Another week begins--and some reassurance

 

Some Mondays I greet the new week with joy and enthusiasm for all its possibilities; other times, I think, “Ho, hum, another week.” I’m afraid this is one of the latter kind of Mondays. Not sure why but I have this niggling feeling that something is wrong.

There is illness in my family and friends, and that could well be it. From Covid to surgery to hospice, it seems too many around me have health problems. Granted, most are my age or close to it, but I don’t think it’s all age. I’m fond of saying there’s a spot on the moon, but I am not really superstitious enough to believe that. It’s just that 2023, for which I had such high hopes, seems to have gotten off to a bad start.

We did have a green Christmas. There’s an old saying that a green Christmas means a full churchyard. My dad, a physician and hospital administrator, always changed it to a full hospital. He was obsessed with the hospital census to the point he once, sitting in the yard, asked me to go in and call the hospital to inquire about the census. I refused, realizing full well what a laugh the switchboard would get if I, then maybe twelve, asked that question. But these days I think about Dad and his full hospital often.

Strangely enough, a memorial service was the highlight of my day. I attended using the church’s Live Stream, but I felt very much the presence in the sanctuary. I suppose I’m not the only one who’s church experience varies—much of the time I am intellectually engaged by the sermon. But frequently nostalgia overcomes me as I hear the words of prayer and the hymns of my childhood. Today, my experience went beyond that.

We were celebrating the life of a woman I feel privileged to have called friend, though in recent years we were down to occasional emails as health issues limited both of us. Still, I look back with happy memories on our connections—we met not in church but a the home of two men, a couple, who lived down the street from me. Ray was a cook extraordinaire and gave dinner parties; Susan taught high school English with Jim. And so I met her and her husband over dinner. Then in later years, we served together on the board of the Friends of the TCU Library. And, of course, we crossed paths on Sundays at church and talked often about how we must do lunch. We didn’t actually get that done a lot but I do remember one time when I was to pick her up for lunch and got the wrong house. She said she stood in front of her house, looked down the block, and thought, “Hmmm. Judy’s going to take my neighbor to lunch.”

There were other sporadic visits—she and John came to my front porch for supper once or twice, and once when they couldn’t make my annual big Christmas party, they sent her mother who was one of my absolute favorite women, a church connection again, and her sister. I wished today I had asked one of the presiding ministers to give Ellen, the sister, a hug from me.

But I digress. What I really want to say is that today’s service went beyond nostalgia and intellect to become an emotional experience for me. Hearing the words of consolation, of assurance about God’s presence, of gratitude (the Scripture was from the Psalms), I felt my faith strengthened. I had a sense, in this season of illness, that all will be well. Yes, I was sad—as I watched the sanctuary empty, I found myself saying, “Goodbye, Susan” with a finality that brought tears. But the overall sense I had was one of comfort.

Of course, then I turned on the news tonight, which is never encouraging, and an email got me smack dab again in a professional brouhaha in which, yes, I do have a dog in the fight. So the world is as it will be, but I feel a bit better able to deal with it.

So Tuesday is a new day. And I intend to treat it as the start of a new week. I have editor’s comments on my manuscript to deal with which is always fun for me, and I will spend much of the morning making German salads for Mary’s birthday dinner. She feels her German heritage strongly, more strongly than I do, but we both love the food. It will be a good day. May yours be good too—and your week.

   

Bored, bored, bored!

That was me yesterday, though I hate to admit it. I am between projects, which is a bad place for me to be. Makes me not only bored but probably unpleasant company. A blog host sent me a list of questions for a post I’ll do in May, and one of them was how I manage to be so productive. The answer is I’m compulsive, and being at loose ends makes me very unhappy. I have never learned to piddle. I used to have a friend who could happily watch paint dry, and I always thought my inability to do that was a character flaw.

Yesterday, my Fort Worth family was in Coppell, helping Christian’s parents, half my friends are sick one way or another, and here I was with a couple of books neither of which interested me. No dinner to cook since everyone had uncertain schedules, so we had loaded baked potatoes—dinner doesn’t get much easier than that. I was at those dreaded loose ends. Much as I like to think I’m creative and independent and of even distribution, I have days like that.

I am glad to report that today was much better-- emails kept me busy until church time. After church I made some sauces for a Dagwood sandwich for tonight, made myself a tuna fish lunch, took a nap, and assembled the sandwich—which wasn’t as good as the last time I made it. I think the problem was that I had asked Central Market to slice the round of sourdough and they didn’t do it—I hacked at it with my best bread knife, but hacked is the operative word. It was okay but not what I wanted. I think we’ll abandon Dagwood for an old friend—the poor boy.

I was relieved that National Day of Hate passed without apparent incident. In fact, I got a good laugh out of one aspect of it. I read that one of the sponsors was the Goyim Defense League. Goy is the term members of the Jewish community use for males not of the Jewish faith (goyim is the plural). It is not meant as a compliment. As a one-time shiksa (the term for non-Jewish females, especially those who marry a Jew, and yes, it’s derogatory), I know this well. I find it amusing that an antisemitic group turns this Jewish term upside-down and applies it to themselves. The irony is that they seem, unwittingly, to accept the implication that they are lesser beings. Probably true.

Today was the Cowtown Marathon, and our house is about at the halfway point. Occasionally I glanced down the driveway to watch the runners go by. Heaviest activity was around nine-thirty, just when my family was trying to get out of the driveway. Watching, though, I was taken back forty-five years to the first marathon—a simple affair compared to today’s event which drew thousands to multiple races and raised funds for a variety of charities. In my mind’s eye I was seeing sleet and snow and ice-covered streets. It was truly an event to remember, not always in the best way. For that year and several years afterward the marathon was a family event—my kids wandered all over the Stockyards (did I really let them do that?) while I did publicity and their father manned one of the medical stations. A different time, a different life.

Tonight I am happy to report I am back in the routine. I get the editor’s comments on Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, so that will keep me busy for a while. Life is good.

Sweet dreams, everyone!

 

More about book publishing and an odd couple of holidays

 

After I posted about indie publishing and the world of mystery the other day, I read a blog post by Maureen Milliken on Maine Crime Writers. She points out that about four million new book titles come out a year, with 500,000 to one million traditionally published, and the rest independently published. Think of that—three million indie published books. Even with Amazon’s good service, see how easy it is to get lost in the crowd?

The publishing world now is aroused by the idea of AI (artificial intelligence) books. There are programs that let you do that, and some publishers are including in their contracts a clause that the author’s work can be used for AI training (no author ever should sign away that right!). But if people start publishing AI books, that's just more into that mix. I read recently of a magazine (sci fi, I think) that had to close to submissions because they were flooded with AI manuscripts.

