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.

 

Some plans go awry

 

This started out to be a great cooking weekend, but somehow it went amuck. Okay, not somehow—I know what happened.

Last night Jordan and I welcomed Renee, a minister at our church and a good friend. We planned a girls’ evening, and I came up with an experimental light supper—I had the idea, and Jordan carried it out beautifully. She mixed flaked tuna with tabouleh, topped it with lemon, avocado, and good Greek yogurt. Then she put a dab of hummus on the side of each bowl. Delicious, looked gorgeous in the bowl, and so filling! Anyway it was the cooking success I hoped for. Tonight not so much.

Jacob came home from two weeks at Sky Ranch camp tonight. That is, Jordan and Christian drove to Van in East Texas to pick him up. He had been on a bus from Colorado all night. The plan was to have a welcome-home celebratory dinner, and Jordan chose carnitas for the entrée, because that’s something he likes. First mistake.

I make carnitas the way a man who once worked in my office taught me—simmer cubes of pork butt until the liquid disappears and the meat gets crusty. That makes a simple boiled pork dinner, but if you season the water, you get carnitas. I add onion, garlic, orange peel, bay leaves oregano, cloves, a cinnamon stick—I guess that’s all. I’ve made it a lot before, and usually it turns out great, but tonight the liquid would not cook down no matter what we did. I figure I made two mistakes: too much liquid and not long enough cooking. Easy enough to correct next time, and there will be a next time because I ordered 2.5 lbs. of beef in cubes and got 4.35 lbs. So I have leftovers in the freezer. And to add to my discontent, the one-inch cubes I requested were big hunks of meat, so I spent a lot of time cutting them into one-inch cubes. Next time I will be firm in my request. Another lesson learned: my knives need sharpening, even my big, good chef’s knife.

And then Christian suddenly had to go to Plano for a memorial service for a high school friend. So that dinner for four planned for seven o’clock? Three of us sat down at almost eight-thirty, and I have to say our tempers were a bit testy from hunger. We do have good leftovers for lunch tomorrow.

Jacob responded easily to questions about his camp experience—he loved it. No swimming, which astounded me. Why go to camp if you don’t swim? They did play soccer, football, baseball, etc. They also had Bible study—Ephesians, but he was a little shaky on the content when asked. That’s okay because I’m a bit shaky too. We both know that Ephesians is letters Paul wrote while in prison.

But for me the big disappointment came when he talked about group singing, which he apparently enjoyed. I asked if they sang “Kumbala,” or “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” and he looked at me blankly and said, “I don’t know what those are.” They sang country songs, like “Country Roads” and others I’d never heard of. So I guess we’re even. But it makes me sad to think that those songs, which I always thought generations sang, are fading from memory. Jordan challenged me to sing “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore,” but I may just have to find a rendition online for her. And I bet Jacob has no idea who Joan Baez is. Travesty.

So tomorrow night, one more experiment: I read about baking potatoes the British way. Two hours in a 400^o degree oven. Instead of poking them all over with a fork, you cut a deep cross in the top. The long cooking time makes the skins really crisp. Then you take them out, cut the cross deeper, and return to the oven for ten minutes. This is supposed to make the potato meat fluffy. We’re having steak tomorrow night, so I’ll report on how the potatoes do.

My day was work—I wrote 800 words, which is really good for a nonfiction project—and I napped and made carnitas. And that sums up the day. I did finish a new mystery which I thoroughly enjoyed: Murder in G Major by Alexia Gordon. An African-American classical musician is stranded in a small Irish village and challenged with transforming the rowdy musicians of the local boys’ school into an award-winning orchestra. But along the way she shares a cottage with an absolutely charming ghost and uncovers a lot of old murders—and some new ones. Will hers be next? Good story. I thoroughly enjoyed it.

One never knows what tomorrow will bring. Sweet dreams, everyone.

Rain? Always hopeful

 

Rain all weekend, they said, and we all rejoiced. But then they said, “Maybe a little on Saturday, but for sure on Sunday.” Sunday was indeed gray, like it could rain soon. Christian worried that Jacob wouldn’t get his practice golf game it, but he did with no problems. By late afternoon, I was sitting at my desk, French doors to the patio open, marveling at how still the world was. Still waiting for rain.

All of a sudden, a whisp of cool air, and the wind was ruffling the trees. The sky darkened, and I thought, “Here it comes for sure.” Pretty soon, though, it was still again. Now an hour later there is the lightest breeze moving the trees, it is still too gray for the time of day, and the air definitely feels cooler. But rain? Not yet.

My family has gone to a John Mayer concert in Dallas. Jordan got home at three-something on the Vonlane bus from Austin, and they were all out the door at four-thirty to ride the train to Dallas. Made me, just awake from a deep nap tired, but then I am not a John Mayer fan, though I admit if I were ever to go to a concert, his is probably one I’d like better than a lot of others. I think the boys in the family deserve credit for being willing to make the mom happy—Christian bought expensive tickets not because he’s wild about Mayer but because he’s wild about Jordan who is wild about Mayer. And Jacob? I doubt it’s his kind of music, but he got to take a buddy, and he’ll enjoy the outing. And if Sawyer, the hard rock musician in the family, could go last week and enjoy, so can Jacob and his friend.

