The Lipstick Chronicles

Me -- a left-wing nutcase?

LC loves Lorna Barrett and her New York Times Bestselling Booktown Mystery Series. We like her as L. L. Bartlett, too, when she writes the Jeff Resnick Mystery series. But at least one reader doesn’t like her at all.

By Lorna Barrett

Last week I got a rather spiteful review on Amazon for my latest book. Okay, those of us in print should be used to lousy reviews--especially on Amazon.  

What is it about that particular online retailer that brings out the nastiness in readers? I suspect a good number of those venom-filled reviewers are frustrated writers who’ve been unable to see their work in print from a traditional publisher and want to take us down a peg. Although, to quote Dennis Miller, "That’s just my opinion, I could be wrong."

Still, what was wrong with my book that inspired this woman to leave a one-star review, commenting that my book has an incredibly weak plot full of talking points from liberal causes?

If she thinks my plot stinks – I can accept that. Goodness knows, I don’t have a PhD in plotting. But just what are these liberal causes of mine?

First off, food pantries. Heavens, what a radical concept! God forbid anyone should want to feed hungry children, the unemployed, the elderly, and the homeless. (And if you don’t believe the need exists, perhaps this recent report from The Washington Post will change your mind.) http://tinyurl.com/yahsvwl

And how about going green? Another extremist concept. Apparently, only liberal do-gooders see the point in refraining from polluting our planet, or to stop edible food (and its recyclable packaging) from ending up in the waste stream. Banishing plastic grocery bags for the reusable kind? Sheer heresy!

Gosh, ya think the FBI has a file on me? Gulp!

But let’s get back to that one star review. It’s apparently the only review she’s ever published on Amazon. (At least under that name.) If nothing else, my book brought out the passion in her. Sadly, that passion appears to be hatred, but if nothing else, I INSPIRED HER! After all, has she logged on to sing the praises of Sarah Palin’s Going Rogue? (Not as of today, at least.)

Okay: I write cozy mysteries. I also write psychological suspense under a different name, but that’s for another post. Apparently some readers (this woman among them?) think that "cozy" equals "full of fluff." And why is "murder" a perfectly acceptable subject, but helping hungry people and recycling are not? Perhaps some cozies are "light"--but they don’t have to be. And the better ones are like all good books: they make you think. Although sometimes I believe engaging brain and actually thinking is a lost art for some of our citizens, but that’s another rant.

So, what’s the name of this book of mine full of liberal thinking?

"Bookplate Special."

And by the way, it’ll debut today at #20 on the New York Times Bestsellers mass market paperback list. That pleases me, for if a lot of people read it, they might be inspired to recycle and/or donate to food pantries (they can really use it, especially at this time of year). Imagine the havoc that would cause!

I couldn’t be happier.

1-800-Evelyn David

Rhonda Dossett calls herself the "Southern half of Evelyn David." Rhonda lives in Oklahoma. Her writing partner, Marian Edelman Borden, lives in New York. Together, they’ve written two hilarious mystery novels – and never met. Today, they give TLC advice on the dog-eat-dog world of publishing.

By Rhonda Dossett   

We’re preaching to the choir when we observe that these are hard times in the publishing world. Mystery authors aren’t exempt from the "low-advance, cut the mid-list, it’s not quirky enough" syndrome that has embroiled the publishing world.

So what’s a self-respecting mystery duo to do? Look for a back-up day job.

And we’ve figured out our calling. We’re going to start a "Dear Evelyn," advice to the lovelorn column, because one thing that collaboration has taught us is the basics of a good relationship – be it marriage or partnership in murder and mayhem.

Science fiction writer Keith Laumer once wrote: "If you possibly can, write it yourself. Collaborations, like marriages, should only be undertaken if any alternative is unthinkable."

Evelyn David is the pen name of Marian Edelman Borden and Rhonda Dossett. We believe that collaborating is the only way that either of us wants to write mysteries. But we point out that we could offer a broader perspective for the lovelorn. To quickly bring you up to speed, Marian, a nonfiction writer with ten books to her credit, lives in New York.

Rhonda, the coal program director for the state of Oklahoma, lives in Muskogee. The standing joke is Marian wouldn’t know a coal mine if she fell down a shaft.

Now since only one of us (the Northern half) is married, that might suggest we shouldn’t take on the role of counselors of wedded bliss. The truth is that many of the reasons why our collaboration works are fundamentally the basics of a good marriage. There’s someone to share the joys, for sure, but as we all know, writing, like marriage, can be tough on the ego. Rejection is the norm, and collaboration means there is always someone to listen to the hyperbolic rants about the unfairness of who gets published and who doesn’t, as well as the heartfelt whispers when one of you has hit a brick wall and couldn’t compose a shopping list, let alone create a scene with dialogue.

Here’s what else we’ve learned about successful relationships.

Check the ego at the door

.

There are no diva moments in the Evelyn David world. Both of us write all characters, including the dog. That’s not to say that we don’t have our personal favorites of the core group that have appeared in both books. But we discuss each scene, then one of us says "I’ll start," and we’re off. The scene goes back and forth so many times that by the end of the book, we can’t tell who wrote what. And that’s the way it should be: it’s the voice of Evelyn David we want you to hear – not Marian and Rhonda. Can we agree that a marriage of two divas, or even one diva and one doormat, is a recipe for disaster?

Second, and maybe it should be first, we both have a similar, wicked, at times downright crazy, sense of humor.

