Prize Draw and Celebration at NYUS - Jean Harrington

The authors of Not Your Usual Suspects thank you for following the blog, and celebrate 250,000 hits!

This week we'll be featuring a selection of delicious and delightful excerpts from our books. A lucky commenter at the end of the week will win a set of books from ALL the authors in e-format.

Just leave your email in the RAFFLECOPTER draw below - and you can earn extra entries by leaving a comment on the blogpost, too.

Today's featured author is JEAN HARRINGTON and her book THE DESIGN IS MURDER. Please enjoy the excerpt, pop the book on your wishlist if you're tempted, and don't forget to enter the Rafflecopter draw below.

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The Design Is Death finaled in the 2014 Florida Book Awards.

Interior designer Deva Dunne should be focusing her attention on buying a new home with Lt. Victor Rossi. But in typical Deva-style, she’s got her mind on everyone else’s abodes. Keeping her busy are her two newest clients, who have a lot in common. They both live on Whiskey Lane, and both were involved with the same woman. Coincidence or competition?

James Stahlman believes Stew Hawkins moved into the house across the street to terrorize him after he became engaged to Kay, Stew’s ex-wife. But Stew is over it. He’s remarried–and to someone much younger. When both women are found “accidentally” dead weeks apart Deva thinks there’s something afoot on Whiskey Lane. Coincidence or murder?

Deva can’t stay away…as much as her protective fiancé would like her to. And it’s becoming clear that someone thinks Deva’s seen too much. With the list of suspects growing, and Deva and Rossi that much closer to becoming homeless–really, where are they going to live?–she’ll have to sift through the clues herself, or there’ll be no happily-ever-after.

BUY LINKS: AMAZON / NOOK / KOBO  

For the second time that morning, the sleigh bells jangled, and I glanced past Mr. Stahlman toward the front door. An unshaven teenager lurched in, his knees popping out of his jeans, his eyes popping out of his head.

I froze. A Beretta aimed at your face would do that to a person.

Finger shaking, I pointed toward the doorway. “Look!”

Mr. Stahlman swiveled around, spotted Bug Eyes and in his shock dropped Charlotte—boom!—to the floor, probably for the first time in her fluffy little life.

“Don’t move,” our intruder said. As if we could.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice as shaky as my knees. “I just opened up. There’s no money in here.”

“Quiet.” He waved the gun at Mr. Stahlman. “Drop your wallet on the floor. Then slide it over to me. No fast moves.”

James Stahlman reached inside his breast pocket and slowly withdrew a leather billfold. Bending down, he placed it on the floor, and with the toe of his polished loafer sent it sliding across the room.

To Charlotte, that meant party time. As the wallet skittered across the floorboards, she pounced, grabbed the leather in her teeth and, happy with her new toy, scampered around the shop, dodging between chair legs and swooping under the round table skirts.

The mugger followed the dog with his doped-up eyes and the muzzle of his gun. “Get the damned wallet, fast, or I’ll kill that mutt.”

“Mutt!” The word tore from James Stahlman’s lips. Finding the insult too grievous to ignore, he drew himself erect. “She came in second in the Westminster Dog Show.”

“Who gives a shit?”

As the Beretta ominously followed Charlotte’s every move, the morning sun glanced off the dull barrel. Dull? Ah! The gun was a plastic fake. Mr. Tough Guy Mugger was playing Cops and Robbers. He wasn’t even armed. I was sure of it—well, pretty darned sure. My father had been one of Boston’s finest and taught me everything he knew about weaponry. But the price of a mistake could be fatal. While I tried to decide what to do, Charlotte did the deciding for me.

The mugger approached her, gun cocked and aimed. She took one look at him and dropped the wallet. A five-pound ball of fluff with the body of a crumpet and the heart of a lion, she leaped for his hand and sank her perfect little teeth into it.

He howled, and with Charlotte clinging to his flesh, he raised his arm. Swinging her around like a furry slingshot, he flung her through the air. She sailed across the shop, landing with a squeal on the zebra settee, a dazed expression on her face, her bow at a nutty angle.

Forgetting all danger to himself or to me either, Stahlman rushed to his darling and picked her up, murmuring sweet nothings into her ears.

Our mugger grabbed the wallet where the dog had dropped it, flipped it open and removed what looked like a hefty wad of cash. He threw the raided billfold on the floor, and with a final menacing wave of his pistol, yanked open the front door and disappeared down the alley to a rousing chorus of sleigh bells.

“My brave girl,” Stahlman said. “My dear, brave girl.”

He sure wasn’t speaking to me, but that was all right. Charlotte had been terrific and deserved the praise.

All I’d done was stand frozen in uncertainty. Now that the danger was over, I thawed and sprang into action. “I’m calling the police.”