Meanwhile I sit home and wait for rain. In a few minutes I’ll fix myself a loin lamb chop and a salad. I’ve written the last line of the first draft of Finding Florence, the third of my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. No, I didn’t rush it off to the printer. There’s lots of work ahead—editing on my part which means at least two more pass throughs, sending the mss. to beta readers, and considering their suggestions and questions, sending it to my longtime mentor if he is still ready to read, then sending it to a professional editor who works with cozy mysteries. Finally, I’ll send it to a graphic designer for formatting, cover design. One more proofing, and then she’ll post it to Amazon. Yep, it’s a months-long project.

But I’ve been thinking about what happens when you write a novel. One thing that’s come to my mind is that at the end of that first draft is you know your characters a lot better. That means, for me, that now as I go back and start over, I have to tweak the characters to let the reader know them better. I must fill our not only descriptions but actions and words by which they reveal themselves.

And another thing I found tonight just going over three chapters is that as I went through that first draft, I was putting words on paper—but sometimes they contradicted each other, or left holes in the plot, or raised questions, “Why did so-and-so do that?” or “Would she really have said that?”

I won’t read more chapters tonight because I want to do this slowly with focused concentration. After a bit, my focus wanders. So I’ll spend the rest of the evening reading that Diane Mott Davidson novel I’m deep into—Dark Tort. A good mystery with lots of food talk and recipes.

Have a great week everyone!

Ta-da! Here it is!

 

The cover to Irene in Danger, second in my series, “Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries.” I’m delighted with the cover. In this one, Irene has been in France for a year, running a small café, but she’s back in Chicago now for Henny and Patrick’s wedding, a small but classy affair to be held at the legendary Palmer House Hotel. In the week between her arrival and the day of the wedding, murder, drug smuggling, and kidnapping combine to make Henny doubt she can pull off the day of her dreams. Through it all, Irene remains the diva—demanding, spoiled, always the center of attraction, and yet somehow a sympathetic character.

The arrival of Henny’s family from Texas adds a whole new set of characters to the story—and a new cuisine to rival Irene’s insistence on everything French. Henny includes some of Irene’s recipes, the best of French cooking like a gibelotte, and recipes from her mom’s kitchen. Down-home Texas food at its best. Henny’s mom will tell you the simple way to make the best pot of beans ever and suggest an unusual addition to deviled eggs.

Irene in Danger launches November 14, unless supply chain problems cause delays. For comparison, I’m attaching the cover to Saving Irene, available at Saving Irene: A Culinary Mystery - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. If you are a Kindle Unlimited subscriber, it’s free.

Texas, Chicago, and Me

 

The house of my growing years

Last night I was reading the opening of Jacqueline Winspear’s memoir, This Time Next Year We’ll Be Laughing, when I came across the passage where she talks of the land of our growing and how it is filled with meaning for each of us. Place, she writes, gives our lives meaning. For me, the place of my growing was Chicago, and for many years I thought I’d put it behind me. After all, I reasoned, everyone I knew there had either left or died. But it turns out I had not put it away from me.

I have lived in Texas fifty-six years, long enough I always feel to be considered a native. My careers as author and publisher have been inextricably entwined with Texas, and yet real Texas natives, those born on the soil, have not-so-subtle ways of reminding one that you are an outsider. In the seventies, there was a Born in Texas movement. You could sign up at booths in shopping malls and, for a fee, get a certificate and a T-shirt. While registering my four children, I felt a pang of jealousy. And there were other T-shirts that said, “I wasn’t born in Texas, but I got here as soon as I could.” Folklorist and award-winning author Joyce Gibson Roach and I used to do a dog-and-pony show where she talked about how being a fifth-generation Texan impacted her work, and I followed with “Notes from a Newcomer.” I wish today I had those notes, but they are buried in an archive somewhere.

Aside from fleeting thoughts, Chicago only came into my consciousness a few years ago. After five or more years writing and rewriting, I published a longish historical novel, The Gilded Cage, about Cissie Palmer (wife of hotelier Potter Palmer) who was one of if not the first woman to combine great wealth with philanthropy. The subject came to me first as an assignment for a children’s book. As I wrote, Chicago’s colorful history of the late nineteenth century came tumbling back into my mind—the Great Fire, the Civil War, the Haymarket Riot, Marshall Field and his store, the stockyards and the meat packers, Pullmantown, and, of course, the Columbian Exposition. I was wrapped again in my love for and familiarity with Chicago’s South Side.

And then, in 2016, my four grown children and I spent several days in the city so that I could show them where I grew up. Their reaction filled my heart with love—they exclaimed over my childhood home (sort of a red-brick brownstone that they, expecting poverty, estimated at over a million in worth), the elegant nineteenth-century houses of Hyde Park, the gray grandeur of Rockefeller Chapel and the other buildings of the University of Chicago. We dined at Berghoff’s and Rick Steves’ La Fontera, took the historical tour of the Palmer House, stayed in a suite overlooking Lake Michigan and the North Shore—I could gaze at the lake and fill something inside me that had too long missed that lake. It was, though short, perhaps the most memorable trip of my life.

In 2019, some unknown spark prompted me to move beyond Texas and write about Chicago in an entirely different vein—a contemporary cozy mystery set in Hyde Park, the neighborhood of my growing. And now I am, slowly, working on a sequel to Saving Irene, to be titled Irene in Danger. And I know, though a Texan most of the time, a part of me never left Chicago, and I carry that magnificent city in my heart.

Maybe Winspear’s insight will spur me to get serious about that memoir that I keep in the back of my mind. “Memories,” she wrote, “appear in flashes of light,” and I think that is what my memoir would be—not a connected, continuous narrative, but flashes of memory as they came to me.