Milliken say some of those millions of books published every year are really good, some not so much. Some really good books never make it onto anyone's radar. Some mediocre ones become big sellers. You can't worry about it when you're writing. The only thing you should worry about is your own stuff and making it the book you want it to be. I think that’s wonderful advice—but problematic if you’re young and trying to support yourself by writing. Years ago, when I used to do school lectures, I knew the statistics, but now I’m sure they’ve changed. Still to give you a picture: fewer than a hundred authors in this country support themselves solely by their writing. Others depend on a working spouse, a day job, or an inheritance.

Makes you wonder why anyone writes, but there it is again, at least for me: the classic answer is that I write because I cannot not write. A friend said to me last night that he, now a consultant, had worked about thirty minutes that day, and he was happy (he was volunteering if we need him because we have an ongoing family crisis that makes scheduling difficult—specifically I don’t always know when someone will be around to give Sophie her insulin shot). But I heard him loud and clear—I work far more than half an hour—probably six hours a day and eight sometimes—but I am most happy with my life.

On another less happy note, did you know that tomorrow, Saturday, is National Day of Hate? No President Biden didn’t make the declaration. It comes from neo-Nazi and fascist groups throughout the country. Their goal is to intimidate Jewish communities and spread fear. Police departments, anti-terrorist groups, Jewish organizations, and watchdog groups are on alert.

I am appalled that there are people in our country so twisted by hate, so miserable that they want to cause misery to others. As someone said tonight, “this country has more than one wheel in the ditch.” (Does that remind you of Ann Richards who said, “The ox is in the ditch”?) I am unabashedly a person of prayer, and so I pray that these tortured souls may find peace and stop sharing their destruction. But on a more practical level, I pray for safety tomorrow for all.

Some hints for helpers: If you see someone being assaulted, stand between them and the terrorist; if you see someone being harassed, sit or walk with them and try to have a normal conversation. Do what you can to divert the anger and defuse the situation. We must not let ourselves be bullied. And if you’re the praying kind, pray for an America where this happens.

Did you know there have been more mass shootings in the last twelve years than in the previous forty? And last year, every mass shooting event was linked to right-wing extremism. So you can stop worrying about Muslims—Middle Eastern terrorists are not a threat in this country (sorry, Donald trump). Our terrorists are home grown. And Republicans are lining their pockets and not batting an eye over the proliferation of gun deaths. In Texas, for instance, you can carry a concealed weapon without any training and without a permit.

On a local note: in Fort Worth, this is the weekend of Cowtown Marathon, with several “lesser” runs on Saturday and the marathon on Sunday. The other runs are only “lesser” if you aren’t running in them. But traffic is liable to be snarled, especially in the southwest part of the city all weekend. Sunday morning will find me watching the runners go by and cheering especially for the last ones, those who are going on sheer determination. They all go right by our house, so cheering is easy. A lot easier than running.

Be safe, my friends, and be kind to others. Like writing, kindness is a way of life.

The uncertain life of an indie author

 

Someone—dare I say a fan?—asked me today when Irene Deep in Texas Trouble would be published, and I gave my standard answer: I hope in April, but I can’t be sure. It occurred to me some readers of this blog, not in the publishing world, might be interested in a little lesson publishing.

In my long career—my first book was published in 1978 by Wm. Morrow and Co—I have been published by major New York publishers, university presses, small, independent publishers, and now I am self-published or was we prefer today indie published. Until not so many years ago, paying to publish your own book was the kiss of death in the publishing world. It meant your work was not good enough to interest a legitimate, commercial publisher. There were—and still are, I think—companies devoted to this trade. They would publish your book for a hefty fee, print say a thousand copies, store them in their warehouse, and sell you the copies you’d already paid to produce. It was called vanity publishing, for a reason.

Early in my mystery career, which only began some twelve years ago, I was published by a small press, and I was pretty happy with them. But as small publishers too often do, they went belly up, although I will say they did it with grace: they returned the rights to the five or six books I’d published with them and gave me rights to the covers they’d designed and which I liked a lot.

But after that, the next eleven or so books (I could figure out the exact number but won’t take the time) were indie published. That means after I finish the manuscript, I pay out of pocket for an editor, a designer, and a formatter. Could I do it without those professionals? Of course, but it would look amateurish, which is another kiss of death. I am fortunate that the same woman who designs my covers also formats the manuscripts for publication on Amazon, which is free—they get their cut out of books sold. Amazon is author-friendly, in that you can format and publish your own work, but the times I’ve done it, I’ve gotten it all wrong. So I use a woman I work with on other ongoing projects, and it’s a good working relationship.

If say, Penguin Books has your book under contract, they know exactly when they will publish it—usually at least a year, more often two after the contract is signed. They give you a deadline and you meet it. And six or so months before the pub date, they begin marketing.

As an indie publisher, nothing is that easy. I cannot predict exactly when a work will publish because I am dependent on other people’s schedules. When I have a manuscript as polished as I think I can make it, without overworking it, I send it to an editor. At the same time, I may send the designer enough ideas for her to work on a cover. How fast the editor works depends on her schedule and the workload on her desk. I guarantee no editor says, “Oh, here’s Judy’s manuscript. I’ll drop everything and get right to it.” When I get the mss. back from the editor, I have to go through each of her suggestions—that may take two days or two weeks—and re-submit it. Second edits are more easily dealt with, but you can hear the clock ticking.

When the editing process is done, I send it to the designer. There again, the time frame depends on her workload and schedule. Only when I get it back in final form and have proofread it for the umpteenth time, can we move ahead. For various reasons, I publish almost exclusively on Amazon these days, and I ask my designer to send it to them because she is better at it than I am. I am never sure how to submit it and specify an advanced date—in fact, I think if you publish an ebook, you can’t do that. So when you finally send it to Amazon is when you get your pub date—usually two or three days away. See why specifying a date is hard? And so is advanced marketing.

So you may ask why I don’t have an agent and a commercial publisher. The answer in large part has to do with age—interesting a reliable agent (remember, the relationship is almost like getting married) takes a long time, sometimes ten years. In my seventies, when I would have been looking for an agent, I didn’t feel I had that time. I had books to write, stories to tell, and I didn’t want to twiddle my thumbs while agent after agent worked through slush piles. (I’d played that game earlier in my career with little success.) Same is true of finding a publisher, even if you have an agent marketing your manuscript.