“No! No police.”

Cell phone in hand, I stared at him, dismayed. “You’re kidding me.”

“Not at all, Ms. Dunne.”

“Actually it’s Mrs., but after what we’ve just been through together, do call me Deva.”

“Of course.” He stroked Charlotte’s fur and kissed her yet again. “And I’m James. But no police, Deva.”

The phone clutched in my sweaty palm, I said, “Why not, for heaven sake? You’ve been robbed.”

Cradling Charlotte in one hand, he bent over to pick up his wallet.

“Don’t touch that,” I yelled. “Fingerprints!”

Despite my warning, he pocketed the billfold.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” I said. "You’ve just destroyed evidence.”

“The money is negligible. My important papers are intact. That’s what matters.”

“But—”

He held up a single finger for silence, so I put the phone down on the sales desk, and without saying any more, waited for his reasoning.

He cleared his throat. “I’m assuming you read the local newspaper.”

“Every day.”

“Then you probably know of my wife’s unfortunate accident. It happened nearly a year ago...the publicity was relentless.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“The problem, Mrs....ah, Deva...is that everyone remembers. The last thing I want is more adverse publicity.”

“But you were the victim here.”

“No matter. The story will read badly in the media. I don’t want that spotlight trained on me ever again.” He shuddered and straightened Charlotte’s bow. Gave her back her dignity. Then with a frown, he glanced up at me. “Do you understand how I feel?”

“I do,” I said, trying not to sigh. There goes a plum client. “Your wishes are important to me, James, but in this I’m afraid I can’t please you.” I waved an arm at the door. “That’s open to the general public every day. Suppose the thief returns?”

“Hmm.” James sniffed. “I see your point. Very well, do what you must, but I won’t stay to be interrogated. If need be, the police will know where to find me.” He reached into his breast pocket,  removed a business card and held it out to me. “Until tomorrow then. As I said earlier, before our, ah...adventure...I’m getting married soon. My first wife would have wanted a new life for me. Marilyn would have as well. I’m certain of it.”

I must have forgotten some of the details in the newspaper reports, but with his reminder, they flowed back like a tsunami. Marilyn Stahlman, who disappeared at sea a year ago, wasn’t James’s first wife. But like the first one, she too had died an untimely death under mysterious circumstances.

 

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Is Nothing Sacred?

Am I the only person who’s tired of settling down to watch evening TV and being faced with ads naddering on about erectile disfunction?  Take this, take that--when the moment is right.  Until then, sit in two bathtubs and look at the ocean.  But, and this is a big but, if you have an erection lasting more than four hours, call your physician.  Four hours!  I guess I’ve led a sheltered life.

My point being, is nothing sacred?  Sex with the partner of your choice is glorious, but do we have to hear about sexual malfunction over our nightly ice cream (sometimes with a brownie)?

            The tampon ads aren’t too much fun either.  Laxative ads are on that list, also.  Diet pills are a little better, except when I’m polishing off the ice cream.  Give me a good lite beer ad any time, maybe with a studly athlete touting the brew.  I love hearing about all those hops.

Maybe my antipathy for life’s grungier moments shows in my writing.  Now don’t get me wrong.  My murder mysteries (the Murders by Design Mystery Series, thank you very much) have shooting scenes--people get plugged right between the eyes--chase scenes, muggings, fights In a story I’m currently revising, there’s a harrowing birth scene, a poisoning, a stabbing, so I’m not avoiding the dark side of existence.  Not at all.  But those dark scenes are dynamic, life-changing events that are important to the plot.  In them, my heroes are always ready to perform, there are no scatological references (well, only one ladies room stalking scene in Rooms To Die For), nobody’s constantly constipated, or ever for that matter, and the heroine never has her period at a critical point in the plot.

Why not, you ask?  Because fiction imitates life only up to a point.  It doesn’t duplicate every aspect of it. That theory can be opposed, of course, and there are works out there to prove it.  However, in IMHO, fiction’s deepest reality is a fantasy that cherry picks its truths. Which means an author doesn’t necessarily have to emphasize what we all, on some level, would probably rather not read about.  E. D. no.  E. F. yes!  Comments welcome.

Jean Harrington’s latest Naples-set murder mystery, Rooms To Die For, is currently available on Amazon.  The next book in this tongue-in-cheek series, The Design is Murder, is due for release on November 17^th.  You’re cordially invited to check out excerpts at www.jeanharrington.com.

  

Is Heathcliff In Here?

Writers are often asked what is more important, character or plot?  In other words, are novels character-driven or plot-driven?  I guess there’s a reason for the question, but it seems to me the answer is always the same: Character is the whole monte.  Without a character, be it a volcano, a fish, a mermaid or a cowboy on a horse, there is no plot.  Character causes action.  Ergo question irrelevant.  Pretty basic writing 101.  And timeless in its logic.