The long road to publication

I’ve spent the last two days proofing two formatted electronic versions of Saving Irene, all with an eye to getting it posted asap on Amazon and various other web sites for advance orders. It will officially launch September 16, and I’ve been trying to do as much advance publicity as I know how—not a chore I excel at. In fact, Jamie, my salesman extraordinaire son, gave me lectures on salesmanship when he was here and recommended I get on Instagram. I’ve always avoided it because I thought it was all pictures, and I didn’t have that many. But a look at my various picture files convinces me maybe I’ve been underestimating myself.

But Instagram remains a mystery to me. I started a new account—Instagram had forgotten the username and password Jacob set up for me long ago—and got it installed on my computer. But then a tutorial (yes, Jamie sent it to me) is focused on using Instagram on your cell phone. I’m not that good at cell phone navigation, so I’m waiting for Jacob to give me lessons.

Meantime what I found with my new account is a list of people—none of whom I know—that I can invite to follow me. That doesn’t seem efficient or profitable to me, and I have no idea where to go next.

Yes, I am an old lady trying to figure out millennial technology, and it ain’t going well.

Back to proofreading. Before I sent the manuscript to my graphic designer for formatting, I read it so carefully. And yet I found all kinds of errors—Howard was called Harold at one point; in another instance I talked about a great cap when I meant a great gap. It’s really true—the eye sees what the mind wants it too. I have now read the entire thing, carefully, twice in the last two days, and I feel that I could recite it from memory.

The road to publication is indeed long. And I even shortened it a bit with this mystery, because a year or more ago I wrote 19,000 words before abandoning it for historical projects. So when I turned my attention back to it, in mid-April, I had a head start. I wrote steadily, at least a thousand words a day, until I had a final manuscript of about 65,000 words. More importantly, I wrote steadily until the story worked itself out—who did what and how the characters would react.

Next, I sent it to an editor, who made extensive comments, sent it to me, and I dealt with the comments. Then it went back to the editor for a final review. Meantime, I was looking for guest posts on blogs and make extensive notes about marketing, soliciting blurbs, and generally going about letting the world know that I have written a brilliant cozy mystery.

The graphic artist was the next step, and she required two weeks or more to work on it between more urgent projects, while I sat biting my nails. Now I think we’re moving toward the final step, and it will soon be available.

Will this book make me rich and famous? Almost definitely not. After more than a hundred books, from young-adult titles to historical fiction to mysteries and a scattering of nonfiction, I know better than to expect such a miracle. But that’s not why I write. I write because I cannot not write, because I enjoy the process (though sometimes I want to tear my hair out), and because I love the satisfaction of having written—yes, I’m like Mark Twain in that respect.

I accept that I am a third-tier author in the mystery field (I had much more credibility in the field of western American lit, and I’m not abandoning that). And it’s okay. Writing is a wonderful way to spend my retirement. It keeps me busy, actively engaged, and, I hope, young in spirit.

I hope, of course, you’ll read Saving Irene and then let me know what you think  about it. A review on Amazon, however brief, is always appreciated. But you know what, if only ten people read it, that’s okay too.

And if you have hints about Instagram, I’m open to anything.

Looking towad september

Two years ago I wrote 19,000 words and abandoned them. When I went back to the mss. during quarantine, I was surprised how much I liked the voice and the plot. Now, come September, it will be available in print and ebook form.

A Bookish Day

This is the blog I was too tired to write last night. Honestly, how can I be tired after a day of doing not much? The truth is I was reading a mystery I didn’t want to put down, and that sort of speaks for my day yesterday. It was bookish. So as you read, pretend it is last night.

After the heavy go of reading about Churchill and WWII I really longed for a good cozy (not cute!) in whose pages I could get lost. Thanks to Susan Van Kirk for A Death at Tippitt Pond. I did indeed get lost in the world of this novel and was reluctant to stop turning digital pages. The plot is not new: a young woman (in this case, forty-seven, not so young) finds out she was adopted as an infant and has now inherited a fortune from her biological family. The story opens with her having traveled from NYC to the mansion in the small, Illinois town where, apparently, she was born. And, no surprise—she is attracted to the single-again chief of police. Before you yawn and say, “Been there, read that,” let me tell you that Van Kirk takes these familiar elements and creates a compelling mystery. Did Beth Russell’s biological father really kill her mother that summer day at Tippitt Pond all those years ago? Why does someone keep breaking into the house, and how do they get in? Why is a stranger watching her house from the woods across the street?

Beth Russell, an independent researcher, is just insecure enough that you like her. Yet she’s bright and holds her own in a town where most people want her to go back to NYC. Other characters are equally believable, from Kyle the police chief, to the senator who looks to me like the bad guy. I haven’t finished this book yet, but I did stay up way too late last night reading it.

And I’m on the trail of a mysterious cookbook that a friend told me about. Catherine Morro, daughter of a TCU prof, herself a student until eye strain forced her to quit, apparently was known for chicken sandwiches which she sold from a now-disappeared local pharmacy. Here’s the strange part: in 1980, University Christian Church published a collection of her recipes. That’s my church, but so far, I haven’t found anyone who knows anything about it. And a church publishing an individual’s cookbook? I can imagine a collection of recipes from women in the congregation, but not one cook. I’m partly curious because Morro apparently made congealed salads, so popular in the day, by cooking in a water bath instead of using gelatin as I do. Thanks to Anne Kane for putting me on this trail.