Then there’s the pressure of publishing with a big house. When I submitted my first mystery mss to an editor at Kensington, who happened to be an old friend, he wanted to scrap the first book and start with the second. I declined, because it was my book, and I had my own vision of how it should be. Beyond that, big houses have certain requirements—if  your sales drop too low, they drop you; they require a book a year or whatever. There are pressures, and in my retirement, I didn’t need that.

So here I am, happily indie publishing, not making a lot of money but finding readers who really like my books (my Amazon ratings are good even if my sales statistics are not), and I’m doing what I want. It’s a good life.

And this blog go way too long.

 

Irene's in Texas--whooppee!

 

Here it is! The cover to the forthcoming Irene Deep in Texas Trouble, fourth in my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries.

Irene Deep in Texas Trouble is all about love and romance—and murder! Fred Erisman thinks it’s the best Irene saga so far.

It’s Christmas in Texas. Henny’s best friend, Charlie, is marrying the love of her life, rich and spoiled Rick Scott, and Henny is to cater the wedding supper. Irene and Chance are spending the holiday with Henny’s family, and Irene steps in as Henny’s sous chef. When there’s a sensational murder at the supper, Irene is the prime suspect. Things are complicated by a wild set of characters and events—a mysterious stranger, threatening notes, a runaway couple, and a kidnapping. But Henny persists—and learns that there are all kind of couples in this world.

Come on down to Texas and wander the historic Fort Worth stockyards, watch a rodeo, learn about a new competitive sport, and eat some Texas food. While Irene detests most of the Texas menu, you’ll probably like it. Recipes included.

A note on Irene’s changing face: readers have pointed out that the Irene on the cover of the first book, Saving Irene, looks older than subsequent covers. In the first book of course, she loses her husband to murder, sours on Chicago, and flees to France. By the second book, she has established her save in Peyrolles-en-Provence and sweets into Chicago to cater Henny’s wedding—or so she thinks. She’s more self-confident, settled.

But ah, the third book: Irene is a woman in love. You can see it on her face, in her smile. And in this book? She is a woman well loved, secure enough to be a bit demanding, a bit manipulative. See it in her eyes?

 

 Thanks to designer Amy Balamut for terrific covers!

 

The little red trike

A little fuzzy--they must have been speeding

A picture popped up today on the memories Microsoft or whoever send you that tugged at my heart—it’s Jacob riding the little red trike that was so much a fixture of my grandchildren’s young years, with his cousin Morgan trying to dislodge him. There’s a story behind that trike. It was given to my children when they were very little by my ex’s senior partner, a man I came to rely on and one who always had my back when times got rough. He was probably in his sixties at the time, maybe seventies—he’s been gone a long time—but he told me he had that trike as a child. We figure it's now at least a hundred years old.

It had obviously been repainted with “loving hands” and there was a big hole in the solid rubber front tire. Maddie riding it one day looked down and intoned in a true Texas accent, “There’s a hole in my tire.” It almost sounded like a line from a c/w song. The hole never stopped the action, and for years the trike lived in what was then a playroom in my house. The room was eventually stripped of hobbyhorse and trike and all other childish things and converted to a TV room.

But the trike went to my oldest son and resides somewhere at his house now, waiting for the next generation to fight over it. It brings sentimental tears to my eyes to think of all seven grands, only seven years apart, playing together in my house, always underfoot in the kitchen and fighting over that trike. Good times, good memories.

Nature is showing off for me today. This morning, when I first woke up, the adobe house across my yard was bathed in a rosy glow, and I thought it meant a sunny day. Not so. But the first time I looked out the window by my desk, my eyes landed on two gorgeous blue jays, their colors bright and vivid. They pecked around in the flower bed for a while and then took off—I couldn’t even tell which one was mama and which papa because they were both so colorful. So much for the drab female!

Tonight, the sky to the north was a blend of soft peach and blue-gray, colorful and pretty, but to the west it was a dramatic fiery orange—breathtaking. I tried taking a picture with my phone, but it didn’t capture the colors at all.

Otherwise, President’s Day was pretty much an ordinary day, with lots of catch-up details on my desk. I didn’t cook a lot over the weekend but did make a really good chicken dish last night. Jordan had been out of town for the weekend, so I thought to make a dish with one of her favorite ingredients—cream cheese. Of course, I missed up the order of things and forgot to sauté the onions and garlic before I deglazed the pan with white wine. So I let the wine cook down, added the onions, and swished them around—and they took on the most wonderful deep golden tone, mostly from the browned bits of chicken on the pan. I think I’ll do it that way from now on. Chicken broth, a bit of Dijon, and cream cheese made a creamy rich sauce—really good. Jordan is always on the lookout for dishes that Jacob likes, so she requested I put that one into our rotation. It’s a bit of work, but not too much. And the leftovers were so good today.

I’m excited that I have the cover for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. Ta da! Watch this space for a cover reveal tomorrow!

Me and Joe Biden

 

I would never presume to compare myself to President Biden, but we do have one thing in common: we are old. I am distressed though by the current controversy over whether or not he is too old to run for office in 2024. Everyone seems to be trying to make up his mind for him. Signs are that he very much wants to, but even some in his own party question the wisdom of trying for a second term. And of course Republicans are all over the “sleepy Joe image.” I even read somewhere that Dr. Jill Biden is pressuring him not to run, going so far as to threaten to leave him if he announces. I suspect that’s someone’s fabrication—whether a MAGA person or a Russian bot—because it is so out of character with what we see of her almost daily on TV. The ostensible reason is that she does not want to see him humiliated by a defeat. To my mind, Joe Biden right now is a victim of America’s preoccupation with ageism.

The president has just had a physical and been pronounced fit and healthy, a “vigorous eighty-year-old man.” In two years, much of it in the face of a Senate controlled by the opposition, he has set a course for America which differs dramatically from that of his predecessor, and he’s making progress in bringing his vision to reality. Whether you ike his vision for the country or not, he’s clearly a man who’s hit his stride. So why quit now because of something that might happen? Sure, he might develop a life-threatening illness or dementia, but elect a fifty-year-old president and they could develop a disease, be the victim of an assassination. Nobody know what’s around the corner, but age is relative. I don’t think we should look at the number of years, but at the individual—how they act and speak and think. Vigorous isn’t just an empty word.