            Regarding this subject, one of the legends I’ve most enjoyed reading is the (possibly apocryphal) story concerning Emily Bronte.  When asked how such a sheltered, proper young woman, a governess and daughter of a clergyman, could possibly have created a character with the wild passion and force of Heathcliff, she replied, “I am Heathcliff.” 

Don’t you love it?  She’d bonded totally with her creation.  Maybe when she sat down to write on the moors, in the family outhouse (there was an outhouse) or on a wooden chair in her cold, fireless room, she went into the zone of imagining, loving, and becoming her character.  She entered Heathcliff’s head and heart.  As the ink bled onto the paper, they lived and longed and suffered as one. 

While kneeling at the feet of Emily Bronte’s genius, I strive, like most writers, to reach that same deep zone of togetherness with my characters.  At the moment, for example, Deva Dunne, the amateur sleuth in my Murders by Design Mystery Series and I have bonded though she’s younger and has better legs.  But these are superficial differences.  In our hearts, we are one and share the same pen.   And not incidentally, together we have just completed number five in our cozy mystery series, The Design Is Murder.  It’s due out in November, and we’re both really looking forward to it!

The first four in Jean Harrington’s Naples-set, light-hearted mysteries featuring amateur sleuth interior designer Deva Dunne and studly Detective Rossi as her go-to hero are available on Amazon as e-books for your Kindle, Nook and iPad. 

THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX

 THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX

         

This past month I reread Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None (also published as Ten Little Indians).  My purpose was to see how Christie handled a cyanide poisoning.  Lightly, I’d say—the poison is slipped into the victim’s drink, he chokes, turns purple, dies and that’s that.

In rereading this book, often cited as the most popular mystery novel ever written with over 100 million copies sold, I discovered something far more interesting than the poisoning scene.  As writers, we’re told that certain rules exist and to break them is to sound a death knell to our publishing hopes.  One of these “rules” is don’t have too many characters at the story’s beginning, or you’ll confuse the reader.

In Indians, by page twenty, the reader has met eleven characters—count ‘em, eleven--and these are not flat characters with walk-on parts.  They’re major players, the ten victims and the skipper of the boat who brings them to the island where they will be killed.  Even this boatman, in his cameo appearance as a symbolic Charon ferrying the doomed across the River Styx, has a passage of chilling interior monologue.

Now have you, in your WIP, introduced eleven characters in the first twenty pages?  Probably not.  I haven’t dared to either.  But Christie did, in a world-famous book that has been translated into multiple languages, produced as a stage play and made into a movie.  If you’re tempted to say, “Well, a famous author can get away with breaking the rules, Indians was first published in 1939 when Christie was a relative unknown.  And today, seventy some years later, it has morphed into an e-book currently selling for $6.99 on Kindle.

Wait . . . there’s more.  Backstory.  The plot of Indians is based on isolating ten people so they can be murdered in punishment for crimes they committed in their pasts.  So as each character is introduced into the story, the nature and circumstances of his crime have to be revealed to the reader.  Backstory, backstory, backstory. 

On page two, we meet one of the victims, Vera Claythorne, as she touches on her past:  She was indicted in the accidental drowning of a child in her care.  She swam out to save him but didn’t reach him in time.  As she thinks of this, she remembers a Hugo who loved her.

That’s all.  So though the possibility of something having gone wrong is dropped into the plot, we’re only given a teaser.  There is no information dump, nor are there any in the tales of the other nine characters.  All is anticipation, from scene to scene, as past transgressions are revealed a little at a time, luring us on like the proverbial rabbit with the carrot.

Twenty pages later, for example, the second time we meet Vera she murmurs to herself:  “Drowned . . . Found drowned . . . Drowned at sea . . . Drowned . . . drowned . . . drowned . . . No, she wouldn’t remember . . . She would not think of it!  All that was over.”

Now reading that passage, aren’t you intrigued?  Don’t you wonder what happened?  Why won’t she think of the drowning?  Was she responsible?   As in this instance, Christie handles the backstory of each victim so masterfully, clue by clue, that she keeps the reader panting for more until finally, at last, all secrets are revealed.

The point here is that you can introduce a plethora of characters up front and get away with doing so.  You can write a book larded with backstory and succeed in that as well.   This is your world, and in it you can do anything you like. 

Success, however, lies in how you handle your material.  Handle it well and you’ll get away with literary murder.  In fact you might not even have to explain

a)   where a character obtained the cyanide,

a)       if he hid it in his luggage or on his person,

b)      or how he disposed of the poison vial after he bumped off his victim.

But don’t take my word for it.  Look to Agatha!