In the writing business, even if you’re penning War and Peace, instead of cozy mysteries, you’ve got to be able to laugh at yourself, as well as at the vagaries of publishing. I think we all agree that humor is a major key to a successful marriage, or for that matter, surviving and thriving in life.

Finally, we have similar work ethics. Just do what needs to be done – and don’t worry about the credit or even if the work load, for that moment, is 50-50.

You’ve got to take the long view, that it all evens out in the end. We think it's fair to say that premise works in a good marriage too.

In this "dog eat dog" publishing world (and yes, there’s an adorable dog in our books), you’ve got to think outside the box and be ready with an alternative plan should the publishing world go south. So here we go! Today, here at Lipstick Chronicles, we're debuting our new sideline.

Got a relationship question? Need some advice on your love life? We'll provide the answers along with a mystery to read while you work it out. Call 1-800-Evelyn David. All major credit cards accepted.

　

Tell Me How It Ends!

Tell Me How it Ends!

By Kathy Sweeney, who can't stand suspense

Truth time.  How many of you have sneaked a peek at the ending of a book before you actually finished reading it?  I'm coming clean.  I don't do it all the time, but, for example, about two and a half hours into the last Harry Potter book, I couldn't stand it any more.  I had to find out if Harry lived.  So I looked.  Then I enjoyed the rest of the book.

Can't handle suspenseful movies either - I have to wait until someone else has seen it, then bully them into telling me the ending.  Otherwise, I'm way too tense to consider the movie entertainment.  My son and I almost came to blows over "Fight Club" - the little shite wouldn't tell me the ending.  So I endured, and I STILL don't get it.  I hate that.  Did the personalities integrate?  Is a real person dead?  I know some people just love that kind of thing.  It gives me a rash.

I know I'm missing out - there are tons of people who just love a good, thrilling plot.  But I'm one of the ones who goes to the fortune teller at the Renaissance Faire, even though I know it's like having coffee with The Mentalist.

Perhaps that's why I was so furious to hear about the "Expert" recommendation this week that women postpone regular Mammograms from age 40 to age 50.  Are you kidding me with this?  Early detection saves lives.  Plain and simple fact.  No mammogram - no early detection - and get this - they are also saying self-exams aren't really worth it either.  What? WHAT?  Let's break this down.  This is about money.  They aren't saying mammograms for younger women are a waste of time - they are saying there are better ways to spend the money, because risk increases with age.  Here's a tip - how 'bout if you let me decide how to spend my own money?  That's the bottom line here - this is a way for insurance companies to avoid paying for the tests.  

Here's another tip - no one gets a Mammogram for kicks.  You never see someone win Wimbledon or an Olympic gold medal and say: "Screw Disney - I'm getting a mammogram!" 

Wonder why?  Maybe because they hurt like hell, especially if one's lunar cycle is unpredictable and the two happen to coincide.  Maybe because the suspense is not the fun kind.  It's more like the "Will I vomit now or later?" kind.  You sit in a room with a goofy open gown and look at the other women.  Then you all think the same thing: which one of us will become a warrior today?  That's how prevalent this disease is.  For a statistically significant number of my sisters, mothers, daughter, and friends, the fight is a certainty.  We can't control it. One of the few things we can control is that coveted early diagnosis. We may not know the ending, but we know we've got a dramatically better shot at a good one the earlier we catch the bastards.

I could make a joke about prescribing Viagra only for men with prostate issues, on certain meds, and who can answer the following question in the negative: "Does all that booze/weed in your system have anything to do with the fact that your Johnson doesn't behave like it's 17 any more? " Oops.

Our friend Susan (Rachel's Mom - one of our backbloggers) has a comforting take on this need to know the ending stuff.  She just passed her ordination exam - Mazeltov!  She reminds me all the time that, at least from a theological standpoint, we know the ending.  We know that even if our life story is a roller coaster, we have a happy ending.  That's what keeps many of us sane.

In the interim, though - I want answers.  I want to know what happens next.  To the limited extent I can, I want to facilitate the good stuff.  So if I ask you to tell me how a movie or a book ends - just tell me.  And if you try to stand in the way when I'm trying to get answers for myself - or my kids or my friends - you best bring back up.

How about you?  Feel free to skip the mammogram discussion - but I had to put it out there.  Have you ever read the end of a book before you were finished?  Hate finales with a twist (Bobby in the shower, anyone?  Dead people?) or endings with no endings? (You know that Rhett came back to Scarlett, right?  And not because of that travesty of a follow up book.  Just because I know.)

One more thing - funding Mammograms is more important now than ever.  You don't need to discuss it with me, but please don't forget to click on the Breast Cancer link up there on the left.

Out To Lunch

Out To Lunch

by Nancy     

While recovering from back surgery, my husband was wonderfully helpful taking care of me, but . . .  this week I was suddenly hungry for some Girl Time. So, with the doc's permission, I rushed out to lunch with girl friends three times since Sunday!  Oh, joy!

There's a long tradition of ladies who lunch, of course. In the past, "lunching" was for housewives who had help in the house--women who didn't hold jobs, enjoyed a cocktail a noontime, who didn't have to be anywhere in particular in the afternoon.  In my case, it's often lunch with other writers, though. We're among the last women free to get out for a long lunch now and then.

Truman Capote famously lunched with gossipy Park Avenue society ladies who were furious when he revealed all their dirty secrets in a blisteringly good story. "What did they expect?" he reportedly said after he was blackballed by his former lunchmates. "I'm a writer, and I use everything. Did those people think I was there just to entertain them?"

 

Fortunately, most of the writers I lunch with understand that all conversational topics are up for grabs.

