NOT YOUR USUAL SUSPECTS

A group blog featuring an international array of killer mystery, suspense, and romantic suspense writers. With premises and story lines different from your run-of-the-mill whodunits, we tend to write outside the box. We blog several times a week on all topics relating to romantic suspense and mystery, our writing, and our readers. We welcome all comments and often have guest bloggers. All our authors can be contacted separately, too, using their own social media links.

We find our genre delightfully, dangerously, and deliciously exciting - join us here, if you do too!

NOTE: the blog is currently dormant but please enjoy the posts we're keeping online.


Julie Moffet . Cathy Perkins . Jean Harrington . Daryl Anderson . Nico Rosso . Maureen A Miller . Sandy Parks . Lisa Q Mathews . Sharon Calvin . Lynne Connolly . Janis Patterson . Vanessa Keir . Tonya Kappes . Julie Rowe . Joni M Fisher . Leslie Langtry

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

A little help, please?

So, I’ve just finished a novel. The first draft, anyway. And I’m not sure what I have. So I'm turning to you, Gentle Reader. Below is the first chapter. What’s your sense of the story’s genre?


CHAPTER 1

The house dominated the crest of a knoll, aloof from its neighbors, its roof a sharp line against the darkening sky. It stood near the end of a street that had still been farmland ten years ago. Streetlights illuminated a series of wide, shallow, cement steps that led from the sidewalk up the grassy, slightly overgrown lawn to a walkway that in turn led to a wooden stairway and a porch running the length of the house. A recently-painted white railing contrasted with the dark field stones that sided the house. The posts supporting the narrow roof over the porch were squared off, and wider at the bottom than at the top. Two dormers jutted from the roof, their windows dark with the fading day. The front door was thick wood, light-colored, with an ornate brass knocker centered beneath the thick, beveled glass insert. The doorknob matched the knocker.
A sign planted in the middle of the lawn proclaimed that the house was for rent via Albans Realty.
Standing on the walkway, Ash took it all in while the realtor, Maddie Bowen, waited patiently on the porch.
Other houses lined the street, each with its own style, some bigger but most smaller. Cars filled the driveways and lights gleamed from windows. Dinner time smells floated on the cool wind that blew red and yellow leaves around the lawns and sidewalks. The houses were set apart from the one on the hill, as if shying away.
Would those people be able to hear screaming from the house on the hill? Would they come running?
“Pretty grand, isn’t it?” said Maddie. She wore black pants, sensible brown leather flats and a heavy red plaid car coat over a white turtleneck, her “showing” outfit. She was always the one to show this house to prospective renters. David, her partner, didn’t like setting foot in it. She had no idea why. The house was a hundred years old, with beautiful lines and in a great location. The owner had completely renovated it, then decided to use it as a rental property instead of living in it.
Not that she blamed him.
“Come on,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s get out of the wind.” With a determined step, she turned to the front door.
She tried to strike just the right balance of enthusiasm and professionalism, although really, the chances of this girl renting the house—any house—were pretty damned slim. Still, you never knew.
Ash nodded, even though the realtor had turned her back, and followed more slowly, adjusting her leather backpack. Inside were all her important papers—new birth certificate, driver’s licence, passport—and her important numbers: safety deposit box number, bank account numbers, her lawyer’s phone number, and the pre-paid cell phone. The backpack came with her wherever she went.
From those dormer windows, she would see anyone coming up the road. Her battered Volvo would stand out in this settled, affluent neighborhood of new Nissans and Hondas, but maybe she could park it around the back.
She would stand out, too, a young woman alone on a street full of families.
She reached the steps, where Maddie Bowen waited for her, and followed the middle-aged woman’s gaze. It wasn’t totally dark yet, but the sun had set a while ago and all the lights in Albans proper spread through the long, shallow trench of the Ottawa River Valley. A smile flitted across Ash’s face at the sight.
Pretty.
Most of the people on this street probably worked in Ottawa, commuting the hour there and back by train. During the day, most of these houses would be empty.
Nobody would hear screaming during the day.
Next to her, Maddie Bowen suddenly shivered as the wind picked up. Without a word, they both turned toward the dark house. It surprised Ash that the realtor hadn’t made sure the lights were on to greet them. Wasn’t that Realty 101?
Maddie climbed the porch steps and unlocked the doorknob, speaking over her shoulder.