(This blog first appeared on the Barnes & Nobles Mystery Forum.  Jean Harrington is the author of the Murders by Design Mystery Series—her latest release is Rooms To Die For.  All books in the series are available on Amazon.com.)

Where Do Characters Live?

Where do Characters Live?

Has everyone here at NYUS already discovered a great blog—Writer Unboxed?  If not, you might want to take a look.  I revisited the site recently and found a fascinating discussion underway—the importance of place in a novel.  Both the host and commentators were in agreement that setting can virtually become another character.  We all know that, right? 

 One of the commentators, however, famed literary agent, Donald Maass who is a regular on the site, took that awareness one step further.  He said it’s the protagonist’s description of, or attitude toward, place that causes a setting to come alive. 

 For example, if the character describes a boating trip as an idyllic return to nature, chances are good the reader will see it that way too—at least for as long as the scene lasts.  Or if the main character goes camping and the mosquitoes practically carry him off, the reader well may itch in sympathy.

With so much riding on place, it’s not surprising writers think long and hard before deciding where their characters should live.  I’m no exception and made a mental trip around the US before choosing Naples as amateur sleuth Deva Dunne’s home.  In Rooms To Die For, #4 in the Murders by Design Series, Deva’s still enjoying Florida even though the humidity continues to frizz her hair, and the sun hasn’t stopped turning her freckles into polka dots.  She has a lot to enjoy in Naples.  Her interior design business is thriving.  So is her crime-busting relationship with studly Lieutenant Victor Rossi.

 As I began the series, I think I was only subliminally conscious of the fact that Deva’s happiness with her surroundings, the gorgeous sunsets, the beach, the small town feel of Naples helped heal her psychic wounds and gave her the courage to rebuild her future. 

 Today, as I’m now aware, Deva’s attitude toward her new home has helped me turn her brushes with crime, even murder, into a fun-filled, light-hearted series.

 Writer Unboxed:

http://writerunboxed.com/2014/04/09/where-am-i-and-why-does-it-matter-part-i/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+WriterUnboxed+

 Rooms To Die For: Amazon   

HOW DO YOU CHOOSE A SETTING?

When I was about to begin the Murders by Design Series, I was torn about where to place it.  The old adage, “Write about what you know” echoed in my head and wouldn’t go away even though I wanted it to.  There’s a lot of wisdom in that saying, so why was I resisting?

My DH said, “Use New England as a setting. You were raised there and know it well.  Why reinvent the wheel?”  Writing pals offered much the same advice, and it’s good advice.  But that’s not where I wanted to go.

 I didn’t want to visit all the locales I once knew, not even in my mind.  The movie theater that’s no more, the church John and I were married in and that later burned to the ground, the house I grew up in . . . it’s so small now.  My father’s grave.  The high school where I met my first love . . . where is he today?

No, all of these memories come crowding in and crowding out a fresh beginning.  I needed to get in a happy zone, in a brand new place where I had no long history, just a clean canvas I could paint with humor and fresh, tongue-in-cheek colors.  So I chose my current home town, Naples, Florida.

Naples offered a sub-tropical, kind of glamorous and up-beat locale for the series, including the newest release, Rooms To Die For.  Deva Dunne, my heroine and amateur sleuth loves it there, even though the humidity plays havoc with her hair, and the sun turns her freckles into polka dots.  But on the plus side, her interior design business is thriving and so is her relationship with studly Lieutenant Victor Rossi.  In fact, Deva’s life is full and exciting as she helps Rossi live a life of crime—busting—while creating gorgeous rooms that are to die for.

To see what Deva’s up to, check out some first chapter excerpts: www.jeanharrington.com

CHRISTMAS IN JANUARY

I love Christmas and all its fevered trappings.  So this isn’t ‘bah humbug’ piece.  But for John and me, Christmas with midnight service, carols, gifts and eggnog will be nostalgic this year.  Friends have moved, children have grown up and the tree has shrunk to a table topper.  Even fruitcake has gone the way of the dinosaur.

On the plus side, nobody around here has to get up at four a.m. on Christmas morning to see if Santa ate the cookies.  Still, what I’m really looking forward to this holiday season is the New Year.  That’ll be a special celebration time for me and for Deva Dunne, amateur sleuth extraordinaire.  Rooms To Die For, the fourth book in my Murders by Design Mystery Series is launching on January 27! 

Here’s a slice—not from the last fruitcake on earth—from the romp: A dealer searching for drugs forces Deva Dunne and Beatriz, her elderly friend, to strip at gun point. 

He eyeballed the pile of handbag contents on the desktop then waved the gun in my direction. “Nothing there, huh? All right. Now strip. You first.”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “That’s insulting. Do I look lumpy enough to have bags of cocaine strapped to my body?”