Let’s banish two images: the first is that of “sleepy Joe,” one of trump’s famous derogatory nicknames. Joe Biden is not sleepy, but his style is understated, calm, and slow, in contrast to the loud, dramatic rants of trump. While some criticize him, Biden goes quietly about doing what he thinks is right, getting the job done. The other is that he misspeaks—every time Biden stumbles over a word, Republicans are fast on it. The man continues to battle a lifelong stuttering problem, and his speaking ability is to be admired, not derided. He fights to get each word out. Did you hear him stutter during his State of the Union? I didn’t.

I am particularly interested in what seems to be the Biden age dilemma, because I am two years older than he is. When people express amazement that I’m still writing—with an emphasis on still—I want to say, “What else would I be doing? Watching TV all day?” I’m in good health, knock on wood, and my mind is clear (don’t ask my kids!). I like what I do, the life I’m living. Should I look ahead at the calendar and say, “Wow! Next year I’ll be 85. I guess I better quit writing?” I don’t think so.

Why we write came up as a discussion topic in a small online writing group I belong to, and the best reason I heard was, “Because sometimes the words fly onto the page.” But there is more—I don’t know any other way to live. Watching TV was a joke, but I seriously don’t know what I would do if I didn’t write and didn’t have my involvement with the writing community. And there are things I still want to write—that memoir I talk about, another Irene book (having just finished one that will be out in the spring, I already have the opening scene for the next one), the Helen Corbitt project I keep procrastinating about. I’ve always thought it would be fun to write a short book titled, Dogs I Have Loved.

So I get Joe Biden’s dilemma, or at least I think I do. I tried to keep this post non-partisan but, clearly, I think Biden is doing a good job at moving us back from the brink of authoritarianism, back to what America is supposed to be—but not back into the times of racial and gender discrimination, banned books and illegal abortions. I’ll vote for him again, given the chance—the alternatives so far are pretty awful.

Now about that book about dogs …..

Dog, dinners, and an almost ordinary couple of days

 

Ragmuffin Sophie before grooming

Sophie after haircut

Yesterday, Sophie had her first bath and grooming since her prolonged illness (two months, folks, at least two weeks of it in the veterinary clinic). When the groomer and I talked, his main concern was making her comfortable. He says she does not like being brushed at all, especially sensitive areas like her ears. And oh boy, were her ears and face matted. He also said he’d take her coat down a bit so there wasn’t the dramatic contrast between the shaved and unshaved areas. Still, I was not quite prepared for her to come back looking like—oh, I don’t know—maybe a rat terrier.

I am afraid she’s a bit self-conscious. And when Jordan first saw her, she exclaimed, “Oh, how pretty you look” all the while rolling her eyes at me. But I will say Soph’s coat is silky smooth, and she feels and smells better. Inspires a lot more love. She had a vet visit earlier this week and was pronounced in fine full health. The vet calls her a miracle dog. And I agree. She is all the things she was before Christmas—demanding, ravenous, adorable. Tonight I had a guest for dinner who fortunately cleaned her plate but forgot to pick it up off the coffee table when she went to the kitchen for something. I caught Sophie licking the plate.

Who can blame her? We had the salmon Central Market gave me by mistake. It was a lovely one pound filet, with a butter lemon dressing on it. I called the market for cooking directions because I thought the metal container was ovenproof but wasn’t sure. And I wondered about temperature and time. Whoever I talked to assured me it was already cooked. I have cooked and eaten enough salmon—roasted, grilled, smoked, and yes raw as in sashimi—that I know raw salmon. And this was not cooked. We roasted it at a lower temperature than my guest suggested—and it was perfect. I prefer it a bit underdone rather than dry.

I also made a casserole out of the squash that Central Market gifted me with—a sauce of butter, sour cream, Parmesan, paprika, and an egg yolk. Steamed the sliced squash just a bit. Topped it with Panko and Parmesan, dotted it with butter. We each ate two helpings and boom! Two large squash, gone! So good. I’ll do that one again.

I don’t mean this to be a food blog, but tonight I had another guest, and I made a real mid-century meal—creamed salmon in pastry shells. Long story about why I have pastry shells in my freezer, but now they are gone. I have a new case of Alaskan salmon I wanted to try. Renee raved over it, said her mom used to make creamed tuna, and she loved it, So it’s been a good cooking two days.

And a good work two days, except I can’t tell you what I did. It took me all morning today to read through emails. Granted, I stop and read what I consider reliable posts on politics and world affairs—sometimes the news is so depressing, like the horrendous earthquake in Turkey and Syria or military coups in various countries. But sometimes it’s encouraging, like a poll that shows Americans are tired of election deniers.

Today I filled out a questionnaire for an activist group called Red Wine and Blue. When they asked what issues were hot-button for me, I almost checked every box. But I remembered a wise man who told me to choose my battles, because I’m not going to win them all. So here are my hot-button issues: book banning, degrading public education, LGBTQ rights, censorship of education such as Florida’s ban on teaching African American history, the climate, reproductive rights, trans rights and parents’ rights to raise their children without state interference. Kind of a long list, but I remain hopeful we’ll win on most of them.

I am appalled at the cruelty and blind refusal to think, to accept logic that motivates so much of today’s white nationalistic movement. What underlies the thinking on most of those issues is a conviction that if you aren’t a white Christian male, you are somewhat secondary, not as entitled. I hardly know what to say in response, except to quote the Bible: “And of these, love is the greatest.”

My computer has gone wonky and won’t search for things. At first it was Edge, but now Chrome won’t search either—so I can’t quote the Bible chapter and verse, because my memory is not that good. Second Corinthians something. Meantime I am hoping my oldest son will come up with a solution to my computer problem.

I think it’s late, and it’s time for me to retire from the field. Sweet dreams, everyone.

 

 

 

There is definitely a spot on the moon.

 

It’s been a day of small wrongs for me. Oh, it started out well enough, if a dental visit can ever be called well enough. As I said to the hygienist today, I like her a lot but I just don’t like what she does. She said I was a much better-behaved patient today, and we got through the session just fine. Trouble is when I’m nervous or uncomfortable, I like to chatter—in fact, I probably run my mouth way too much. But with someone working inside your mouth, you can’t do that. So I grin and bear it.

But when I got home and back to my desk, the day started to unravel. I was adding some recipes to the back of the book of the forthcoming Irene Deep in Texas Trouble. One of the recipes I wanted was already on my computer in the draft of the Helen Corbitt manuscript—the original Texas Caviar, with all its simplicity and not a marinated bean salad disguised. So I thought I’d just copy and paste from there. In the process I managed to erase the Texas caviar recipe and insert into the Corbitt draft not once but three times the recipes for Lobster Newburg and Gougeres, which belong in the Irene manuscript. Fortunately, I had the cloud backup for Texas caviar—and of course all would not have been lost, because it’s all over the internet—but still it was comforting to be able to replace it. I pulled all the intruders out of Corbitt and decided it was time for a nap.