And, finally, a nice find yesterday—a woman I knew several years ago as an administrator at TCU has retired from academic life and is writing a private investigator series of mysteries set in Harlem. I wrote her a note, she wrote back, and we exchanged a few emails, friended each other on Facebook. I hope to keep in touch with Delia Pitts. Check out her Ross Agency Mysteries. Brand new title is The Prince and the Pauper in Harlem.

Discovering Delia (does that sound like a book  title?) gave me a stray thought for these quarantine days. Maybe I should check in on Kelly O’Connell and see how she and Mike, Keisha and the girls are handling the pandemic. (That’s for you, Elaine Williams Gray!)

A blessed Palm Sunday to everyone.

The downside of a rainy day, some encouraging news, and advice from Jesus

Rainy, chilly, damp and dark in North Texas today, and frankly I was bored. I find that a whiney admission on my part, some sort of lack of character, but nothing engaged me, and time dragged. I am doing photo research but was stymied—one curator is out of the office for an indeterminate time, as in months, and not a single other soul can help me; another was just out today, so I suppose I can call her Monday; and a third office is only open Monday through Thursday. I suppose photo research is not considered urgent, but when it’s what’s next on your plate, such lack of response is frustrating. I have emailed a couple of archives twice with no response.

And I finished the cozy mystery, Nobody’s Sweetheart Now, that I was much enjoying. I always hate to finish a book when I’ve gotten absorbed in the story and its world. I didn’t expect to like this one so well—a British cozy set on an estate in the 1920s, very Agatha Christie-like with the houseguests at a Saturday-to-Monday the suspects in the murder. But the hostess, recently widowed Adelaide Compton, is charming, sly and witty behind the naïve and overly kind façade the world sees. And when her late husband, a terrible philanderer, reappears in ghostly form, she thinks she is losing her mind. A standard cast of characters, including the dullard nobleman who wants to marry her, but then. .. there’s the handsome inspector of British and Indian descent, so good looking, so…. well, read and find out. It’s all good fun.

One of my new year’s resolutions was to share more positive posts on Facebook, and I’ve been pleased to share several on environmental subjects. From schools in the jungles of Brazil to roads in India made from discarded plastic and from high sales of electric cars in Norway to desert lands reclaimed by using ancient farming methods, it seems to me the world is light years ahead of America, the so-called strongest nation in the world, on saving our physical world. While our government allows pollution of rivers and the use of poisonous pesticide with nary a thought to the consequences, much of the world seems to understand climate change and the desperate need to change our ways. Some days it’s enough to start me fantasizing about moving, though I’m too old for that.

And then there’s this word about Biblical commandments. You have my permission to throw it in the face of the next rigid, righteous Christian you meet. In his daily meditation yesterday, Richard Rohr, a monk well known for his theological writing, pointed out that there are 613 clear commandments in the Bible (do you think he counted them?), but Jesus reduced them to two: Love they God, and love they neighbor as thyself. See? You don’t have to worry about abortion and LGBTQ and other people’s marriages and marijuana and any of those things that send some off into a tizzy. Why did Mike Pence, that walking uptight bundle of repressed emotions, rush into my mind when I read that? I read today he predicts legalized abortion will disappear in this country soon. Talk about rigid ways. But back to Jesus’ two commands, just think if we all, Christian or not, followed those two commandments, what a great world it would be.

Here’s a link to Rohr’s complete meditation for the day. I read his work daily and find it inspiring, pushing me in a direction I need and want to go.

Which reminds me of a joyful note: Tarrant County Republicans voted NOT to unseat the duly elected co-chair because of his Muslim religion. Can you imagine? It should never have been an issue at all, but at least good sense won out. He can worship his God, I can worship mine, and we both can love our neighbors. Great hope for the world.

Tomorrow I plan to avoid boredom. I’ll do a grocery run, make a batch of spaghetti sauce, and think some more about the vague idea for a mystery that is batting around in my mind.

Book giveaway and a new fan

Best-selling mystery author and my good friend Susan Wittig Albert is offering an autographed ARC (advance reading copy) of her new book, Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover, exclusive to readers of this blog. Leave a comment, and Susan will use a blind number system to choose a winner. Hey, I’m just the middleman here, but glad to do it. Susan’s a wonderful writer, and the Darling Dahlias is a terrific series.

Take a nostalgia trip back to 1934. FDR is in the White House, the New Deal is in full swing, and Prohibition has finally been repealed. In Darling, Alabama, ladies of the local garden club aren’t afraid to dig a little dirt if that’s what it takes to cultivate a mystery. A string of bad luck may have ended for Darling’s favorite barbershop quartet—just when the Dixie Regional Barbershop Competition is about to take place. To complicate things, there’s a serious foul-up in Darling’s telephone system. The town’s party lines may have to go out of business, which would be bad news for the gossips.

This is a charming story of richly human characters who face the Great Depression with courage and grace. Albert reminds us that friends offer the best of themselves to each other, community is what holds us together, and luck is what you make of it. Traditional southern pie recipes (and a little cookery history) included!

And my brag: I got a new fan today. I’ve been exchanging emails about rescuing feral cats with a neighbor I’ve never met. She’s given me great material for a piece for the neighborhood newsletter that I edit. But today, she happened to read the slug line after my signature—it hawks one of my books, Murder at the Bus Depot. She wrote that she’s going to buy it right away. I thanked her and suggested it’s part of a series, and I also have a series set right here in our part of the city. She said she’s going to order them all. I may hire her as a publicist! But it’s proof those tag lines work.