“Sorry about the lights,” she said. “I sent someone by to turn everything on earlier today, but clearly they forgot.” Damn it, Dave. He could at least have turned on the porch light.
Maddie got the door open and stepped inside. She flipped the porch light on and Ash blinked in the sudden brightness.
“Come on in,” said Maddie, taking Ash by the arm and leading her through the doorway. The girl was skin and bones, for Pete’s sake. She looked like a waif.
Warm light flooded the wide entrance hall and Ash stood in silence, staring. To her right was an open room with a stone fireplace and a tall ceiling. A tufted black leather couch faced the fireplace, while mismatched club chairs huddled closer to the fireplace, facing each other across an oval glass coffee table resting on a rug patterned in blue and silver. Paintings hung on the wall, but she couldn’t tell what they depicted since the entrance light didn’t reach that far into the room.
The place smelled… sterile. As if someone came in once a month to dust but otherwise, no one had lived here for a long time.
“This way,” said Maddie, leading her down the hallway toward the back of the house. On the left, across from the living room, was another room, closed off with French doors. It looked like it might contain a desk. Halfway to the kitchen, they passed a wide staircase with black wooden steps and white risers. Maddie flicked on the lights as she passed but swept right through into the dining room and kitchen.
“Gas range, quartz counter tops, glass-tiled backsplash, counter and stools, big table,” Maddie rattled off as she strode through the dining room to a pair of French doors. She opened them and stepped out onto a large deck. “Come on out,” she invited. “I don’t want to turn on the lights until you see this.”
Ash obediently stepped out next to her and a small gasp escaped her.
“Yes, indeed,” said Maddie with satisfaction. This was why she liked showing the house at night.
The view of the valley Ash had glimpsed at the front of the house was in full glory here. A swath of darkness immediately below her gave way to an expanse of lights, mirrored above by the stars just beginning to emerge in the night sky.
“You can’t see it now,” Maddie continued, “but just below your house, at the bottom of the hill is the river.”
Ash noted her judicious use of “your” but let it go. She hadn’t even seen all of it, but she liked the house. Still, it wasn’t as if she was planning to buy it. She just wanted to rent it for a few months while she figured out her next move. Albans seemed like a good place to stop. It was big enough to hide in but still had a small town feel.
She took a deep breath of the cold air, breathing in the scents of cooking, and wet leaves, and faintly, sawdust. For a moment, her throat closed up as tears threatened. It smelled like home, the home she used to have when Mom and Dad were still alive.
“Let’s go upstairs,” said Maddie, oblivious to Ash’s reaction. They headed back inside, through the dining room and past a small powder room across from the stairs. They climbed the steps, turning at a small landing. Upstairs were four bedrooms, three of them smaller and sharing a bathroom, and the fourth slightly bigger, with a small ensuite. All the rooms had mouldings, deep window seats and mullioned windows.
All of the rooms—the entire house—seemed to be fully furnished.
“Of course,” said Maddie once they returned to the entrance, “you would need to see the house in daylight, but when you mentioned you were looking for a house to rent, I immediately thought of this one.” Because it was the only rental she had on the books.
Maddie kept the smile plastered on her face, but she was beginning to suspect that the girl was wasting her time. She looked eighteen, for crying out loud. She couldn’t afford this place, even at the rock bottom monthly rental it was going for.
Ash saw the look in Maddie Bowen’s eyes. She knew that she looked younger than twenty-four. Sometimes that was an advantage, but mostly, it led people to discount her, or worse, patronize her.
“Why is the rent so low? What’s wrong with it?”
Maddie shook her head. She hadn’t expected the question. Most people didn’t ask. “Absolutely nothing,” she said firmly. “The rental market is a little depressed right now, and this is a big house, bigger than most people need.”
Ash looked around one last time, taking in the light wood floors, the cream walls with warm wood trim, the faint smell of cedar and mothballs. It was bigger than she needed, too.
“How long has it been empty?” she asked.
For the first time, Maddie hesitated. “Seven months,” she admitted. She revised her estimate of the girl’s age upward.
Ash looked at the realtor. Seven months was a long time.
As Maddie reached inside for the door handle, Ash gave the interior a last look. Maddie had turned off the lights in the kitchen and hallway, but in the light spilling inside from the porch she glimpsed a shapeless shadow at the foot of the stairs just before Maddie pulled the door closed.


Okay, that’s the beginning. What do you think?

Sunday, May 8, 2016

WHAT ARE YOU READING?