Late this afternoon I tried to pay some bills. The landscape company that does our yard sends out a bill that shows the amount for the year—it’s hefty, but there is a way to pay just the monthly fee. In trying to do that, I clicked on the wrong button and paid for the entire year, which would be a blow to my monthly budget. They’re fast, those people at Discover—I called right away, was told there was no payment in the pipeline, got disconnected, called back, and it was in pending and beyond cancellation. They recommended I call the payee, which I did. He’s a friend and easy to work with—said in eighteen years he’s had to do one refund but he will research it and do it tomorrow.

I was still steaming over that when Jordan and a friend arrived with my Central Market order. First thing I unpacked was bananas, which I had not ordered. My thought was “How did Jordan add to my order?” But as I unpacked I realized I had gotten someone else’s groceries—a summer squash and a zucchini, a generous lemon-marinated salmon filet, some blackberries, a hefty bunch of boneless chicken breasts, Brussel sprouts, apples. A gift from the gods. I called Central Market, and they will deliver my groceries tomorrow. Meantime they told me to keep what I had—they would just throw it out if it came back to them. So I will send some into the house, keep the salmon filet for a guest tomorrow night and also make a casserole with the squash. Split the bananas between Jordan and me, and I had scrambled eggs, a banana, and a chocolate chip cookie for supper. Not too shabby.

Tonight I watched a Zoom panel on working with book bloggers—very informative and gave me some things to do tomorrow to get the new Irene on calendars. These panels are sponsored by various chapters of Sister in Crime and are a great, free gift to the mystery community. But they inevitably begin with way too much introduction, chapter business, etc. It was thirty minutes tonight. I cancelled the video so they wouldn’t know I wasn’t sitting spellbound at my desk and went off to make my supper. You’d think writers would know about capturing and holding people’s attention.

Which brings me to the book I’m reading—a cozy mystery by one of the leading names in the cozy community. In the past I have loved this series, eagerly read each new book. Now I’m finding the book overloaded with literary allusions and way too much description all of which slow down the action. I will read on because I’m told it’s one of that author’s best—but I am doubtful. Recently my mentor seemed to imply that my writing has matured. Do you suppose my reading taste has also matured? I think that would make me a really late bloomer.

Stay safe everyone. In North Texas, severe storms are predicted for tonight, but so far nothing. I hope there’s no tornado when I’m sound asleep.

 

My thoughts on humanity vs. politics

 

Tonight I am truly weary of hearing about Hunter Biden and his laptop. I doubt we’ll ever know the truth of whether it has/had incriminating evidence, whether it is/was Russian disinformation, just what it was. But I know that Gym Jordan and James Comer on whatever committee it is—oversight?—don’t really give a fig about Hunter or his laptop. They’re using him as a way to attack Biden. And they’re happily willing to ruin whatever the younger Biden can salvage of his life.

Hunter Biden is probably not my ideal of the perfect man—or anywhere close. He is a seriously flawed human being, but he is living proof that money and privilege don’t cushion all of us against life’s hardships. And he has had life thrown at him—the accident which killed his mother and sister when he was very young, what must have been a difficult recovery, the death of his older brother a few years ago. Even without all that trauma, being the child of a politician and now president is not an easy row to hoe.

And he has not handled it well. He’s admitted to drug addiction, he apparently has a fairly sordid personal life, but he seems to be on the mend. I question some things he has done, like recently denying a daughter the use of his surname—but who am I to judge? I don’t know the whole story. What this man has going in his favor is a loving family. I saw a picture of President Biden with Hunter that struck me in the heart—the love, the caring was so obvious. It’s easy for some cynics to counter with, “Well, he hasn’t repaid that love well,” or “He had every advantage—money, education, etc. There’s no excuse for him turning out the way he did.”

Oh, I think there’s lots of reasons if not excuses. Not all of us have the strength to deal with it when life throws big ones at it. And to play on his weakness for political purposes is despicable. Do you really think he involved his dad so that our president is beholden to China? Current affairs sure would contraindicate that. Did young Biden participate in something illegal with Burisma? Not as far as anyone has proven, and it was his dad who cleaned up the scandal in Ukraine. Was Biden a pawn in preparing Ukraine to submit to Russia (which it didn’t do)? We can’t be sure. We may never know. On the other hand, I may end up looking foolishly gullible.

But I am less concerned with the politics than the humanity in this case. I cannot believe that whatever Hunter Biden did, he is more than a minor pawn in a much larger political scene. And looking at Joe Biden’s long record of playing it straight, mostly, in American politics, I can’t believe he let himself be compromised. Many will disagree with me, but I am quite confident our president has an inner core of integrity.

What I do believe is that the House committee—and James Comer—believe in hitting a man when he’s down. I saw a headline somewhere that Hunter Biden’s marriage maybe in trouble. For his sake, I hope not. But the larger questions is, “What does that have to do with American politics and international security? Current politics is far from the collegiality of Tip O’Neil’s day. It’s vicious, cruel, cutthroat—and does nothing to advance the good of the American people

But let’s turn the tables. We’ve known all along that Jared Kushner accepted (borrowed, whatever?) $2 million from the Saudis to start a new venture. Lately information has come out that makes that look like a slimy deal, maybe illegal, unethical for sure. Has there been any hue and cry about that? Why aren’t Comer and Jordan investigating their fellow Republicans? We all know why: they are desperate to depose Biden and re-install trump in the presidency.

Do they care about American democracy? The well being of the American people? Are they sincerely devoted to their country? Not one bit. They want to tear down democracy and install a demagogue. And to do that they pick on a weak link.

Is this what we want for America? I hope not

Monday fun—sort of

 

         

What I loved about this Monday—a cozy nap in my bed, with warm flannel pants. But wait! Life is about more than napping. I also had a good laugh about the rumors that the flying objects being shot down right and left are extraterrestrial in origin. One poster online said he was going to be so tickled if that proved true, and even my Jordan said, “I’ve aways wanted to see an alien,” though I don’t think we can yet expect them to come tumbling out of spaceships. The general in charge of the security for US and Canadian air space has officially said the reason we’re hearing about so many more is that the Chinese balloon sparked changes in the way our country monitors air space. So probably these smaller objects have been there for a long while, and we’re only now spotting them. Apparently, military pilots have reported sightings for some time, but no one paid attention. I am waiting, however, for this to become a big political issue. Good ole Mitch McConnell has already started it by accusing President Biden of not being transparent about the matter. Republicans are so eager for an issue to jump on.