And a meatloaf note: I had the best meatloaf ever last night at the Tavern on Hulen. Menu says the Monday night special is made with USDA Prime. Served with buttery mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach. I may have to go back every Monday night.

Don’t forget—leave a comment on this blog (not on the Facebook listing) to be included in the drawing for the giveaway of The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover.

Lazy hazy days of summer

With August winding down and kids now one week into school, I tend to think it’s nearly fall. Nor in Texas. As I write, in the late afternoon, my outdoor thermometer says 103 and there is not even a whisper of air stirring. Still I have the patio doors open, and it’s quite comfortable.

Last night a neighbor sent pictures of her son Hayes and Jacob at the Japanese Palace, always one of my favorite restaurants. The last time I took Jacob to a Japanese restaurant, he behaved badly—ordered edamame salad, which he disliked, and fussed and squirmed and ruined our meal. So I wrote Amber I hoped the boys were enjoying—the grins on their faces certainly indicated that—and behaving. She replied they were being angels (maybe she’d had a glass of wine which blurred her vision?).

Jacob spent the night with Hayes, but when he came home today he came out to visit I asked about the dinner, and he seemed most impressed that they sat at a table where you actually sit on the floor and your legs dangle in the space under the table—don’t guess I can do those anymore. He liked it that you could learn your elbows—wait for it!—on the floor. What did he order? Shrimp?  Well, no wonder he liked it.

I’m slowly proofreading my cookbook—a chapter at a time. Wow! Sure different from proofing a novel. I’m finding lots—maybe I have changed my mind about this dish or that. And in some recipes, the instructions were left out—I’ve had to go back and reconstruct. Slow, tedious work which is why I do it a section at a time.

To relieve my boredom, I’ been reading fiction-today a cozy novel about a Renaissance Faire. Well, I was reading it until I gave up—I do not need to read one more description of a deep green gown with ribbons fluttering or hear in my head one more line of Faire-speak, “Prithee, kind sir!”. Way overdone. I wanted to get on with the action. And there is some bad dialog—suspecting a woman might be abused, one character moans, “Why do I care?” and is told, “Because you’re a woman. We all care.” I’m leaving the world of Renaissance Faires (really, I’ve read some good books on that theme) for the blood-and-guts world of English horse racing in a Dick Francis I discovered I’ve not read.

And no, I will divulge neither the title nor author of the cozy, but I will say that out of 114 reviews on Amazon, 67% are favorable. Those cozy fans are a diehard bunch, and maybe that’s why I hesitate a bit before jumping into writing another. I’m still waiting for inspiration to strike me, and perhaps it soon will.

And speaking of reviews, Murder at the Bus Depot garnered a nice one on Amazon: "Murder at the Bus Depot" is another entertaining episode in Judy Alter's Blue Plate Cafe series, and a welcome addition to the family. Alter's characters are likable and believable, and the plot twists keep you guessing. It's amazing that so much drama can go on in such a small East Texas town.”

A magical storm

I suppose any rain in August in Texas has a magical quality to it, but today’s certainly did, at least for me. I woke in the night because I was cold and turned off the a/c. But I also woke because it was noisy outside—wind blowing, rain pouring onto my roof, maybe a dab of thunder or two. When I looked out the window, the heavens were really dumping water on us. Went back to bed and slept soundly, secure in my little cottage. This morning it was still raining but slowed to a drizzle, and Betty took me to the grocery.

I was safely home and stashing my groceries when the heavens opened up again, dumping great buckets of water on us. I simply sat and watched for a while—it was magical seeing things in the yard perk up. All that is except the grass which, for some reason, is beyond hope this summer and gets worse ever day. Several of us have theories on what’s wrong with the grass—no two theories alike. Mine is a fungus, though gardener/friend Greg says he doesn’t think so. I’m about to call in the storm troops.

But the rest of the garden loved the rain. Fittingly, I am reading a book about a magical garden in Scotland. Now, you must realize, much of my career has been spent studying the American West, and if you told me there was a magical garden in Texas, I’d scoff and dismiss you as a featherweight. But tell me it’s in Scotland, and I’m all ears. I believe in Scottish lore, in the wee people and the legends.

The book is Flowers and Foul Play, fittingly enough an entry in the Magical Garden Series by Amanda Flowers. In this, which may be the first, a Tennessee girl has come to see her inheritance—a small, almost-seaside property in Scotland left her by her godfather. The land includes a walled garden, built around a stone menhir said to stand for at least the last three centuries. The garden itself began to die the minute word came of its owner’s death in Afghanistan. When Fiona finds it, all is brown except one yellow rose that twists around the menhir and blooms brightly in defiance of the season and the locale. It bloomed, Hamish the caretaker tells her, when her plane landed on Scottish soil.

As Fiona walks along the wall of the garden, the brown ivy turns green as far as she walks. When she stops and turns, the greening stops. Wonderful, impossible phenomenon. Of course, there’s a body in the garden, and an attractive but too-brusque inspector, and you can see where all this is going. But I’m loving it.

And today there was such a parallel between my greening garden and the magical garden. Now if that magic would only reach my grass.

May your dreams be filled with greening gardens and magical wishes.

Waiting all summer for this day

August 15, 2017

Today is the day I’ve been waiting all summer for—cover reveal of my new novel, Pigface and the Perfect Dog (an Oak Grove Mystery). It’s my first full-length novel in over a year, and the first time I have revisited the college town of Oak Grove since The Perfect Coed was published three years ago.