  Any more I depend on word of mouth and my go to authors in selecting new reads. I’m asking for you to share books that have drawn you in, intrigued you. Made you laugh, broke your heart, or scared the bewhozzouseits out of you.  
First, I’ll recommend any book by a Not Your Usual Suspects author. Check out our stories. I guarantee you will not be disappointed. They are amazing, brilliant, spell binding and many are available as audio books. A big plus for me.
Now for my other suggestions and a warning. I’ve been on a rip and tear reading ‘different’ books. For some reason I’m totally off contemporary romance so you won’t find any below. Nothing against it but, shrug, just reading other stuff. Curious, do you do that?
Right now I’m enjoying how other genre authors swirl the words on a page. Build suspense and even write a tiny bit of romance into a mainly horror book. Yeah, I'm looking at you Stephen King.
Here we go.    
I don’t remember who here suggested The Insect Farm by Stuart Prebble last year. Thank you. I adore this book.
Miss Peregrines Home for Peculiar Children. Ransom Riggs. A trilogy. Sooo much fun.
Stephen Kings Bill Hodges trilogy. The third book comes out June 7.  Can’t wait.
King’s 11.22.63. Honestly I think this is one of the best books ever.
Try Jonathan Maberry’s books. He builds bizarre worlds (zombie terrorists and such) and pulls you right into them.
The Martian by Andy Weir. The movie is fantastic but barely more than a synopsis of the book.  
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. Different. Very different. In some places I wish he’d taken Elmore Leonard’s advice about leaving out the parts readers tend to skip. LOL! Lots of description. But a spellbinding story.
If you are of Irish descent you may love this book. I did. The Immortal Irishman: The Irish Revolutionary Who Became an American Hero by Timothy Eagan. The story of Thomas Meagher who led a failed uprising against British rule, for which he was banished to a Tasmanian prison colony. He escaped and six months later was heralded in the streets of New York at the dawn of the great Irish immigration to America. He was a Civil War hero and friend of Lincoln.
I’ve been rereading Neil Gaiman’s books. Love his voice.
I can go on and on, but I’m going to end with Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series. It has so very much. Timeless love. 18th century history from Scotland, to France, (men in kilts and tight silk breeches. O. My) to the colonies. There is time travel, court intrigue, dirty bat rasturds, witches, pirates and their ships, Indians, bears and a cast of characters you will not forget.

I’m looking for new reads.  Can you surprise me with new, to me, authors?  Hit me with your reading list.

Friday, May 6, 2016

Hospitals, Waiting and Research


by Janis Patterson

There’s something unsettling about hospital waiting rooms. The very air is saturated with thick and not always pleasant emotions. I’m here while a dear elderly friend has a fairly minor day surgery, waiting to take her home, but some of my waiting room companions are not so lucky. There are several clumps of people waiting with me, but there is no friendly interaction between us. I’m sure that’s not from any sense of dislike or snobbishness; on the contrary, I think it is a manifestation of focusing on what is important to them - their loved one, some of whom are having not-so-minor day surgeries.

And that’s the way it should be. Everyone’s attention and energy should be on their loved ones. There are other times for chatting with strangers, or caring/praying for others who have problems, but when it is your loved one whose flesh is under the scalpel, some familial selfishness is understandable.

I’m here alone, for my elderly friend has no local relations, and we have been close for decades, so to help the time pass I am shamelessly eavesdropping. Not that I couldn’t even if I didn’t want to; the waiting room is small, and it can’t be helped.

Everyone here has a story; one group’s uncle is having a hernia repaired; another’s sister is having benign cyst removed; another’s mother is having a badly ingrown toenail attended to; one patient is a child having her tonsils out; my friend is having a cataract removed. None of them are life threatening, or even very scary procedures, nothing like what is seen in emergency rooms and major surgical suites every day, but still... the idea of a human body - a beloved human body - being invaded with scalpel or laser or Heaven only knows what is still terrifying.

I know that a viable story could be generated from every story in this waiting room. Human experience is the genesis of all stories, but sometimes they come too close to your particular bone. It’s one thing to make up fanciful or grittily realistic tales about what happens to someone and another to think about what is happening to a loved one at the moment. Later, perhaps, when all is happily resolved, the emotional memory can be taken out and reshaped to make a story, but most definitely later. Not now, when the stomach is clenched and the mind full of possible horrors.