Here's Carol Burnett performing the Sondheim song (with apologies to Elaine Stritch, because I just like Carol better.  So sue me.)

Nowadays, if you see a bunch of women out to lunch on a weekday, chances are they're all in business suits, networking like mad. Or maybe (like my daughter's newfound circle of pals) they're new moms out together with their toddlers. Or they're like my mother and her retired friends--enjoying their book club or card club luncheon and laughing up a storm.

When was the last time you went out to lunch with a pal? With no particular agenda but friendship? If you're like me, your closest buds are online now, and getting together with them to break bread--or maybe a veggie wrap--doesn't happen very often.

My primary criteria for a good lunch spot is one that doesn't mind if we linger at the table. I like a little ambiance, too.--A nice view or a quiet corner where no truant teenagers are bumping past the table and cussing like they're auditioning for a comedy club gig. I don't like the manager coming around, either, interrupting our conversation to ask if "everything's okay." (Do we look like women who wouldn't speak up if we were dissatisfied?) Also, I'm willing to pay a reasonable amount for food more upscale than my usual turkey sandwich on the George Foreman grill. Since two of my regular lunch companions are vegetarians, Burger King is out.  (Frankly, I will veto all fast food nowadays, including the infamous Food Court. The thought of all those germs on the tables that aren't wiped with anything more than a blackened rag once a day does more to kill my appetite than a frozen patty of mystery meat slapped on a grill and squished with a spatula until it's dry as a sliver of hoof shaving.) I want a nice meal. I like a cushy booth better than a table with chairs, too. Most of all, I want stimulating conversation.

The lunch talk this week was:

A lot about--you guessed it---Sarah Palin.  Actually, I wish I had Palin's ego. She clearly believes that she's absolutely correct about everything, which is sorta admirable. (I'm a writer, which automatically means I doubt everything about myself. Author Paranoia makes you a better writer, but self confidence is not our strongest quality.) Today we could bitch about Palin here--yes, I know we could do that easily--but perhaps the challenge is finding something she's doing right. You must admit, she has a (mostly) clear message some people want to hear. She may be stupendously unqualified and remarkably tawdry (engaging a teenaged boy in a media shouting match) but she knows how to turn a buzz phrase, doesn't she? And somebody's putting together a very smart book tour.

 

Now, excuse me while I go take something to settle my stomach.

With other pals, we talked about where to get a pair of shoes that fit our feet, don't cripple us or look like we want to join a rugby team, but also don't look like a product endorsed by AARP. Honestly, decent shoes for women are impossible these days.

Inevitably when you get more than two middle-aged women together, the talk turns to cosmetic surgery.  Most of my friends are appalled, but we all know somebody who'd like a boob job or tummy tuck. Or one of those quick lifts.  Not any of us, though.  At least, we're not admitting to it. That tummy tuck is tempting, though . . . .

What we try not to talk about--at my age--is our health. Because we're all developing issues now--mostly minor, yet exasperating--and we'd like to talk about them, but dammit, health issues are BORING. And friends don't let friends bore each other.

Have you been out to lunch with a friend lately? Because I hate to think this is a dying tradition. There's no substitute for a long, relaxed lunch with people who know you best, who still love you despite your occasional failings, who enjoy your triumph, buck you up when you need it, who listen and share, too.

I think this should be Ask a Friend to Lunch Week. If you can't do that, grab a turkey sandwich and sit down here at TLC to dish today.

My question is, what would Truman Capote have to say about Sarah Palin?  Or--if you don't want to talk about her, and health issues are--ahem--off the table, here's an article about but how to look younger without plastic surgery:  http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/homestyle/11/16/is.10.ways.look.younger/index.html 

Clawing My Way to the Top

By Elaine Viets

There are police dogs, drug-sniffing dogs, and service dogs.

But the words "cat" and "service" are rarely linked. Bookstore cats are the only felines I know with jobs. On tour, I almost always sign at an independent bookshop that has a cat.

Some bookstore cats ignore me. Others spread a pound of hair on my clothes. I try to appear grateful for this home-grown gift.

One bookstore cat sank her claws into my black pants. I pasted on a smile and pretended that I loved having my favorite pants snagged. No author wants to tick off the bookstore owner’s best friend. At that signing early in my career, I sold five paperbacks, including a pity sale from the store owner.

The royalties didn’t even cover the cost of the catnip mouse I bought the bribe the beast.

On a recent signing trip for "The Fashion Hound Murders," I met yet another bookstore cat. Index, known as Dexxie, works at Piece of Mind Books in Edwardsville, Illinois. Piece of Mind is owned by Andi Allen.

I didn’t know if Index would slight me, shred me or shed on me.

Dexxie has thick brown-and-black fur. She’s a sort of tweed cat. At age four, Dexxie is generously proportioned. If she were a novel, Dexxie would be a hearty Harry Potter mystery rather than a slender M.C. Beaton book.

When I arrived at the bookstore, Andi was waiting in the parking lot. We ran downstairs to the store auditorium.

No cat. Good. My new black pants were safe. I wouldn’t get a free coat of cat hair at this signing. Dexxie was ignoring me.

Piece of Mind was as packed as Dexxie after dinner, a gratifying sight for an author who’d traveled nearly a thousand miles.

Andi had set out a table, a stack of books, and a cup of water for me.

I started talking at seven o’clock. Still no Dexxie. I figured she didn’t work nights.

Five minutes into my speech, the cat strolled over to the table and sat under it. The audience perked up. "Look at the cat," they said.