Kudos to Sherry Wachter for the great cover, which I think matches the cover of The Perfect Coed in style and color. I’ve itched to share it with you for weeks, but when you sign up for a cover reveal, you’re pretty much bound to that date. So today’s reveal can be found at

http://readeropolis.blogspot.com/2017/08/coming-soon-pigface-and-perfect-dog-oak.html

English professor Susan Hogan and her partner, Jake Phillips, chief of campus security, return in this cozy mystery with an edge. Susan thinks she’s about to meet her maker when she confronts a rifle-carrying man, who looks like a pig, in a grocery store. Jake investigates the body of a young college student, shot in the back and found in an empty pasture. Aunt Jenny showers love on the new puppy a young man from the grocery gave her, but she feels she must get rid of that heavy collar.

 Trouble in Oak Grove begins with open-carry protestors in the grocery store and leads to a shooting, breaking and entering, threats, a chase, an attempted kidnapping, and a clandestine trip to the woods late at night. Will Susan Hogan land in trouble…or the hospital…again? Will Susan and Jake survive this as a couple? Susan is still prickly but she learns some lessons about life, love, and herself in this second Oak Grove Mystery.

Reader reaction to The Perfect Coed thrilled me.

Susan is a prickly character, and she doesn’t put up with any guff from her male colleagues, the cops, or even Jake. Aunt Jenny is funny and a great cook. I have a feeling all these characters will be returning for a sequel, so you’ll want to pick this one up now before you get behind. You won’t regret it.

—Bill Crider, mystery author

Few mysteries open with a single paragraph of eye-popping intrigue, but The Perfect Coed is full of such moments and its introduction is apt warning that readers will rapidly become involved in something far from mundane or predictable: “Susan Hogan drove around Oak Grove, Texas for two days before she realized there was a dead body in the trunk of her car. And it was another three days before she knew that someone was trying to kill her.”

—D. Donovan, Senior eBook Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

Pigface, as I affectionately call this new novel, is available for pre-order on Amazon, https://www.amazon.com/Pigface-Perfect-Dog-Mystery-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B073VSDKMH/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1502833947&sr=1-1&keywords=pigface+and+the+perfect+dog in both paperback and ebook form. It will be available September 7.

For those in the Fort Worth area, there’ll be a launch party September 21, 5:00 -7:00 p.m., at the Wine Haus, 1628 Park Place Avenue. Cash bar, snacks will be offered, and fun will definitely be had. Ya’ll come celebrate with me, please. Many of you will get an evite soon; if you don’t hear by September 11, please let me know. Questions, comments? Write me at j.alter@tcu.edu.

Who am I?

Excited tonight because Jamie and his wife enrolled me in 23and me, the DNA testing service, as a Mother’s Day gift. I’ve been struggling with registering tonight and stalling on the DNA sample. So anxious about doing it right. I’ve always thought I was half Scottish and half German, but who knows what I’ll find out? We always thought Jamie is half Greek, half Chinese—and his results came up pretty much that way except there was a bit of Native American in there. Puzzling, if you know the supposed story of his biological parents and how they met.

Today I sent my novella off to the formatter—doing that correctly is beyond me. I’ve made a mess of it before. But I also discovered the beginnings of a new Blue Plate Café Mystery that I thought I had abandoned and then the computer ate it. I abandoned it during the time I was feeling so rotten, with intense hip pain, and walked away from several projects. Now I’m picking up several of them, but I thought this one was lost. My memory is that I thought it wasn’t going anywhere. But today I thought the basic premise had real promise for a good mystery set in a small town. My list of books I want to write grows out of bounds.

We are suffering through the replacement of our gas meter. It has been back by my French doors for years (well before the French doors) and the meter reader has supposedly come into the yard to read it. I’ve almost never seen such a person, so I worry a bit about what they read. Now they’re switching to self-reading meters and putting them closer to the street, but still aesthetically placed. The crew has really been polite, helpful, and creative about placement. Today they were working, digging yet another huge hole in the front yard and a hole in the back for the new meter. I had to keep the dog in. And I didn’t get to go grocery shopping with Jordan because she couldn’t get her SUV into the driveway to pick me up. She got my groceries for me and even remembered the “Hello, Dolly” bar that I like for dessert.

I spent much of the day reading and finishing Carolyn Hart’s Walking on My Grave. Fun to once again be in Broward’s Rock and at the Death on Demand Bookstore with Annie, Max, and their friends. Tried to call up a new book I ordered and can’t find it on Kindle—a mystery to resolve. Next project is to proof my own short story collection.

Busy but happy days.

Parenting and the cozy mystery

Several reviewers have questioned my choice of a single mother of two as the heroine of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. Kelly, a realtor/renovator, has two daughters, ages four and six, in the first book of the series, Skeleton in a Dead Space. By book six, Desperate for Death, the girls are a teen and pre-teen. Traditionally heroines of cozies are single women, often involved in a romance which provides a subplot. And they don’t have children. Some reviewers who objected to this change in the status quo found themselves liking the books, for which I am grateful.

Putting those girls in the novels was not a conscious decision. It just seemed to come naturally, perhaps because I was the single parent of four—and now am, though they’re all in the forties. My oldest daughter explained the book to her mother-in-law ass ‘highly autobiographical.”

This morning I sort of figured out why—parenting is what I’ve been doing my whole life and still am. Nine-year-old Jacob wasn’t awake five minutes before he complained that his stomach really hurt. I told him to move around and eat a banana. He did, but called his mother and said he felt worse than the time he had to cancel being an acolyte at church. She told him to lie on the couch for a bit.

