Napping after a frustrating morning

When I napped this afternoon, I had the clear sense that I was in my childhood bedroom in the house in Chicago. My mom and brother were talking softly downstairs, because sound carried in that small row house. Downstairs were living, dining, and kitchen; upstairs, three bedrooms and the house’s lone bath. The house was only sixteen feet wide, though as a kid I thought it large. Delicious feeling to be back there again, even in my dreams. I’m sure Mom had cookies waiting downstairs.

The most frustrating morning today. I decided I could do advance reading copies through Amazon’s Create Space program without hiring an expensive designer or formatter. But I ran into problems, which I thought I could solve with a quick call to Amazon. Hah! There is no such thing as a quick call to Amazon, though their support service is willing and hepful. Still, I spent almost the entire morning on the phone, being bounced between techs at Kindle Direct Publishing and Create Space. By eleven, still in my pajamas, I reluctantly cancelled my lunch arrangements. I finally got it done and ordered the copies that were really needed last week, but it’s not a lovely professional job, good enough I hope for advance copies.

The market for mysteries these days is heavily skewed toward ebooks, and I honestly don’t sell many print. I’m old-fashioned enough that I want a print copy in my hands, but I’m also a realist—and today I made myself be a financial realist, balancing the advantages of print against the cost. When the book, Murder at the Bus Depot, comes out in May, it will be available in print, but I might advise for the ebook, which will be available on several platforms, not just Amazon.

I’ve been accomplishing a lot this week, and my other triumph for the day is that I finished the novel I’m editing for friend and fellow author Cindy Bonner. Cindy published several good novels in the nineties, until life called her to other occupations. Now she’s back to writing, and I’m delighted. The novel follows a Texas boy to England where he flies for the RAF in WWII, meets a Canadian female pilot, eventually flies for the USAAF. It’s compelling well done, accurate and convincing about the business of flying and life in England at the time. I look forward to seeing it in print. Meantime, though, Cindy’s agent advises it’s too long, and I’m charged with the task of helping her cut a whole lot of words. Yikes!

Tonight I’m allowing myself the fun of playing with recipes. French onion panade, anyone? Perhaps Fettucine Alfredo is a bit more accessible.

Chicago memories and an anonymous friend (I think)

My children on the steps of my

childhood home

A year ago today, my four grown children and I were in Chicago, staying at the Drake Hotel (a childhood symbol of luxury for me), dining in new and interesting restaurants, and, best of all, touring the city I call home. I hadn’t been back in at least twenty years, maybe more, and it was a joy to show “my” neighborhood to my children.

I had always told them that I grew up in modest circumstances, so they were unprepared for my childhood home. I can still see the sign as we turned into Madison Park, the small enclave on Chicago’s South Side, We passed the Caverswall apartments, then the Early house, the Wieland house, a new house built on my father’s garden, and there it was—1340 Madison Park. Jamie said, “Mom!” Madison Park has been gentrified, and the house sparkled—a brownstone only of red brick instead of brown stone, the wood porch of my childhood gone, the small patch of land in front landscaped.

We toured, by car, the University of Chicago neighborhood, which again astounded the kids with its wonderful architecture, the Gothic buildings of the university, the lovely, tree-lined streets—I don’t know what they expected of Chicago, but this wasn’t it. We drove down 53^rd, the business street I remembered, andsaw my church—good gosh, it looked small.

We ate at Rick Steves’ restaurant, two upscale places, one Italian and one steak, that were owned by the same people, a small bistro across from the hotel, Berghoff’s, and a cutting edge place with a weird menu. My historical Chicago novel, The Gilded Cage, was still relatively new, and a highlight for me was lunch at the Palmer House, a big part of the novel, and the historical tour afterward.

We gawked at the beauty of the city, explored the riverfront (including a picture they tricked me into in front of Trump Tower). They explored the beach opposite the hotel and marveled at the lake—I think Megan expected to see the other shore.

I came home from that trip with a basket full of memories that I will treasure forever. With two hospital stays and a long stretch of questionable health, I may have used up my travel credit card with these four, but I hope not. Toronto beckons, and maybe, a tiny bit, so does New York City.

Meanwhile I, a mystery writer, have a mystery one my hands. Anonymous, that ubiquitous guy, responded to my blog last night, suggesting I let go of my anger (I’m sure he meant political, but it wasn’t really an angry blog). In the back and forth that ensued, I learned that I had once, in his younger years, yelled at him (but he said he deserved it), and he was always just a bit of afraid of me (I’m just assuming a male writer). He liked my blogs about work and family, kids and grandkids, better than political ones. In the middle of the night, I had an aha! moment and decided it was Megan’s high school boyfriend, but she shot that down with, “He was never afraid of you.” So, I’m left with this puzzle, and it bugs me—someone I felt comfortable enough with to chastise (I’m sure I didn’t yell), and someone who knew the family well. Jordan says it could be any of their boyfriends, but I can rule out several right away. Anonymous remains a niggling puzzle to me.