And the Super Bowl aftertaste lingers, which Rhianna not getting a lot of approval, beyond Henry Winkler and a few others. Most seem to think the show was dismal, the padded white suits—whatever they were supposed to be—ungainly. I did hear one person praise the choreography. And several praised Rhianna for her control of the situation—and her bump reveal. Although one woman said she was surprised the entertainer would risk the life of her unborn child on the unstable platform. Can’t please all the people all the time. But I wonder—did anyone watch the game or was it all about the halftime show? Maybe next year we could just cancel the game and have the show? And boo to Lauren Boebbert and MTG for dumping on the “alternate anthem” and the “wokeness” of the show.

I am really worn out with all the fuss about wokeness which people can’t define anymore than they can that big bugaboo word, socialism. Wokeness, FYI, comes from an African American term and means generally aware of the social world around us, with its distinctions and prejudices and lack of equality. You think that will hurt tender little children? IF so, you need to get a life. Our children will be just fine if you stop hovering over them—and that includes banning books that introduce them to the wider world of reality.

Oops. I got on my soapbox and got carried away from my topic which is/was Monday. I started the day in the dermatologist’s office with a full body check for suspicious moles and the like. I am one of those people—blond, blue-eyed, and fair—who grow senile keratoses at a rapid rate. They’re ugly but harmless. The doctor said people like me should warn their children, and then looked at Jordan and said, “This is your daughter?” Jordan was quick with, “Yes, but I’m adopted.” Nonetheless, she has now scheduled herself a full body check, and I think it’s something everyone should do. I will do it annually because I have had three skin cancers.

The nice part of the day came with happy hour. My guest was James Lehr, marketing manager of TCU Press. We chatted about the press, books, and a whole lot of unrelated things, with a lot of focus on food and restaurants. A most pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. James brought the makings of margueritas, and I felt a bit guilty to tell him I don’t drink anything but chardonnay. I did fix a basket of mini spanakopita—we ate several, but when James was leaving and I saw him to the door, Sophie got the basket and ate all the rest. I know better than to turn my back on food on the coffee table—it doesn’t take her a minute. She seems to have no ill effects.

The family had leftover ragu for supper. One of those recipes that keeps growing—there’s still enough for two servings in the fridge. Tomorrow will be a cooking day, as we are slated to take dinner to Subie and Phil. She had knee surgery a week ago, and her sister/caretakers have both left now.

See anything about writing the great American novel here? No, I don’t either. Not even anything about promoting the one that is about to be published. I need to update my web page and write a newsletter—in between cooking and entertaining. Maybe my priorities are off?

Ho, hum. Another Super Bowl.

 

Pasta with anchovies, garlic, panko and pecorinoi

What do you do when it’s Super Bowl Sunday night and you’re home alone? Why you fix yourself anchovy/garlic pasta with a Caesar salad. At least that’s what I did. I’ve been curious about what I call offbeat pasta sauces—with sardines or anchovies as the focal flavor. This was good—a bit of parsley, plenty of olive oil, a bit of garlic, grated Pecorino cheese all softened the anchovy taste so that it was what it can be at its best—earthy and flavorful but not so salty or fishy that you wonder why you’re eating it. The best thing about the dish, though was the panko that I sauteed in a bit of olive oil—stirred in, it added a wonderful crunch to each bite of pasta. So glad I tried this. The recipe was for six, which meant I had to pare it down for one, so I obviously may have made a wrong quantity judgment somewhere along the way. I paired my pasta with a butter lettuce salad (no, I didn’t deliberately splurge—it was all Central Market had when I ordered) dressed with Paul Newman’s Caesar which I have recently decided is as good as the classic oil and vinegar. And I put lots of pecorino on the salad too.

Christian came in a few minutes ago to give Sophie her shot, and when I commented that Facebook posts generally indicate that the halftime show was awful, he said that people say that every year. But then he allowed he didn’t much like this one, which was mild compared to some online comments. I turned it on briefly, just in time for halftime, but what I saw was a bunch of men (I guess there could have been women) dressed in what looked like hazmat suits parading around the field in a gait that looked like imitation Neanderthal. I quickly turned it off.

I did another good thing tonight: I made from scratch chocolate chip cookie dough. Haven’t baked cookies, but when we (note the collective pronoun) do bake them we will sprinkle sea salt on the top. I have recently discovered the wonder of sea salt on sweets. That’s because when Megan was here, she bought salted caramels from Central Market—so good. They have become my new obsession. I figure we should have the cookies as an alternative to my expensive salted caramels. Jordan went to Albertson’s for groceries today, and I am still in shock over the tab.

My work-related accomplishment for the day is that I reviewed my web page and realized it hasn’t been updated since June—way too long. So I made notes for my web guru on updating and that’s my next email for the evening. But then I’ll settle down with a new book: probably Deborah Crombie’s new Scotland Yard mystery, A Killing of Innocents. It’s a busy week ahead. Hope for each of you, the week holds good promise.

Odd notes on a Saturday

 

lamb ragu

Sometimes on a Saturday night you can find yourself doing the oddest things. I just finally stopped myself from scrolling through a site that listed 50 dressing styles and trends women should avoid if they don’t want to look old. Do you realize how endless 50 pages can be? And yet it was one of those situations—you tell yourself, “Just one more. I just want to see the next one.”

Some of these were no-brainers: don’t wear our mother’s pearls, avoid too much blush or eavy black eye-liner, old lady handbags (calls Queen Elizabeth II to mind, much as I admired her). Knee socks with sneakers (really? Who would?). But the fashionistas, whoever they are, can just keep their hands off my stretch jeans now that I’ve finally found a pair that fit. And don’t tell me I can’t have short hair—except in rare instances, I think long hair on a woman over, oh let’s be generous and say sixty, looks dated and out of place.

I am angry at myself every time I get caught up in one of those sites with the endless “Next” button. Often they tell some heartbreaking story, and you’re caught up in it before you know. Because such are a vehicle for ads, writers draw the story out too many pages, repeating details, coming at them from another direction, delving too far into the back story. Still I get caught, even while I’m thinking what a mindless way for a writer to earn a living.