I mentioned the poor abused dogs rescued by the Humane Society of Missouri. Dexxie howled sadly.

The audience said, "Aw."

Dexxie hopped up on the table and flopped over on her back, paws in the air. 

The audience said, "Oooh."

Dexxie tried to drink my glass of water. Andi said, "No!" The cat ignored her. Andi took away the water.

Doggedly determined to finish, I kept talking. Dexxie hoisted her back leg over her head, and cleaned a body part usually seen in public only on Tijuana stages.

The audience laughed.

Index finished her bath and jumped off the table.

"She’s so cute," the audience said. They were talking about the cat, not me.

I’d been upstaged by a feline ham. Actors know not to work with pets or children, but I found out this truth the hard way.

Dexxie has been perfecting her act for two years now at Piece of Mind. She applied for the job. "Initially, I looked at the cage of kittens at the shelter, but was not impressed with any of them," Andi said. "About that time I felt a tapping on my shin bone. It was Index, then called Catty, in the bottom cage. She was telling me I needed to look down. That she was the ideal bookstore cat. She told me to ignore the brats, I needed a mature cat."

Index the scene-stealing cat sold some 90 books for me. When she posed for this picture, she sold still more books, bringing the total to 102 this month.

Andi, could I rent your cat for my May tour? Together, Dexxie and I could claw our way to the top.

*****

THE WINNERS in the Elaine Viets Facebook "Where’s My Book" Contest.

(1) Favorite photo of children:

Alan Portman and Queen Molly photographed the princesses, Merav and Yael, with all my mysteries and a non-fiction book. Yael uses her "Killer Cuts" book mark. Alan and Molly were not worried about exposing their daughters to my murderous influence. I’ve met the princesses in person and they behave like angels.

(2) Favorite animal photo:

Karen Grace of St. Louis, Missouri, won with pictures of her cats Biff and Cookie.

What? Animals can too read.

(3) Favorite cutting edge photo:

Storyteller Mary Garrett gets her hair cut while reading "Killer Cuts." A hair-raising ending.

Check out their pictures on the Elaine Viets Facebook page at http://tinyurl.com/yehxre3

Our winners will receive a free copy of "The Fashion Hound Murders."

NOTE: The photo of Dexxie and me was taken by Carol Filipow Pigg.

Quivering at Quiverfull

By Sarah

Every once in a while humanity rides off the rails. The so-called Quiverfull movement is one of those moments.

To be honest, I never knew having a bunch of kids (think the Duggars, 20, whatever and counting) was a political movement. Sure, I'd grown up with large Catholic families, some with 13 kids like my neighbor Chris McVeigh. They looked like fun and, according to Chris, it was fun growing up with a bunch of brothers and sisters, though maybe not so much for his mom. 

But the Quiverfull movement is something else entirely and it would scare the hell out of me if it didn't fire my jets. 

The invented word, Quiverfull, comes from Psalm 127: 3, 4, 5 - a few paragraphs likening a family of many children (sons, especially) to a quiver full of arrows which, last I checked, are pretty damned painful. In fact, Quiverfull adores military metaphors. Bearing an "army," as in "army of God," is the foundation of this belief that children are a blessing (no dispute there) and that humans should never attempt to control how many God gives them (big dispute there.) 

Not only is birth control banned, but so are the quaint Catholic-approved rhythm method and artificial insemination. Can't have a baby? Too bad. God's will. Wanna stop. Ditto. In a display of mind-boggling ignorance, the Quiverfull types claim God "opens and closes" a woman's womb depending on how many children He wishes her to have. Nope. Not even close. Go back to class. 

The problem with society, according to these people, is that sex has been separated from procreation. And while that might seem old fashioned, it's the conservative fundamentalist youth - not their great grandparents - who are leading the charge, right down to forbidding a kiss on the lips before marriage. 

In the Quiverfull movement, fathers loom larger than ever. One Newsweek article quoted a follower noting that his twelve year old daughter "will stay under my covering until I turn her over in marriage to a God-honoring young man."

Thanks, dad.

Perhaps it goes without saying that Quiverfull women are expected to be subservient to their fathers and husbands in all matters. And now we're getting to the rub. See, this goes beyond having lots of kids. This is about recreating a patriarchal society - and future patriarchal voters to select patriarchal politicians. This is about forming the American Taliban.

Why is it that so many cultures  - like the Taliban - get off on oppressing women? Whether men insist we  walk five paces behind, forbid us from exposing our upper arms or pursuing advanced degrees or even enjoying sex, it seems the highest priorities among backward people is to insure the servitude of humans with double X chromosomes.

And this movement is backward. It is one hundred percent anti-women and it is geared toward swaying the political landscape. In fact, it started in response not to feminism, but to the growing acceptance of feminist principles - women in the workplace, equal pay, safe and effective birth control, legal abortion and quality childcare...Reason. Sorry, nothing about forming small armies, just women fighting for control over their destinies and the lives of their children.

The Quiverfull leaders also like to quote statistics about declining population rates in Western Europe and the rising population in so-called developing countries as justification for their pro-life advocacy. Tell me how this is not racist.

I don't know what you do about people like this. Accept them, I guess. Deal. Until they run for office - as they will - then it'll be a problem.

It would be fine if their decisions wouldn't have lasting impact, but they will. If the 20 Duggar children have 20 kids each, that's 422 for Thanksgiving (counting spouses and the original Duggar parents) in one generation. When Jim Bob and Michelle are great-grandparents, if their grandchildren continue to procreate at the same rate they will give birth to 8,000 offspring. Eight thousand. The population of my town, Montpelier, Vermont.