All this on a day when I had gotten up extraordinarily early to get both of us out the door at eight o’clock. I had visions of cancelling my PT appointment and lunch date—the first of which would have relieved me and the second disappointed me. After lying not on the couch but on the big chair in my room, he declared he didn’t feel any better.

Me: Jacob, if you can’t go to school, no TV or iPad.

Jacob: I’m grounded from the iPad anyway.

After a pause, he asked: What would I do?

Me: I guess lie on the couch, read a book, and sleep.

Jacob, after another pause: Juju, I am going to school. I just may be a little late.

Me: No, darling. I have to leave at eight for an appointment.

Jacob, startled: I guess I better go get dressed.

He was soon dressed and out the door, probably ten minutes earlier than he’s ever gotten to school before. And with a cheerful disposition.

Tonight he’s sure he fractured his wrist. I told him probably not and gave him an ice pack.

See? That’s why I include children. I know how to weave them into a story. I hope you like Maggie and Em of the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries. I think they’re pretty darn cute and fun for their ages.

Drum roll please for the cover of Murder at Peacock Mansion

 

Ta-da! Drum roll please! Here’s the cover of Murder at Peacock Mansion! Thanks to Kim Jacobs of Calliope Designs. Kim is the publisher of Turquoise Morning Press, which has up until now, been my publisher. The press is now focusing on romance—no more mysteries—so I will self-publish the new one (I already did that with The Perfect Coed with fair success, but I hope to get better at the self-publishing game with this new title). Kim did such wonderful covers for both the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries and the Blue Plate Mysteries that I asked if she’d continue to do my covers. By happy coincidence, she’s part of a design group. I love what she came up with on the first try and am delighted to reveal it.

I have spent the entire day, except for Wednesday night dinner with Betty, at my computer dealing with first edits on the Peacock manuscript. I sent the editor, the wonderful Lourdes Venard, what I thought was a clean manuscript. She proved to me again how important it is to have a professional editor. She caught everything from commas I should have put in and typos (how did bottom become bppyypm?) to major development flaws—the man lurking in the bushes who is never again mentioned, the strange fellow who gives Kate a ride and then disappears—is he related to the action? There were scenes where a character suddenly became a part of the action though he wasn’t originally there.

It’s been a long day, but I think the book will really be better for all the work both Lourdes and I have put into it. Sometimes I’m a slow learner with a tendency to think I can do all things myself…but I can’t. I know have valued help—a cover designer, an editor, a web maven. It takes a village to help me with a book.

I’m simultaneously taking an online course in self-publishing. Now the question is if I can post this book myself or need to pay someone to format it. Self-publishing may let you get all the profits, but it also costs money. I’m not enough of an accountant to figure out that balance sheet.

Anyway, long story short, how do you like the cover?

Measuring Life by Meals

No blog last night—first night I missed since my July 22 announcement that I was collecting a year of blogs—from birthday to birthday. Last night I just had too good a time, company stayed later than usual (though Jordan, bless her, cleaned the kitchen), and I probably had an extra glass of wine. We were sending Jacob off to camp, though he decamped from the adult company rather quickly. Jordan, our friend Chandry, Jay, and I had another salad supper—we’re really enjoying those.

Today, Jordan and Christian took Jacob to camp. She emailed to ask if I had her lemon oil (no), then it was her sunglasses (no, but I offered the Baylor water glass she’d left behind). Eventually she found what she was missing, and when I suggested she was a mess, she said of course she was: she was getting ready to drop her boy off for a week. I can just hear the talks he’s getting about being a good camper, etc.

I’m sad that summer is winding down—school starts two weeks from tomorrow, and no matter the temperature—it will be hot—that signals the end of summer to me, the end of lazy days and long naps, the start again of responsibility. Makes me feel like a kid. Besides, it was August before I really got into the hang of summer—watering plants every morning, closing shades against afternoon sun. Temperature here? 104.

Today is a long day at home, though not without work to do. Still I like to enliven my long days with varied menus. I plan what I’ll eat. So today I had leftover layered salad for lunch—love finding chunks of egg white in that dressing. Tonight I’ll pile crab salad on toast, cover with a bit of grated cheese, lay asparagus across it and top with thin sliced Monterrey Jack, and broil. Rich but good. To me, such planning ahead beats standing with the refrigerator door open, staring blankly at the contents, and wondering what to eat. I admit I anticipate meals, especially good ones.

Finished reading Leslie Budewitz’s Butter Off Dead and will write a review later. I liked the novel a lot and was particularly struck by how climate—i.e. hard Montana winters—controlled much of the action. Then first edits came back on “Murder at Peacock Mansion” so that will also be a today project. Lazy days aren’t always lazy.

Postscript: The laugh’s on me. I had balked at buying $8.50 canned crab at Central Market and was delighted to find Chicken of the Sea at Albertson’s for $3.49. Only tonight, luckily before I opened it, I discovered I bought canned tiny shrimp. Not what I wanted. In fact I’m allergic to shrimp. So there went the dinner I’d been anticipating all day. Cooked some of the asparagus—tiny, tender stalks that cook in three minutes—and defrosted a salmon pasty from the freezer (homemade). Delicious dinner—just not what my anticipation dial had been set at.

Solving the Mystery of Cat Training – Agility and More!