“That’s what I’ll find out. Maybe you use them for implants.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Come on. Hurry up. Let’s see what you got.”

With the gun inches from my face, I knew he meant business. So I stood and undid the top button of my shirt.

“Faster. Speed it up.”

“I do better with music.” Why let him know how scared I was?

“Forget the comedy act. Get on with it.”

For some stupid reason, I was glad I’d worn my lilac bra and matching panties today. When I was down to them and nothing else, he whistled, then, grabbing my arm, whirled me around. “Okay. Get dressed.” He turned to Beatriz. “You next, grandma.”

“Shoot me. I will not disrobe for you.”

“Yeah, you will.”

He strode over to her and . . .

Rooms to Die For.  An e-book at Amazon and Carina Press. Can be pre-ordered on Amazon! For a first chapter excerpt, take a peek at my website: www.jeanharrington.com.

Tags:  cozy mystery, interior design, Naples, Florida  

AM I BLUE?

AM I BLUE?

Before it left the local theaters, some friends and I went to see Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine.  True to all reports, Cate Blanchett is stunning in the starring role of what in many ways is an old-fashioned morality play--one with Wall Street traders, trophy wives and jewelry like the proverbial pigeons’ eggs.

            I’d been dying to see the movie ever since I read Mark Olsen’s interview with Woody Allen in the Chicago Tribune.  (7/28/13) 

Olsen quotes Allen, who both wrote and directed Jasmine, as saying, “I don’t know why they like one (movie) and not another . . . If I could figure it out, I might be able to get rich.”

So the great W.A. can’t figure out what succeeds, which story to tell, which idea to promote?  Sound familiar?

In his search for perfection, Woody is apparently hard to please.  As Blanchett says,

“ . . . he is never satisfied (with his work) . . . he is actually in some exquisite agony and it’s horrific for him often to hear what he’s written.”  Hasn’t every writer you know experienced the same feeling?  But this is a man who’s won multiple Oscars, for Pete sake.

For Allen, “his films almost exist in some way outside of his control.  They’re not autobiographical, he claims.  Yet unconsciously recurrent themes emerge.”  Over time, haven’t you seen this happening in your own work--a thread, a core idea that underlies every book you write?  Maybe the search for peace, for love, for justice.  Whatever.  It’s there, lurking below the surface. 

Of all the Allen quotes in the article, my favorite is, “I’m thinking of entertaining.  That I feel is my first obligation.  Then, if you can also say something, make a statement or elucidate a character or create emotions in people where they’re sad or laughing, that’s all extra.  But to make a social point or a psychological point without being entertaining is homework.  That’s lecturing.”  How true. 

And lest I be accused of that very thing, I’m outta here!  

HAVING THE LAST WORD/Jean Harrington

HAVING THE LAST WORD/Jean Harrington

                The last word.  The end of the argument, the witty come-back, the perfect retort.  Who doesn’t love having the final say?  I guess we all do from time to time, even the peace-makers among us, but for the writer, always getting the last word is part of his job description. 

You type “The End” with enormous satisfaction knowing in the line or two above you’ve written the last and final sentence of your book.  Those endings are tricky little devils to write too.  They should leave the reader with a sense of completion, the feeling that the story is well and truly over, that the book can be closed with a sense of fulfillment and perhaps just a tad of regret it came to an end.

We all have our favorite story endings, and in addition to “happily ever after” here are a few of mine:

“(he) felt utterly helpless; he could only hope that she would be given the very best care.  She was going to need it, or she would die.”  The Girl Who Played with Fire/Stieg Larson 

“Many had died.  But not she, not he; not yet.”  The Great Fire/Shirley Hazzard

“Capturing her mouth with his, he stepped onto the wide platform and tumbled her onto the bed.”

Betrayal in Death/ J. D. Robb

“Ming went out to dinner—the restaurants hadn’t closed—with her foreign lover, gushing over drinks and noodles with the extraordinary events of the day, then walked off to his apartment for a dessert of Japanese sausage.”  The Bear and the Dragon/Tom Clancy

“I’ll think of it all tomorrow, at Tara.  I can stand it then.  Tomorrow, I’ll think of some way to get him back.  After all, tomorrow is another day.” Gone with the Wind/Margaret Mitchell

“You know something, Rossi, I could kill you.”

“Too late, Mrs. D.  You slayed me the first time we met.”  Designed for Death/Moi   

Examples like this could go on forever, of course.  But what I found interesting in this list of final passages is that each one is a hook that could lead to another book.  So who’s to say the last word really is the end?

BTW, do you have a favorite?

STANDING THERE NAKED

STANDING THERE NAKED

Have you ever considered how much your writing reveals?  I don’t mean what you write, I mean your handwriting.  How you use what your grammar school teacher called the Palmer Method.  It gives you away.  Every time.