The world's population is at 6.7 billion right now. Imagine if half of us each had 20 kids. Imagine that those children grew up and banned birth control, prohibited advanced education for women and amassed armies aimed at destroying all who disagreed.

Quivering yet?

Sarah

NaNoNoNoNoNoMo

NaNoNoNoNoNoMo

By Harley

This month William—yes, our William, or that William, or that *!@# William, as I now think of him—talked me into NaNoWriMo.  It sounds like a new flavor of Haagen-Dasz, doesn’t it? Or an active volcano?

Don’t I wish.

NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. Where participants—and any idiot can join, William, it’s not like we’re special—vow to write 50,000 words by November 30. Which is about 170 manuscript pages.

“Make no mistake,” the NaNoWriMo website says. “You will be writing a lot of crap.”

I’ve got that part down.

After taking the plunge (why? why?) I was a day late, because William didn’t begin haranguing me until he’d gotten a head start, and also, it took me a day just to read the NaNoWriMo website. My strategy then became to not think FIFTY THOUSAND WORDS. Because I’m no Nora Roberts. Or James Patterson. (Not that James Patterson is James Patterson.) I kept that “You will be writing a lot of crap” motto close to my heart and eked out 800 words by November 3. 800 different words, I might add, as you’re not supposed to write one word over and over fifty thousand times. But there’s no rule (aside from the rule of good writing) that prevents me from saying something is “very, very” and “really really” whatever it is. I do that very, very often.

Another rule: you must write a novel from scratch. No recycled prose. Some authors cheat, but I was raised by nuns, so I closed the file on my real novel-in-progress, started a new document, named it The Khan Man and just continued with where I’d left off. Chapter One begins mid-sentence and doesn’t even pretend to be a first chapter. William was all excited about me writing a Star Trek novel, but it’s not a Trekkie kind of Khan Man, it’s a Genghis kind of Khan Man, and that’s all I’m saying about that, because I know there are people out there trolling Dumpsters and blogs and even paper shredders for ideas to steal. And if, 18 months hence, the publishing world is overrun with novels featuring 11^th century Mongols, I’ll know who to blame, William.

Another NaNoWriMo motto I mutter feverishly is “Fix it in December.” Nancie-the-Gun-Tart has money on me being unable to resist futzing. Sure, I’ve futzed, but my rule of revision is I can’t make it shorter. Still, rewriting is not time-efficient. The Word Count gods demand fresh paragraphs. So I’ve stopped reading what I’ve written. That’s right. I’ve no idea what’s in those 56 pages. And so if I die this month, and someone (William) tries to read my novel, I’ll just . . . die. Thus, I forbid it. If I go, all three computers, plus flash drive, are to be thrown onto the funeral pyre.

So here goes. Current word count:12,203. But it’s not my fault! I’ve been preparing to teach a seminar this weekend in Nebraska, and now my kids only have school half days this week and then NO SCHOOL next week, and Thanksgiving’s at my house and my sister’s wedding’s in Wisconsin, and what demented mind picked November for this?

The only way to pull it off is to throw grocery lists into my novel, along with my Thanksgiving Squash Soufflé Recipe, William’s home phone number, notes to my kids’ teachers, and drafts of the text for my Christmas cards, which need to get to the printer.

Why, just by cutting and pasting this blog into The Khan Man and calling it Chapter Twelve, I’ve bumped my word count up to 12,838.

Next week: I bump off William and steal his novel.

Happy Monday!

Harley

Rachel is our Jeopardy Teen Tournament Champion!

RACHEL IS OUR JEOPARDY TEEN TOURNAMENT CHAMPION!

By Kathy Sweeney, who can finally tell the tale!

Well, the fat lady (that's me) can finally sing!

Our very own Rachel Rothenberg is your 2009 Jeopardy Teen Tournament Champion!  Can you believe the total fabulosity of this achievement?   Over ten THOUSAND teens took the online test.  About a thousand were invited to audition in regional qualifiers all over the country.  And fifteen made the cut.  Fifteen teenagers - smart as hell - gathered at the Sony Studios on a sunny week in August and spent two days filming two week's worth of games.

The kids were amazing - most of them were very nice.  Parents too.  A coupla grandparents?  Not so much.  In fact, one advised me that, given Rachel's performance in the first round, my Terrible Towel would come in handy as a 'crying towel' in the semi-finals against their grandchild.  Oh yes.  As my son said: apparently they didn't see what happened to the Tennessee Titans.  Did we, Pittsburghers and proud of it, respond in kind?  No we did not.  This is only because Rachel's mother, Susan, had me on a very short leash with the threat that we'd get Rachel disqualified.  

We think her early loss helped.  Tom tagged her the "Cinderella Story" after the first round, and there she was at the end, a former greenskeeper about to become...the Masters Champion.

If you watched the whole tournament, you know that the boys dominated the first two rounds.  Rachel was the only girl in the finals.  Both Will Dantzler and Aiden Mehigan were smart, great kids - gentlemen both.  But - and forgive me for saying it out loud - when you combined Rachel's brainpower with our new strategy of "Buzz First, think later" - a method previously dominated by the boys - she was unstoppable.  We've known Rachel since she was about 4 years old, and even all of us at the watch parties were stunned as she pulled one answer after another out of her, uh, cerebral cortex.

