies.)

2.  Smart people who pronounce stuff wrong.  We won't go into the tomato vs. to-MAH-to thing.  Instead, let's talk local geography.  Here in our area 90% of the population says CanAdaigua instead of CanaNdaigua.  There's another N in there, folks.  Or how about Perinton.  Do you see a G in there?  No, and you don't pronounce it with one, either.

3.  Household members who know the handle on the toilet is sensitive and you HAVE to pull it up after each use and still don't do it.  There are two people in this house who use it on a regular basis and one of us (that would be me) manages to keep the thing from running 24/7 and the other person doesn't.  (Grrrrrr.)

4.  A cat who insists on scratching the bedroom closet door to wake me up every morning, even knowing he'll get squirted if he does.  (In fact, I don't even need to squirt--I just slosh the squirt bottle and said cat runs away like a raging rhinoceros.)

5.  People who drive and talk on their cell phones, even though it's illegal in this state.  And especially COPS who drive and talk on their cell phones (while phoning in their sugar-coated treat from Dunkin Donuts?).  I've been bumped twice at red lights by people paying more attention to their conversation than their driving.

6.  Online booksellers who offer your upcoming book for 20% off and then the minute you tell people so they can pre-order it at an almost-reasonable price, they YANK IT, so you can see your ranking rise like a hot air balloon.

7.  Computers that don't do what you want them to do when you want them to do it.  (Like even though you changed the return address in Word, it insists on using the incorrect one--and you don't notice it until you've printed out 200 envelopes.)

8.  Companies that yank "new" products the minute I decide I like them.  Like ice tea flavored Gatorade.  (Of course you've never heard of it--I liked it so they discontinued it.)  Reynolds cling wrap with EZ slider.  They got rid of that marvelous invention and went back to the old saw tooth piece of metal that doesn't cut at all!

I could go on and on.  What are some of your pet peeves?

BUT I WANT IT!

Posted by Sheila Connolly

[This is left over from Library Week, but I thought it might still be relevant.]

I've always loved libraries. When I was six, and more than capable of reading on my own, my mother let me get a library card. In the town where we lived then, the library was not in walking distance (or even if it was, my mother wasn't about to let me go off on my own), which meant she had to drive me there. Now, my mother worked in those distant days, although her schedule was erratic. The net result was that we collectively didn't keep very good track of the dates when the books were due.

Her excuse was that she worked (!), but I had a different agenda: I was convinced that if you took the book out of the library, it was yours. This does not explain why I kept them neatly hidden under my bed, but still... The library contacted my mother, the books were returned, and–my library card somehow mysteriously disappeared. My mother blamed me for losing the card (I didn't! really!) and then refused to take me to get a replacement, but that didn't discourage me from reading.

Later in life I thought I would become a college professor, which would, of necessity, require that I spend a lot of times in libraries. I never considered becoming a librarian. As things turned out, I didn't end up an academic either, but along the way I put in a stint as a non-profit fundraiser. My second job in the field was in The (yes, you must capitalize the T) Historical Society of Pennsylvania, a venerable institution in Center City Philadelphia, with a long and worthy history.

We administrative types were clumped together in a corner on the third floor, and the books and other collections lived on part of that floor, and on the second floor, and on the fourth floor, and in the basement–in short, in every possible corner not occupied by humans. Sometimes the items were filed neatly and logically; sometimes they were stuffed into old suitcases and the ilk, waiting for the money to pay the person who would catalog and conserve them. HSP had a collection of over two millions items (that was a semi-educated guess, because no one really knew how many there were), and they were catalogued in seven different files, some of which were written in lovely copperplate on yellowing cards. It was challenging to find anything in the building, especially as things had been moved and moved again over the course of a hundred-plus years. I'm happy to say I assisted in drafting the grant proposals that finally garnered funding to digitize some of the records. Some, not all. I doubt that they'll reach "all" in my lifetime.

But I wanted to make two points about my years in a renowned historic library. The first is: what a thrill it was to have free reign of the stacks, and be able to wander through and pick up random volumes or manuscripts or letters and just read (always carefully and respectfully, I promise!). Did you know that Edwin Forrest, America's first great native-born tragedian (if you think people swooning over stars of the stage is a modern phenomenon, think again–people rioted in the streets of New York over Forrest) wrote in purple ink? It gives new significance to the term "purple prose". I once looked at some 18th-century gentleman's receipt book, in which he recorded every transaction involved in building his new home in the country. It included everything from the original purchases of lumber and nails through furniture and ornamental plants, and you could visualize the house going up day by day, start to finish. And after one fundraising event (sweet-talking all those high-dollar donors into coughing up some more money) somebody shoved a b