            Take those long, loopy “y’s” and “g’s” at the end of a word when the final loop swings back up—that means you’re sensual and making the most of it.  Those “a’s” that don’t quite close?  You’re talkative, great company, but maybe, just maybe, you spill secrets.  Like what happened last night at . . .

            Is there a little hook at the beginning of capital letters such as “H,” say or “M?”  If so, you want to keep a grasp on everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve.  A husband?  Those royalty checks?  Then there are people who top off their lower case “i’s” with little round circles . . . . do you do that?  Hmm.

For graphologists, hundreds of subtle nuances in strokes like these expose our well hidden selves, the ones we think we’re keeping private.  The truth is that every time we take pen to paper, the story we’re really telling, whether we know it or not, is about ourselves.

But not to worry.  The Age of Texting has arrived.  We’ve been saved by the iPad.  Or the Smart Phone.  For who writes in cursive anymore?  Writing with a pen is becoming a dying art.  In fact some schools no longer teach cursive in the beginning grades. And u can 4get about spelling while you’re at it.

For those of us who make a career out of the written word, what we say has always been the primary way we reveal ourselves to others.  So the loss of cursive writing may not affect us deeply.

Come to think of it, not having to take pen to paper may come as a big relief to a lot of people.  Take the college sophomore who recently wrote a note to his Aunt Jane.  She read it, realized he was depressed—she could tell from the way his final words drooped on the page—and told his mother to get to him immediately before something dire happened.  All he thought he’d done was write a thank you for the Christmas fruitcake.

P.S. For an excerpt  from Killer Kitchens, Jean’s  latest cozy mystery, take a peek at www.jeanharrington.com.  She didn’t take any chances at being psyched out through her penmanship though, so the whole excerpt is typed in Times New Roman. 

OH THOSE 'E' WORDS

THE ‘E’ WORDS

In a recent blog comment, Carina author, Julie Moffett, quoted Winston Churchill’s, “Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.”  That struck a chord, reminding me of a recent conversation with six close friends.  About a dozen years ago, we formed a discussion group to talk about issues relating to women.  Girl talk with a purpose.  Or so we like to think.

At the meeting I have in mind, we decided to talk about sex.  All of us are married and collectively have given birth to 18 children (I contributed 2 of the 18.), so we felt pretty well armed for the discussion.  With a lot of laughter in between comments, we agreed that we understood sex’s importance to men, but what about women?  What is their pleasure?

As we probed deeper into the subject (comma!), Eleni, who is from Athens, brought up the Greek roots of two key words she said are part of any good sexual experience--whether one is male or female--ecstasy and enthusiasm.

Here goes:  ecstasy combines “ex” meaning out of with “stasis” meaning body.  During sex, the body is left behind—presumably in a tangle of bedclothes—while the spirit soars free.  “Got that?” Eleni asked. 

Enthusiasm is a parallel emotion.  “En” means in; “thus” is a version of theos or god and “asm” is breath.  So broken into pieces and put back together, enthusiasm is the breath of the spirit within us.  And, as Eleni claims, you ain’t got ecstasy if you ain’t got enthusiasm.

While our discussion didn’t solve the topic question, it was a lot of fun and left me with a deeper appreciation of two wonderful words.  For a kind of out-of-body experience does occur when a writer soars on a passage that’s coming together flawlessly.  From time to time, we’ve all felt that fleeting presence of the muse, haven’t we?  And when we’re stone-walled, without a single idea of how to move the plot forward, isn’t enthusiasm for our craft what keeps us going even after we’ve gone from failure to failure and had to hit the delete button again and again?

Anyway, I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and talk all this over with Deva Dunne.  She’s been very busy in Killer Kitchens, what with her day job as an interior designer and also amateur sleuthing for Lieutenant Rossi—whether he wants her to or not. But until the book comes out on April 15^th she has time to relax a little and listen to some “e” words.

BTW, to see what Deva’s up to lately, visit her at www.jeanharrington.com and read the opening chapter of Killer Kitchens.  There’s a brief bio of Jean posted there too, but personally I find Deva far more interesting.     

Her Fatal Valentine, Part 4

If you’re just joining us, you should know that Not Your Usual Suspect authors are treating our fans to an eight-part mystery round robin, Her Fatal Valentine. It started on February 4, so it’s easy to get caught up!

We continue our Valentine mystery round robin with Part 4 of Her Fatal Valentine by Jean Harrington

“I didn’t kill your wife. Why won’t you believe me? The jury said I was innocent. Even the media came to my defense.” Lauren’s lips quivered and her eyes filled. “But not you, the one person who matters most.”

Detective John Carter peered down at her.