It's not been that kind of Saturday at all, so I’m a bit surprised at myself. I spent the morning keying in corrections to Irene that my mentor found—and occasionally feeling triumphant because I was right. It is Spaghetti-Os, not Spaghetti O’s. and a Frenchman would call a police station a commissary because the French term is commissariat de police.  I had great three-o’clock-in-the-morning thoughts about the next Irene adventure—can you believe this? The fourth is not anywhere near a publication yet—at least another two months —and I’m planning the fifth. But I had a great opening scene in mind and hastened to write it down. I have nary a clue what happens after that.

We are at sixes and sevens as Christian’s mother is hospitalized, and he is spending a lot of time with her in first a Grapevine hospital and now a Bedford nursing center. So we never know who will be where when. Which means I don’t know what to do about dinner. Jean was coming tonight, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around what to do—should we go out? No, I didn’t want to gear up and dress up enough to go even to the Old Neighborhood Grill. Should I ask Jean to bring something, though I couldn’t think of any convenient, reasonable take-out between her apartment at Trinity Terrace and my cottage. No surprise that the easiest option was to cook. Christian brought my curbside order from Central Market, the order that I flubbed yesterday and finally placed for today. There was a pound of ground lamb in it, and I decided to make a lamb ragu. Served with butter lettuce salad with Newman’s Own Caesar salad dressing and lots of grated pecorino. A good dinner, if I do say so. I’ve decided I’m going to keep a pound of ground lamb on hand—it’s so good for burgers, makes a terrific shepherd’s pie, and was great tonight in ragu. Not sure I’d know what to do with a leg of lamb anymore, because it’s gotten so expensive. But ground is a good way to get the flavor.

So that’s my Saturday. Here I sit, dishes all done, cottage as neat as it’s going to get, candles flicking odd shapes and lights on the ceiling, Sophie asleep in her crate. I’m going to read a bit and then slink off to bed.

Taking time off

 

Haven't read the Irene books yet?
Here's the first in the series.

My great good news is that my longtime mentor wrote me today that the forthcoming Irene in Chicago Culinary Adventure is, in his opinion, the best of the Irene series. I laughed a bit—he seemed to think my writing is maturing. If so, it’s about time. But I am pleased, so watch for Irene Deep in Texas Trouble this spring. Take a diva faux French chef and set her down in the midst of Cowtown—what could possibly go wrong? A wedding supper interrupted by murder, kidnapping, a runaway couple—and Irene is in the middle of all of it, the prime suspect in the murder. Once again, Henny and Patrick must save Irene.

Having sent that manuscript off, I’m taking a break and have been social—until today when I reverted to recluse status. Wednesday, in all that rain and fog we had in North Texas, friend Carol and I drove to Dallas for lunch with Fran Vick, our longtime good pal on the Texas publishing scene. It was a great reunion—Fran was one of the world’s good people, and I am happy now to be able to envision her in her new setting, a retirement community in Dallas. We had lunch, met one of her friends, and gabbed about good times and old days. Fran can always make me laugh, and she is as full of good spirits as ever, in spite of hard times. I will admit being on the freeway in the rain made me a bit nervous, but Carol is a cautious and careful driver who goes to Dallas at least once a week and knows the city. Where I would have been hopelessly lost, she delivered us on time to the front door of Fran’s building. Fran was waiting with a transport chair for me—only trouble was it had no footrest, so while Carol pushed, I had to hold my legs straight out in front of me. Fran said she hoped my legs were a lot stronger than hers. But it really worked out okay.

Lesson learned: I have truly become addicted to my routine. The trip to Dallas didn’t disturb it all that much—I did a little work before we left, got my nap when we came home, but the truth is I did not do much else the entire day, unless fixing dinner for the family counts.

Thursday I broke my routine again but for another delightful social hour: my friend Subie had knee surgery, and her sister Diana came to help for a few days. Thursday morning Diana walked over to my house for tea, and we talked and laughed and had a good time. Subie and I have been close friends for years (like forty?) but I never knew Diana well. Just before our awful ice storm—was it ’20 or ’21? —Diana was here for a visit, and she and Subie took me to Arlington where I gave a talk to a women’s group. That somehow sparked a friendship, so now when she visits, I find we have lots in common. She and her husband live in a cottage (converted garage) on the property of one of their children, just as I do. So we have on-site grandparenting and tiny houses and all kinds of things to talk about. Such fun. Again, my routine went out the window, but both days it was well worth it. I probably should do that more often.

Today I was back in my routine but taking it slow and easy, with no deadline pressure. I lingered over the online news of the day, cobbled together lunch and dinner from whatever was on hand. We are overdue on groceries—I thought I placed a Central Market order yesterday, but when Jacob went to pick it up, they didn’t have it. It was still sitting in my computer. I have an explanation, but I’m sure my children will whisper about the onset of senility. Tonight, I pretty much confronted an empty refrigerator, but scrambled eggs are always good. Somehow, with the current panic about eggs, I have two dozen in my fridge. Egg salad, anyone? Tonight, I will read a bit.  

How will you spend Super Bowl Sunday? I plan to look for the Puppy Bowl in the early afternoon and in the evening, I’ll channel surf looking for a Souper Bowl. Was it PBS that used to have those programs opposite the football thing? I read tonight that Chef Gordon Ramsey will have a new competition show with amateur chefs immediately following the game, but I’m thinking that may be a little late to watch a cooking show. At any rate, I am not one to watch the whole game, which interests me not at all, just to see the commercials, though I always love the Clydesdales. I remember some fairly raucous Super Bowl parties way back when and look back in wonder—was I really part of that? These days I’m so glad to be home with my books and maybe my TV.

A food day—and the State of the Union

 

My leftovers lunch

As a mystery reader and author, I loved July Hyzy’s White House Chef Mysteries One title in the series is particularly appropriate tonight: The State of the Onion. The title mixes food and politics, and that’s exactly how my day went.

The food part began at noon. Last night I served friend Kathie a dish of roasted sweet potato and spinach, seasoned with a bit of jalapeño juice and garnished with sliced scallions, crumbled feta, and more jalapenos if you wanted (I didn’t). But for lunch today, I had a bit of leftover herb-y chicken and potatoes from a sheet pan dinner, so I made a cup of bouillon, added the leftovers, and then added a good serving of the sweet potato and spinach dish. Best lunch I’ve had in forever. And I was proud of my use of leftovers.

Somewhere in the morning, I found out Christian had spent the night at his mom’s hospital beside in Grapevine, sitting—and trying to sleep—in a chair. And he’d spent half the night before in the same place. So I ask for prayers, please, for him, his mom, and his family. She is not critical but has several aging problems. He came home, showered, and went to work—no rest for the wicked.