Here is a photo from the first viewing party of Rachel, Kate and their friends - most from Pittsburgh's public school for the Creative and Performing Arts (CAPA) - which has also been named a blue ribbon school. Another example of how something - in this case public education - can work if you get the right people in the same place.  I have to share one inside scoop though - it wasn't her love of reading or great education that won that final Jeopardy question - Rachel said she could hear the voice giving that speech and knew it was FDR.  How?  Walt Disney World, people.  It's either Hall of Presidents or American Adventure.  Either way, I believe this should qualify all trips to WDW as valid school absence excuses.  Just saying.

Unless you live in Pittsburgh, you may not have heard a wonderful part of this story.  Rachel is donating 20% of her winnings to charity - our local community food bank, and her church, 6th Presbyterian Church in Squirrel Hill. We've been collecting donations for the Pittsburgh Community Food Bank  at all the watch parties too.  When people would ask 'what can we bring to the party?' the answer was a donation, rather than the usual Pittsburgh response, which would be beer or chips and dip.

We designed cups and T-shirts - all made here in Pittsburgh - the shirts came from Commonwealth Press.  We yelled and whistled and cheered and sang.  City of Champions, baby.

The feeling of blessings and good will from the pride and generosity bathed the last two weeks in a kind of glow.  I wish I could describe it - but it was about more than just watching her, against the odds, winning the WHOLE FREAKING THING.  As we gathered each night, radiating love and excitement and friendship, we were part of something bigger than answers and questions, or a few minutes on TV.  I got so many great messages from many of my TLC friends, and all of the book tarts- we were all part of something that celebrated something good. No war talk.  No politics.  No humans killing other humans.  Just joy.

If the clue were: "A once in a lifetime experience" the question would be: "What is Team Rachel?"

Everybody's Doing It

Everybody’s Doing It

By Guest Blogger Ramona DeFelice Long

I wish this post could reveal some dirty little secret about the publishing industry that would send everybody off tittering and twittering, but sorry. My topic isn’t very dirty (sorry, Margie), and it really isn’t all that much of a secret. But, if you are an author--aspiring, established or accomplished—and you want to increase your odds of success in a field that’s as competitive as it is creative, read on.

What’s the big non-dirty, non-secret secret? Hiring an independent editor.

Lots of writers get other people to read their works in progress—spouses, friends, relatives, fellow writers, critique groups.  This feedback may stroke your ego or destroy it (depending on your mother), and it may help you produce work on time and sharpen your writing skills. 

This is all good.  Authors need love, too, and I’m an advocate for engaging yourself in the writing community. I personally belong to a very tough critique group. (We have printed standards. There’s a three-month trial period. New members are voted in, unanimously. We fire anyone who blows off critiquing responsibility.) 

So, with all of these available resources, why hire a professional?

That question just answered itself. Your friends, relatives and even your fellow writers are not professional editors. And, face it, they are not always unbiased. And, while it’s a no-no to write in a query “My grandma/BFF/writer’s group thinks my book is fabulous!” it’s a plus if you can say, “I worked with an independent editor on this story.” That tells an agent or publisher that you are committed to the craft, and that, in a competitive business, you want to give yourself an edge.

From a business POV, it’s a savvy career move. From an artist’s POV, it’s working to make your story the best that it can be. That’s what I do. As an independent editor, I work with authors to make stories the best that they can be.

This makes sense, I hope, but what about that little voice in your head saying, “But shouldn’t I be able to edit myself?” and “Isn’t it expensive?” and “How do I choose the right editor?”

Let’s talk to those little voices one by one.

1.    “If I’m a good writer, shouldn’t I be able to edit myself?”

Yes. And no.  Some lucky writers naturally sail on, recognizing highlights and flaws. But most writers struggle at various points. That’s why writer’s conferences are filled with How-To sessions. But even if you know what to or what not to do, you may not be sure you’ve effectively done it.  Is your beginning enough of a hook? Have you delayed too long in dropping the body? Is your subtle, mysterious voice really suffering from talking head syndrome? 

What about when you’ve worked and re-worked and re-re-worked, and you just can’t see the work anymore? That’s when you need a pair of fresh, professional eyes to read your story, and tell you what is and is not working. 

2.     “Doesn’t getting a book privately edited cost a lot of money?” 

Not necessarily. And think about this: This is an investment in your writing, just like attending a conference, where you may be one of hundreds of writers in workshops or panel discussions. Now think about having someone read every word and every page of your work in progress, and give you detailed, personal feedback on it. Is that money well invested?

3.    “What if I’ve only got part of a novel?” 

Getting an editor to read the beginning of a novel (a partial) is a very wise move. If it’s not engaging, or if there are big flaws, you find out early on. 

If you have a working draft, an editor will address the plusses and minuses of plot, setting, theme, voice and character. If your manuscript is in final draft form, it can be polished before sending it out.

4.    “What if I don’t agree with an independent editor’s advice?”

All published stories are edited. As an author, you will have to defend, change, cut, rewrite, rethink, redo. This is part of the gig. The more you do it, the less painful becomes the process.  But, always, it’s your story. Your name is on it. If you disagree with advice, back up your argument and explain why. That gets you thinking about your story. Which is always good.

5.    “How do I choose an independent editor?”

Two words: Research and Word of Mouth. (I know, that’s not 2 words.)  Google “hiring a freelance editor” and read testimonials. Read the acknowledgements on books you like. Ask around. I can’t name names, because I guarantee confidentiality to my clients, but if anyone wants to speak up, I won’t stop you.

6.    And finally, the big kahuna: “Doesn’t it show I’m weak as a writer to hire help?”

No, it does not. We’ve already established that most writers get help. If you hire a pro, you’re just trying to get the best help for the job.