Someone said of writers that everything is all research to us, and that’s true. Most things that happen to us will sooner or later turn up in some form in a story. There’s no rule, however, that this involuntary research has to be pleasant.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Unravelling historical mysteries








Her Quicksilver Lover by Lynne Connolly
In a book out later this month, I unravel a mystery of my own creation, but I couldn't put it in a vacuum. I love historical mysteries. Who was the Man In The Iron Mask? Who shot JFK? And why did women wear clothes guaranteed to hamper them?
The glib answer to the last question is “fashion.” But that doesn’t really explain anything. It’s not trying to attract a male, either. Who in their right mind would be turned on by a woman wearing an Elizabethan wheel farthingale?
I like Quentin Bell’s explanation. He was the first person to go below the surface and work out what was going on. He was helped by the development of psychology, which by his time was gripping the world. He was also helped by being a member of the Bloomsbury Group, which kept its collective mind open to explorations of every kind.
In his “On Human Finery,” (http://www.amazon.com/Human-Finery-Quentin-Bell/dp/0749000945?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0)Bell explains the different kinds of reasons for dressing in preposterous clothing. In other words, why not dress in dark-coloured loose pants and T-shirt every day?
Here’s why:



1. Conspicuous consumption. This one is straightforward enough. It’s the desire to display your wealth and status on your body, to say without words how rich and superior you are. Or something subtler, such as wearing totally plain clothes, but dressing your dependants, your servant or your child, for instance, in glory. Think of a Yeoman of the Guard, whose uniform is gold bullion, or a child in fancy duds, or even a footman in livery.


2. Conspicuous Leisure. To wear something that you can’t possibly work in, thus displaying your status. Things like long, white gloves, over-tight corsets and one-shouldered capes.

3. Conspicuous waste. Wearing something that you can afford to throw away. Elaborately embroidered clothes that can’t be cleaned, the ubiquitous white gloves, clothes that drag on the ground.

4. Conspicuous outrage. Clothes that are guaranteed to upset someone, drawing attention without a vulgar display of wealth. This can be something that shows a part of the body usually hidden, like a topless bikini or a codpiece. It shows the wearer’s contempt for the rest of society, and his or her disdain for the norm. This is the aspect that drives fashion, because as soon as the outrage becomes acceptable, like miniskirts or revealing the bosom, the wearer will move on to something new.

The first three were originally outlined by Veblen, but the fourth is Bell’s. It’s a stroke of genius, explaining the others and itself even more. Of course there’s a lot more to it, but I’d strongly advise getting the book and finding out for yourself!
There, another historical mystery solved!
That’s why research is so important to what I do. I need to find out why and how, not just what. So no aristocrat ever became a pirate. Why not? Why didn’t women declare their independence earlier? Why didn’t the Young Pretender continue on his victorious advance in the ‘forty-five and conquer London?
I do my best to find out. Sometimes there’s no definitive fashion. Other times, there’s a simple answer. But if I don’t understand these things, I can’t write believable history. I can’t take people back in time with me.

Lynne Connolly
http://lynneconnolly.com


Monday, May 2, 2016

Say No To Crab Racing!

Last week I went to New Orleans for hubby's business. His company hosted a big gala. It was nice to be wined and dined for a few days, but it was certainly filled with oddities...such as this woman. (No, not me, the one wearing an Aztec temple.)



Another oddity was this statue. I'm not quite sure what to say about this.


At night we visited a conference room lined with bizarre kiosks. One contained "crab racing". A pile of crabs sat in the middle of a pen, and to me they appeared to all be dead. I pointed that out to the host. He said, "They're not dead, they're sleeping." And he proceeds to jab at them with a stick. One raised his claws in protest, but he sure as heck didn't 'race'.  I was ready to go out on the street with a FREE THE CRABS poster. The next exhibit was "pose with a live alligator". I felt like I was in some sort of Chevy Chase Vacation movie.


On our second night of conferences we entered a darkened chamber, and out of the shadows came this powerhouse! It was a tad surreal to be assaulted with such loud noise without actually being able to see the source. But having origins in marching band myself I had to give them a fist pump of respect.


What does all this have to do with my new book? Nothing. But, at least I can say no crabs or alligators were harmed in the writing of DUSK. :)

Writers know that conferences can be a tad surreal. Have you been to any conferences outside the writing industry?

Coming next month...


As a young girl, Amanda Newton witnessed the brutal murder of her parents.

As an adult she is targeted by their murderer.

Beautiful. reserved. mysterious. Amanda Newton, the CEO of BLUE-LINK epitomizes control with her adept handling of the global company. But that control is threatened with a series of attacks against her. 

Ray Gordon, a former Navy SEAL is looking to open his own security firm. One more contracting job with BLUE-LINK would complete the funding. When he is hired to protect the ice queen herself, he never bargained on falling for her.

Amanda has something her attacker wants, and he will destroy anyone close to her to convince her to relinquish it.

...but he's met his match in Ray Gordon.


Friday, April 29, 2016

Follow Your Bliss


I'm a lucky girl. I've had the opportunity to pursue numerous passions in my life. I’m happiest when I have a sense of purpose—a pursuit (or two or three) that embodies my values, beliefs, and abilities—that gives me a sense of meaning. 