Jordan and I went back and forth about what would best comfort him for supper. She wanted beef, because he’s a beef-and-potato man, but all I had on hand was ground beef (Jacob doesn’t like meatloaf or ground beef dishes and Christian is the one who does hamburgers for us, so that was out). I also had cube steaks, but they sounded like a lot of work in an uncertain evening. Jordan suggested tacos, but I nixed that, and suggested instead German potato salad with hot dogs—one of Christians’ favorite meals. So I rushed to make that, and of course, Christian was too tired to eat. I am not at all surprised that he fell asleep almost the minute he came home. Jordan, Jacob, and I had supper, and they took him a plate. I have no idea if he ate it or not, but Jordan came out about nine to say that he had to go back to the hospital because his sister couldn’t make it tonight. So my thoughts and prayers go with him.

The highlight of the day, for me, was President Biden’s State of the Union speech. I have not yet listened to any commentators about it, so this is just my opinion: I found it incredibly strong, energic, and full of optimism. That man has a vision of America moving forward. I did listen to about two minutes of Sarah Huckabee’s rebuttal before I turned it off, but the difference to me was that Biden is talking about the future while Huckabee—and others of her political ilk—are looking backward, trying to recapture an idyllic way of life that never was reality. But whites were in power, there were no gays (at least not talked about out loud), and kids were safe, happily playing in the streets. If you grew up in Chicago, as I did, you know that is the land that never was. I much prefer Biden’s realistic optimism for dealing with the problems that beset us—inflation, immigration, drugs, police brutality, and an unfortunately long list. As for those who quibble about his age, I thought he was remarkably strong and vital (he is two or three years younger than I am).

A big part of the fun of watching this annual address is seeing the individuals in the chambers when the camera pans on them. I suppose it’s de rigueur for the Republican leader to look bored and, sometimes, slightly amused. If that’s what the job requires, Kevin McCarthy did a great job. But he did more often than I expected rise to his feet. And the Republicans in the audience also rose more often than I remember from other speeches. Most Democrats of course cheered wildly at almost every sentence, but their obvious enthusiasm was happy medicine for me.

Occasional shots showed Republicans like Ted Cruz shaking their heads in pretend-obvious dismay, and a stone-faced Mitch McConnell—wish I could remember what the subject was that turned him to ice. Another time Marjorie Taylor Greene, with a remarkable display of bad taste, rose to her feet to shout at the president, contradicting the image she presented wrapped in something with a wide, white fur collar. And Lauren Boebbert, with too much makeup (okay, that’s catty of me), shook her head.

On the whole, Republicans did not come off looking well, and I sensed that Biden was carrying most of the crowd with him as he looked to the future of a stronger America. It may be that’s a standard reaction to the State of the Union, no matter who delivers it, but I don’t remember trump’s speeches that way. And of course, who can forget Nancy Pelosi’s sarcastic clap for trump and her ripping up his speech. Nothing that dramatic tonight, but, as a firm believer that for now Joe Biden is the best man for America, I was left with a strong sense of optimism.

You used to hear him called Uncle Joe, and to me that fits. He’s like a comforting uncle who tells you everything will be okay, if you just play along. I like that.

 

A reading weekend--and a puzzle

 

 

Today the snow moon peaked about midday. The February full moon was named the snow moon by Native Americans because it occurs when the heaviest snow is expected—little did they know that this year it just missed not the heaviest snow but the coldest temperatures that we hope are now in the rearview mirror. None of that was on my mind this morning at 6:30 when I opened the door to let Sophie out—but there it was: a perfectly round, glowing white orb just about to sink below the roof line of my neighbor’s house. For a moment, the sight and the beauty took my breath away. You can still catch it tonight, no longer perfectly round but so close your naked eye won’t be able to tell.

For years, with my Puritan work ethic ruling my life, I put reading fiction off  until late at night. It was an indulgence, I thought, a reward for having worked all day. But friend and fellow author Susan Wittig Albert, a better and more successful mystery writer than I ever will be, has convinced me that reading is part of my job. When I read someone else’s mysteries, I pick up on techniques, good and bad. I get ideas for what I can do in future works, and I find things that I would never have done or would differently. I know for certain that I read differently today than I did fifteen years ago. More critically, which doesn’t just mean negative criticism but implies a deeper understanding of what lies behind the words

So this weekend I spent a happy two days reading Julie Hyzy’s Artistic License, billed as her debut novel, although at least one book in her White House Chef Mysteries predates that publication. A fan of both the White House books and the Manor House Mysteries, I was delighted to jump into this book—and then a bit disappointed. It started slowly, and Hyzy dwelt in such detail on characters and scenes that I wanted to urge, “Hurry on, let’s get to the action.” In particular, her descriptions of a couple of unpleasant characters—physically unattractive due to their presentation and habits and not God-given features—was so graphic that I didn’t want to read more about them. Felt that way all through the book.

But gradually she introduced both romance and suspense. This is not a cozy in which the reader is as puzzled as the amateur sleuth—this is a thriller, in which the reader knows who the bad guys are, what they want, and what they will do to get it. It’s like watching two parallel lines of action, holding your breath for the climactic moment when they collide. And collide they did, in a suspense-filled passage that almost had me holding my breath. By then, I cared, really cared about the people involved—and that, to me, is the mark of a good writer: making the reader care about the characters. The ending was satisfactory, with the exception of one minor thread let hanging loose.

Another thing that keeps this novel out of the cozy category: there is one quite graphic sex scene. Okay mild by erotica standards, but graphic by cozy standards. In cozies, the action stops when the bedroom door closes.

Something I would not have noticed until I started indie publishing my own books. This one, from a small press, had formatting problems. There was no page break between chapters—if one ended in the middle of the page, the next one began right there. And in the text there were no space breaks to indicate a change of scene. So you were reading along in one scene and suddenly there was a line about totally different characters.

Problems aside, reading Artistic License was a win. It provided a weekend of enjoyment and some writing lessons beside. Now I’m excited that I found a White House Chef Mystery that I apparently overlooked when I read the series: An Affair of Steak. (I dislike the punny titles of so many cozies, but I’ll forgive Julie).

Here’s a puzzle: Susan Albert told me Julie Hyzy doesn’t even maintain her web page, so I went prowling. Found a web page, but also found several links that supposedly led to obituaries about her October 2020 death. But none of those links panned out: they either gave me the 404 error message or “This page could not be found.” So I’m left with a question: Did Julie Hyzy die (she would have been maybe late fifties, early sixties) or was it a pen name, a pseudonym that died—and somewhere the person who wrote as Julie Hyzy lives on? Another reason I never wanted a pen name.