Plus, read the title. It’s the truth. 

I know from experience that writers want to believe in their stories. They want to make them work, and they want them to be memorable. They want to share them. That’s why they are writing. My job is to help that process. For me, it’s a lot of fun. That’s why I do it.

For more information, please check out my blog: Ramona Long

Watch Your Language!

WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE

By Kathy Sweeney, who is not easy to shock

What has happened to our national vocabulary?  It was bad enough when 'erectile dysfunction' became acceptable dinner conversation.  But who the hell decided that 'douche bag' should join the ranks of everyday nouns?  

Hey - I swear more than most people - in fact, I have to give it up for Lent to keep myself from dropping the F bomb in front of someone like my mother.  But, really?!  Douche bag?  Seriously?  Do people even know what it actually means?  Because when I explained it to a car load of high school freshman boys, I got a resounding: "WHOA! TMI!"  followed by some muttering and various remarks about how thank God they weren't girls.

I haven't heard them use the term since.

As a public service to the rest of the blog, I will not get into detail.  Suffice it to say that you should know what the hell words mean before they come out of your mouth.  And if you don't - look it up - there are only about five zillion ways to find a definition these days.  

It's one thing if you hear it on late night Comedy Central.  But last week I heard it in an early evening sitcom.  At least it hasn't yet become a Jeopardy category.  I mean, talk about multiple ways to go - you could get every question from "What is a feminine hygiene device?" to "What makes up the Board of Goldman Sachs?"  Yeah, that was unnecessary.  I wish I was sorry.

When I was a kid, I heard someone use the word dildo.  It is a funny sounding word.  So I used it.  In a conversation with my boyfriend's mom.  Thankfully, she laughed and then  explained what it meant.  Looking back, I realize she probably provided me with a lot more detail than necessary, which probably explains why she was always in a good mood.

While we're on the subject - I have to repeat one of my current (and continuing) major irritants.  The pharmaceutical commercials.  Look - I feel bad for people who have bathroom issues.  But I REALLY do not want to know whether a bunch of strange men can or cannot go to the bathroom during a golf game.  I still cringe at those stupid Cialis bathtubs.  Is that some kind of secret code - you know, like bananas or caves or flying in dreams?  I most certainly do NOT want to know if a couple has intestinal problems that rise to the level that they need to discuss it in the middle of a restaurant.  I'm glad there are meds for all these things.  But I don't want to know the details.  Remember the old days, when the most personal thing you'd hear from even feminine product commercials was about "that not so fresh feeling"?

It's as if Saturday Night Live is writing these commercials.  

Or is it just me?

***

For those of you following the Jeopardy Teen Tournament - YES!!!!  Rachel Rothenberg ROCKS!  Feel free to discuss at length, but I didn't want to start to bore people with another Jeopardy blog.  That will come on Sunday.  And for those of you not following the Teen Tournament - tonight is your last night to watch smart kids in action.  GO TEAM RACHEL!

"Best" Books of 2009

"Best" Books of 2009

by Nancy     

Last week, in a short piece announcing their ten "best" books of 2009, Publisher's Weekly added that they were "disturbed" to discover than none of their "best" were written by women. But they assured their readers that they made all books "stand on their own two feet," and the chips fell where they belonged.

Gee, we're so sorry to hear the magazine is upset about the situation they created. I sincerely hope someone has taken the precaution of removing all sharp objects and poisonous substances from their offices.  We wouldn't want their pain to be compounded, would we?

While we wait for PW to get back to us for expressing sympathy about their distress, let's discuss a few possible conclusions we might draw from the list they announced:

1. Only men can write good books.

Or

2. It's time to stop judging books by dated criteria.

Or

3. Publishers are presenting books by women in ways that render them second class.

Or

4. You fill in the blank because my blood pressure is triggering those pretty lights behind my eyes again.

First of all, imagine the situation if the genders were reversed. Picture the uproar if the "best of" list only contained books written by women.  I can name people who would need smelling salts.  A few who would sue. Why, Congress might even mobilize! They're always looking for some distraction or other.

Personally, I am accustomed to this kind of treatment because I once wrote romance novels. And if you want to see what denigration really looks like (the literary equivalent of rotten fruit thrown at your head while a frenzied mob jeers) stand up in a room crowded with literary types and announce you write romance. If you're in relatively polite society, you'll only see rolling eyes, but later in the bar, things will get ugly, I promise. After ten years or so, I became hardened to this kind of criticism. But now I realize I'm a little like a battered wife that way. I expect to be mistreated and abused.

The hell with that. I'm pissed now.  In fact, I'm ready to unleash my flying monkeys. And everyone in the book business should be, too, because diminishing one group of us diminishes us all.

Sure, I know the difference between books written purely for entertainment (what I do) and books that have literary merit. I recognize that "good" books need to focus on theme over plot.  "Good" books need to be truthful and reflect life. And "good" books need to be about something--despite what Flaubert said--at least, that's what most seasoned reviewers will tell you. But ain't it about time for publishing professionals to recognize that the commonly used criteria for judging novels is mired in the last century? Or maybe the century before that? Are "women's subjects" still not epic enough? Not worthy?

Perhaps the best essay on the subject is this one, written by Francine Prose in 1998, for Harpers.  (It's only available if you're a subscriber, however.) In it, she asks the literary question, "Are women writers really inferior?" A good analysis of her essay is this one and I encourage you to read it because---well, it's free, for one thing.  Also good.

Here's another rabble-rousing blog on the subject at She Writes.