A bliss. 

My background is a combination of pursuits with obvious interests in biology and psychology. I have a Masters degree in counseling. But I only used it “in the field” for a couple years before we moved and started a family.  

I can't help but wonder... Where would I be if I hadn’t gone that direction? What if I’d followed a different fork in the road at any of the numerous places where it, well, forked. ;)

I love being a writer. The flexibility, challenge, and adventure of it. But sometimes I wonder what I’d be doing if I wasn’t a stay-at-home mother of three and a writer. And if I didn’t have a husband who’s source of income was steady enough to allow me to follow my bliss.

When I look back, everything I pursued was to make other people happier and/or healthier. That was my goal. At one time, I wanted to be a physical therapist. But when I volunteered at a hospital, just to try it on for size, I didn’t think I had the forcefulness to push people past their limits as well as the energy to be a constant cheerleader. It just didn’t fit my personality. 

At another time, I wanted to be a doctor, but the hours and lack of sleep weren't appealing. And then there was the likelihood of incurring financial debt for several more years of school.

A profiler? That was a dream at one time. If I’m honest, it still is, though I know I’d most likely never want to go through that much schooling again. It's not that I feel I'm too old (okay, maybe a little bit), but it would take up a large chunk of time I currently devote to my other passions—family and writing.

A life coach? That’s my latest interest. Apparently there’s a certification process. It’s a career that involves helping people—helping them find their own bliss, in fact. And that sounds pretty awesome. 

But with the kids still at home, I’m thinking writer is still the best choice for me. Besides, in what other job can I explore all of these other careers vicariously, through my characters? Still, who knows what the future will bring? 


If you were to follow a new dream, what would it be and why?

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH





Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
And summer’s lease hath all too short a day.


     It’s National Poetry Month and time to muse about poets who wrote plays and novels. First and foremost is William Shakespeare who is thought to have trod the boards in London and written for about five years before the theaters were closed in Southwark by the Privy Council in 1592. A ruthless epidemic of the dreaded plague had struck; the council feared mayhem would erupt amongst the citizens. The council’s order was extended and the theaters did not reopen until 1594. Shakespeare joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Men changed to the King’s Men in 1603.
     By 1592, Shakespeare was well-known as the author of dramatic plays but the esteem accorded the plays went to the theatrical company. His name first appeared on the title page of Richard II and Romeo and Juliet in 1597. When the theaters closed, Shakespeare turned to writing dramatic poems such as Venus and Adonis dedicated to Henry Wriothesley, the third Earl of Southampton who became his patron, there were fifteen editions before 1640. He penned thirty plays and more than one hundred sonnets. 


     The Bronte family had writing in their DNA. Sisters Emily, Charlotte, Anne and brother Branwell all told tales, read extensively, wrote, and during childhood created a fantasy kingdom and island motivated by Branwell’s toy soldiers. Emily Bronte is best-known for Wuthering Heights, published in 1847, but her first piece is a poem titled “No coward soul is mine.”  The poem, part of collection of three poems was privately published one year earlier and written by Currer, Ellis and Acton (the male pseudonyms of the three Bronte sisters). Emily began a second novel but in 1848, she died of tuberculosis and the manuscript was destroyed.


     Thomas Hardy’s mother was responsible for his education. She favored Latin poets and French romances. He began to write poems at the age of twenty-two, enjoyed Shakespeare, art and opera but worked for an architectural firm. He met Emma Lavinia Gifford who encouraged his work and he began to believe literature was his proper calling.
     Hardy, unable to find a readership for his poetry—his first collection was published in 1898—was advised to write a novel. His first, The Poor Man and the Lady, written in 1867, was rejected by so many publishers he destroyed it. He gained an audience with Far From the Madding Crowd in 1874 and realized he could now give himself a life as a writer.
     He wrote Tess of the D’Ubervilles in1891 and Jude the Obscure in 1895 and both books with their unconventional morality shocked critics and his public in that Victorian period. His marriage suffered and it was rumored he had affairs. Hardy said he would never write another novel and began to publish several collections of poems. His novels and poems were influenced by romanticism.
     Hardy won worldwide repute and many literary friends by the close of the 19th century, becoming president of the Society of Authors in 1909 and receiving the Order of Merit from King George V. Emma died in 1912 and Hardy, filled with regret, wrote many poems in her memory published as Poems of 1912-13. He passed on in 1928 and wanted his body interred in the same grave as Emma’s but his executor insisted he be place in Westminster Abbey’s Poet’s Corner. An agreement was reached—his heart was buried with Emma and his ashes in Poet’s Corner.


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