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, Sheila Webster Boneham, author of the Animals in Focus mystery series. Drop Dead on Recall, the first book in the series, won the 2013 Maxwell Award for Fiction from the Dog Writers Association of America and was an NBC Petside Best Ten Dog Book of 2012. Sheila is also the author of 17 nonfiction books, six of which have won major awards from the Dog Writers Association of America and the Cat Writers Association. For the past two decades Boneham has been showing her Australian Shepherds and Labrador Retrievers in various canine sports. She has bred top-winning Aussies and founded rescue groups for Aussies and Labs. Boneham holds a doctorate in folklore from Indiana University, an MFA Stonecoast/University of Southern Maine, and resides in Wilmington, N.C. Sheila writes literary nonfiction and poetry as well, and teaches writing. You can keep up with Sheila’s latest news at  www.sheilaboneham.com and www.facebook.com/sheilawrites, learn more about animal-oriented writing—with some of your favorite authors!—at her Writers & Other Animals blog at www.writersandotheranimals.blogspot.com .

****

When I mention that Leo, the lead cat in my Animals in Focus mystery series, competes in feline agility in my new book, Catwalk, people respond in any of several predictable ways. Disbelief or astonishment are common. Laughter is not unheard of. A handful show some interest in learning more. And the vast majority respond with some variant of “My cat wouldn’t do that. S/he’s too independent/indifferent/self-serving.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about that last response and I have a theory. I think that many people prefer to think of cats as lovely companions who really care only about themselves. In a society in which many people are distanced from nature except through media and pets, the idea of living with a minimally civilized animal holds some appeal as a final link to wilder nature.

That’s lovely, but in my experience, well-socialized, healthy cats do enjoy learning new things and interacting with people and other animals. I’ve had lots of cats, and every one of them cared about the people and other animals in their family. Our Kitty (seriously, I didn’t name her!) used to lie on my chest and gently pat my cheeks whenever I had a migraine, and Leo loved to cuddle and play with tiny baby puppies when we were breeding Australian Shepherds. And so it goes.

Leo, the protagcat in my Animals in Focus Mystery Series from Midnight Ink, is one of those well-socialized catboys, and he loves Janet MacPhail and her Aussie, Jay, among others. He showed his devotion with a heroic act in Drop Dead on Recall (2012), and he remained an essential character in The Money Bird (2013). In Catwalk—just out—he and his ilk are in the spotlight at cat shows and in the world of feral cats.

Most people know about canine agility by now, since it’s become popular enough over the past twenty years to be televised regularly. Dogs of all sizes, breeds, and mixtures compete successfully. Check out these videos:

·         Yes, that’s a Chihuahua! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9WJxCD5KcFo

·         All kinds of dogs, and people, too! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggsIU8rXubk

Well, cats also compete in agility! In the feline version, the handler directs or—more often--lures the cat through tunnels, up and down ramps, over jumps, and through weave poles and other obstacles. Although it's a fairly new sport, it's growing in popularity in the U.S. and Europe. Here’s a dose of cuteness—a kitten beginning to learn about agility on a kitten-sized course--https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nka1BTUikcw .

Obviously, cats can be trained. They’re smart, athletic, and fun-loving animals, so the trick is to figure out what motivates the individual cat. Clicker training (operant conditioning) is a very effective way to teach new behaviors in a positive, reward-based way. Here are some more happily trained cats:

·         Spectacular clicker-trained agility cats - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3dXT301i8k

Like all good training, feline agility provides a wonderful way to strengthen the bond between cats and their owners. It also gives participating cats a fun way to keep their bodies and minds in shape.

To be successful in agility, your cat must

·         have an outgoing, confident personality;

·         be in excellent health and physical condition;

·         love to play.

The sport is open to all kinds of cats, so it might be just the thing for you and your feline athlete. Even if you aren't ready to participate, why not visit a trial when the leaping, tunneling cats come to town and see what it’s all about. You can learn more at http://agility.cfa.org/index.shtml

Want to give it a try? Check out this video on getting started - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rhichQHqYZM

In the meantime, why not join Janet and Leo at their first trial? And while you’re in town, come see Jay and the other dogs compete as well—it’s likely to be murder for someone. Catwalk is available wherever books are sold, and autographed copies of all my books can be purchased using this form à http://www.sheilaboneham.blogspot.com/p/autographed-books.html

BLURB:

Catwalk

Animals in Focus Mystery #3

Midnight Ink, 2014

Animal photographer Janet MacPhail is training for her cat Leo’s first feline agility trial when she gets a frantic call about a “cat-napping.” When Janet and her Australian Shepherd Jay set out to track down the missing kitty, they quickly find themselves drawn into the volatile politics of feral cat colonies, endangered wetlands, and a belligerent big-shot land developer. Janet is crazy busy trying to keep up with her mom’s nursing-home romance, her own relationship with Tom and his Labrador Retriever Drake, and upcoming agility trials with Jay and Leo. But when a body is discovered on the canine competition course, it stops the participants dead in their tracks—and sets Janet on the trail of a killer.

"Animal photographer Janet MacPhail's latest adventure will delight dog lovers, cat lovers, and mystery lovers. Janet is excellent company, and although Leo the cat plays a starring role, I'm happy to report that Leo does not eclipse Jay the Aussie, who has become one of my favorite fictional dogs. Indeed, if Jay ever needs to move out of the pages of Sheila Boneham's mysteries and into a nonfiction house, he'll be more than welcome in mine. Five stars for CATWALK!" ~ Susan Conant, author of Brute Strength and other novels in the Holly Winter series of Dog Lover's Mysteries