“Why should I believe you? You’re a liar. You killed Caroline.”  He jerked his chin at Kyle’s remains. “And now this guy. Why?”

Lauren shook her head, shaking the tears loose. “What you can’t believe is the truth. It’s too painful.”

She swiped at her tears with the back of a hand, and angry at showing weakness in front of John Carter, she shut her eyes, blocking out his angry image. Instead, the memory of that fatal Valentine’s night two years ago flooded her mind. She had been so ready for Mike, his warmth, his kisses, his loving—his proposal. She’d set the table with candles and flowers, had two perfect filets ready for grilling, champagne on ice and strawberries. She’d even bought new sheets.

Lauren smiled, remembering. Mike had been so eager to embrace her he’d left the apartment door open. Deep in his kiss, she was startled out of his arms by stiletto heels clicking on her foyer tiles…

The harsh voice of John Carter broke into her reverie. “Well, what’s your answer?” 

“What?”

“I asked you a question. Why did you kill again?”

Lauren looked up, straight into the detective’s hostile blue gaze. Cell phone in hand, he was ready to trigger the alarm and call in his troops.

“Before I answer, I have a question of my own. What did you do with Mike’s body?”

Carter’s fingers hovered over the cell.

“Detectives aren’t first responders,” she said. “But you were first on the scene the night Caroline died. And again tonight. That’s very strange.”

“Yeah?”  He squinted at her and pocketed his phone.

“Yes, it is. So who’s the liar, Detective Carter?  You or me?”

Why does Detective Carter accuse Lauren of lying? Worse, why does he believe she’s committed multiple murders? Is it strange that he’s so quick to respond to the scenes of carnage? Or not? And finally, what did happen to Mike? Check back for Part 5 by Kathy Ivan on Wednesday, February 13.

 

 

MOVING ON TO 2013

The authors of Not Your Usual Suspects share their holiday season with you! We wish all our readers, friends, family and colleagues - and people who are allof these *g* - the very best wishes for the season, and a sled-ful of luck, love, peace and success in 2013. We hope to share it all with you.

Today we look forward to 2013....

What's the best thing we're carrying forward from 2012?  Have you enjoyed good health, or specific issues addressed? Have there been new babies / marriages / loves / bestsellers (*g*)? Are you finishing the year with a brave new attitude / business successes / new shoes / new friends / dropping old (bad) friends etc?!


Share your hopes for 2013 and your pleasures from 2012 with us here!


Clare London
website | blog | facebook | twitter

2012 has seen many changes for me, but one thing I've learned  is that, unfortunately, I CAN'T have it all. Something has to give, and it's usually me :). But that's also encouraged me to look at my priorities, and decide what's really good. I may not write as much in 2013 but it'll be on chosen projects, to allow myself time to relax. Oh, and of course I'll be losing 4 stone and winning the lottery HAHA.

Marcelle Dube
website

The best thing I’m carrying forward from 2012 is that I can actually survive my empty nest!


Julie Wachowski
website

For the last few years, instead of a “resolution” I give myself a motto. Last year it was: “say yes.” This year’s motto is “what matters?”


Jean Harrington
website

My favorite saying for New Year's is that resolutions are made to be broken. If I can pick one best thing from Clare's "bucket list," it's "bestseller." Happy 2013 to all my Carina friends. Cheers, and bright memories, Jean.


Toni Anderson
Blog | Website | Facebook | Twitter

2012 was a great year for me in many ways professionally. I hope I can build on that writing wise. I'm hoping to drop the 'mice issues' in 2013, and by god I'd love me a pair of sexy boots (I'm thinking UGG, not heels :-) )


Anne-Marie Becker
website | facebook | twitter

Moving on - I like the sound of that. I'm excited to carry forward the momentum in my Mindhunters series. Carina Press recently offerred me a contract for book 3 - DEADLY BONDS, and it will be released this summer, so I'll have plenty to keep me busy. Also, I'll be attending the Romantic Times conference for the first time ever this May, and I'm really looking forward to it.


Wynter Daniels
website

In 2012 I dipped my toes into the self-publishing pool and added eight books to my body of work. Self-publishing gave me more freedom than I have with the four publishing houses my other books are with. Although I will continue to submit certain work to those publishers, I hope to continue putting out books myself that fall outside the traditional boxes. This new business model has proved not only creatively freeing, but also financially sound for me. Cheers to a healthy and prosperous 2013 for all!


Elise Warner
website

Good health, good friends and good family and to continue writing, and seeing my work published.


Julie Moffett
website

 Looking forward to 2013! Lots of good things happened to me in 2012 and I'm hoping for an even better 2013!

Entries collected and posted by Clare - any pictures that haven't been provided by the authors have been chosen by me, and any queries about them can be directed here.