And an organization called Women in Letters and Literary Arts is doing the best work, perhaps, by compiling a list of great books of 2009 that have been written by women. Check it out here. Add your suggestions there, too.

What does this literary kerfuffle have to do with writing mysteries and/or the kinds of entertaining books that we write here at the offices of The Lipstick Chronicles? Why am I bent out of shape about this? Because the mystery genre and the women's fiction genre are as gender-driven as the literary scene.  (Nicholas Sparks.  Need I say more?) One glance at the table of contents of a new book of essays by mystery writers de-constructing their protagonists should tell you how little the books written by women are valued by leaders in our industry. The editor-who-shall-remain-nameless couldn't have dug up more than three worthy women mystery authors?

Having spent a couple of weeks in bed recovering from surgery by reading my literary comfort food (plenty of Spenser, I will admit) I will come out and say what I find ancient history in the mystery genre:  The disaffected male detective, strugging with alcohol and his feelings for his ex-wife/dead girlfriend/murdered best friend/troubled brother. He beats up a bad guy and saves a damsel, but not after some woman or other is brutally--even pruriently--slaughtered for the entertainment of the reader. C'mon, who really thinks these books are breaking new ground today? Such a story is no longer an author using a literary form used to make important comments on the state of society today.  It's a formula!  (Believe me, as a romance writer, I know the difference.)

I want some new material, please. And some new ways of judging books that reflect how women (who, BTW, buy 67% of all books sold) read quality books. I want new ideas about death and how dramatizing and investigating it can reflect the substance of life, the value (or not) of relationships,  the intricasies of family, the role of sex and intimacy in our lives, a study of personal values, and maybe a noble code of honor that allows for the necessary mundanity of carpooling, too. Oh, yeah, and I want a crackling good story, too.

I think the regulars of TLC are exactly the kind of intelligent, widely-read, and discerning readers who can help us define what it is that makes one mystery novel better than another. Not simply entertaining, mind you, but better. What do you think? Can we compile some observations here today?  Or do I send a nice fruit basket to PW along with an apology for the monkeys?

 

Do You Agree?

By Elaine Viets

The Republican National Committee and I rarely agree. But this time we are in complete accord:

The RNC made a mistake when they sent me their 2009 Obama Agenda Survey.

What am I doing on a Republican mailing list?    

Now there’s a mystery. I am a devout Democrat.

To me, political parties are like religions. Logic doesn’t work when making those choices. No one ever said, "Elaine, if you want to get ahead, you should be an Episcopalian. The best firms and country clubs are Episcopalian."

Nor did anyone say, "You sing beautifully. You should be a Baptist."

Nope, Democrat was my family’s religion and I stayed faithful. I knew when the Dems were in power, my people would be in heaven – or at least we’d have more money than we did under the other guys.

One of my uncles got rich and betrayed his birthright. He turned Republican and voted for Nixon. I still remember the day. My grandfather rose up from his plether recliner like an Old Testament prophet and thundered, "Roosevelt fed you during the Depression! This is how you repay him?"

The family has tried to recover from the shame. I voted Democrat whenever I had the chance, but I could never atone for my uncle’s sin.

So why in the hell is the RNC sending me their Registered Obama Agenda Survey? They want me to "indicate the answer you feel most appropriate by checking the corresponding box, sign this document and return it in the postage-paid envelope provided along with your contribution.

"To ensure this Registered Survey is properly accounted for, we ask that you sign and return this document regardless of whether or not you answer every question. Thank you."

No, thank you, RNC. I’ve always wanted to tell you what I thought.

The fifteen survey questions have a registration number, an ID number and a request for me to send in $500, $250, $100 or so.

Gee, RNC Chairman Steele. I’d like to do that. But after eight straight years of your party being in power, I DON’T HAVE ANY FREAKING MONEY.

But you can have my opinions. Here are a few:

RNC Q: "Do you agree with Barack Obama’s budget plan that will lead to a $23.1 trillion national debt over the next ten years?"

Me: Yes! Hell yes! How come the RNC never worries about the budget when the Republicans start a war in some god-forsaken place like Iraq? Why are you having a sudden attack of fiscal responsibility?

RNC Q: "Do you support amnesty for illegal immigrants?"

Me: Yes. They’re doing most of America’s dirty work for less than minimum wage. (Why does your party like wage slaves?)

I don’t believe in total amnesty. I want these immigrants to have background checks. If they have criminal records in the US or their own country, then ship them back. Otherwise, legalize them. Make them taxpaying citizens. That way, there’s more money for all of us.

RNC Q: "Do you believe that the quality and availability of healthcare will increase if the federal government dictates pricing to doctors and hospitals?"

Me: Yes! And I have $30,000 in medical bills under this so-called free market system to prove your way doesn’t work. Oh, and those bills are after I had two quality healthcare insurance providers.

RNC Q: "Do you support the creation of a national health insurance plan that would be administered by the bureaucrats in Washington, D.C.?"    

A: Yes! I would support a national health insurance plan administered by the devil to get away from the current companies.

Better yet, I’d support Canada’s system, where some of their citizens pay about $500 a YEAR for health care. Then if I wanted a procedure that wasn’t covered by national health, I would be able to afford it as a private patient.

The RNC told me, "By using your own first class stamp to return this envelope, you will be helping us save much needed funds."

Hah. It’s time you fat cats paid your own way. Am I going to let the RNC pay the postage for this shoddy survey?

In the words of a prominent Republican woman,

"You betcha!"

     ***

A special thank you today to the men and women who have fought for our country, so that we have to freedom to debate and to vote.