FAVOURITE FUN AT CHRISTMAS

The authors of Not Your Usual Suspects share their holiday season with you! We wish all our readers, friends, family and colleagues - and people who are all of these *g* - the very best wishes for the season, and a sled-ful of luck, love, peace and success in 2013. We hope to share it all with you.

Today we think back on the joy of exchanging Christmas greetings....

So we're all struggling back into routine after the Christmas holiday over-indulgence :). What's the best Xmas greeting you received, this year or ever? Ever heard of anything outrageous, mis-spelled or just plain rude? LOL Any special Christmas messages or hugs? Tell us about it here!




Julie Wachowski
website

Holiday Cards & letters are really fun for me. I go a little crazy. Every year I do something different. One year, I did a card titled “Merry Noelemon” and created Pokemon cards of each member of our family, complete with descriptions hinting at what everyone had been up to that year. The year I had to have a serious surgery, I turned our Holiday letter into a medical claims invoice.  Last year, I created a fake Facebook account for my cat (click pic to enlarge). 

This year, I’m trying to decide if my inspiration should be a Superpac election ad or Fifty Shades of Grey….hmmmm. Hard call.


Jean Harrington
website

A secret kiss at a Christmas party--one I've never forgotten.





Anne-Marie Becker
website | facebook | twitter

Can't think of anything to add on this theme other than the classic song "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer"!


Shirley Wells
Website | Twitter | Facebook

As a kid, the Christmas ritual was always the same. Having spent a month writing to Santa and telling him about The Greatest Toy Ever without which my life wouldn't be complete, I crept into my sister's bedroom on Christmas morning, full of excitement, to tell her "He's been, he's been!" (She's 5 years older than me and would have managed to sleep until at least 5am if it hadn't been for me. Ha!) We opened the presents in our stockings and then waited and waited until we'd made enough noise to drag our parents from their bed in readiness for the big present opening session. (I'm going back a lot of years so it wasn't that big. :))

And there it was. I tore the paper from The Greatest Toy Ever! Clever old Santa, eh?

But before I could even look at it, it was time for breakfast. Then, while my eyes lingered longingly on The Greatest Toy Ever, it was time for church. Oh, the horror. I just knew that there would be far too many carols to be sung. As soon as we returned, I raced to The Greatest Toy Ever only to be told we were going out again. This was okay because it was time to visit my paternal grandparents where my sister and I were spoiled rotten. I'd delay playing with The Greatest Toy Ever for that. Aunts and uncles gathered and a jolly time was had by all.

When that was over though, it was time to visit my maternal grandparents. Here, you have to imagine the grimmest Christmas scene ever written by Dickens. My mother had countless sisters and brothers and my grandparents, with so many children to raise, had opted for a very strict regime. Children, they believed, should be seen (rarely) but never heard. The dozens of adults crammed themselves around a beautifully decorated table in the dining room and enjoyed a long, drawn out meal. My sister and I, along with countless cousins, ate in the kitchen and if the noise levels became audible, an adult soon put us straight. The visit went on and on and on and all I could do was think about The Greatest Toy Ever waiting at home for me. Later there were games to be played, although the children still had to be on their best behaviour. I wanted to go outside and play with the farm cats or generally roll around in the mud, but that wasn't allowed. I was restricted to being inside. I would have been happy rearranging the decorated tree but that wasn't allowed either. No, those hours consisted of being polite to aunts and uncles and great-aunts and -uncles whose main topic of conversation was how tall us kids had grown.

Eventually, however, it was time to pile into Dad's car and set off for home where The Greatest Toy Ever waited. It was late though and I was told it was time for bed. The day was over and I hadn't played with my present. Life was so cruel. :)

All these years later, I still love Boxing Day. Christmas Day is busy, hectic and a lot of fun but Boxing Day is bliss. I start the day with a long, long walk with the dogs, return home for mulled wine in front of a roaring log fire and then please myself. I may watch TV or I may read. I'll definitely eat lots of Christmassy food (the sweet stuff). Bliss!

On Christmas cards I've received: 
1. Polite Notice: Christmas is Cancelled. Apparently YOU told him you'd been GOOD all year. He died laughing.
2. Only accountants know the true meaning of Christmas.

From Clare: ignoring the implied insult because I'M an accountant *lol*
pic credit (chimney): vintage imagery from plan 59 

Elise Warner
website

The best Christmas greeting is an Anniversary card from my husband. He proposed while we were listening to Aaron Copland's Lincoln Portrait (our song but impossible to hum.) We married on Christmas Day.


Julie Moffett
website

My favorite Christmas quote is from Dr. Seuss: "And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?"

Entries collected and posted by Clare - any pictures that haven't been provided by the authors have been chosen by me, and any queries about them can be directed here.