The Lipstick Chronicles

Tattoo Snobs

By Guest Blogger Kerry the Martial Tart

The Tarts extend an extra-special welcome to our very own Kerry, the Martial Tart, who, under intense lobbying from said Tarts, finally agreed to guest blog about one of her favorite subjects - welcome to the other side of the blog, Kerry!

According to that font of modern knowledge, Wikipedia, “A snob, guilty of snobbery, is a person who adopts the world-view that other people are inherently inferior for any one of a variety of reasons including supposed intellect, wealth, education, ancestry, etc.” Exactly what I was afraid of.

My name is Kerry. (“Hi, Kerry”) I am a snob. Not so much an intellectual snob (although some might disagree); certainly not a financial snob (what wealth?), education snob (folks like me are a dime a dozen), or an ancestor-snob (I’m a pretty good Anglo-Irish-Eastern European mish-mash). Not a wine snob or a food snob or a TV snob or even a beer snob (OK, I’m a little snobbish about the beer). I’m not even a book snob.

I am, instead, a Tattoo Snob. When I see ink, the mental calculus begins. How much coverage and where? Symbolic or stupid? Colored or monochrome? Flash or original design? Faded or fresh? Coordinated themes or hybrid mess? Full armbands or, even better, full sleeves, or a wimpy partial? I will graciously acknowledge anyone’s membership in the Clan of Ink, but admit few into the select club of Those With Great Tattoos.

I didn’t start out that way, although I realize with hindsight that the tendency was there from the outset. I got my first tattoo relatively late in life (I was 32) and, as is often the case, selected a small design discretely placed on my shoulder where I could display it or not as I chose. The danger signs I didn’t know to recognize were that (1) I got tattooed at the point of a major life event, and (2) chose a unique design that had deep personal meaning. Yes, I’m afraid I had joined the tribe of those who see Tattoos As Spiritual Expression.

The major problem with TASE is that life events keep on happening, and most of us need more than one important symbol to represent the complexity of those events. So that first small, discrete tattoo starts multiplying. And, for must of us in this tribe, the designs just keep getting bigger and the symbolism more elaborate. Pretty soon, nothing major can happen in your life without a tattoo design slowly forming in your mind. And once that happens, you might as well get ready to melt down the credit card (or start scrounging cash, depending on the laws in your state). Because the tattoo is going to happen.

The other problem is that, in my case, it led me straight to the depths of Tattoo Snobbery. I don’t recognize “Dude, I got really, really drunk”, or “I have way too much testosterone” as major life events any more than I’m prone to admitting most standard tattoo parlor flash as deeply meaningful symbols. No, I’m afraid I want to see custom work, and I want your face to light up when I ask what your tattoo means, and I want to enjoy a few minutes of swapping stories about which ones hurt the most and how you keep them from fading.

I’m going to my in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary party next week and need to find something nice to wear. Out of deference to my grandmother-in-law’s sensibilities, it should be slacks and a jacket with at least three-quarter length sleeves. That’ll cover everything up for now; I don’t plan on getting a wrist band for at least 3 more years. . .

So what are your stories? Anyone have cool tattoos? Or snobberies of your very own to share?

It's Harry Potter Day!

by Rebecca the Bookseller

This is it, kids. This is the day. Tonight, at midnight, we will all hold the grand finale in our hands. A book. A big, beautiful book. Not a video. Not a game with a controller. Not a computer or a PDA or even an iPhone. A book.

In Pittsburgh, PA, everyone who is anyone will be in Oakmont. Dinner in costume, complete with decorations (the House Banners, the Sorting Hat, Hedwig, Crookshanks, Moaning Myrtle's toilet seat - you name it, one of us has got it).

Then to the Oaks Theater for a special 9 pm showing of "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" - the 5th movie in the series.

After that, we parade - in costume - (yours truly as Trelawney), a block down the street to The Mystery Lovers Bookshop for pumpkin juice, Bertie Botts, chocolate frogs and the countdown. The store and the sidewalk outside will be full of people families - sometimes three generations - all there for the same thing. And it's not a rock concert or a celebrity siting or a movie set. It's a book. I'll admit it, it makes me cry every time.

Even if you are not a fan of the books, please pay attention. Go to a store - or watch the coverage. Because these days, we need to celebrate the good. We need to cherish the things that make us a community. We need to show our children, and everyone else's children, that people can sometimes come together to do something other than fight.

***

NO SPOILERS*NO SPOILERS*NO SPOILERS*NO SPOILERS*NO SPOILERS

I for one have been VERY CAREFUL not to read any spoilers on The Deathly Hallows. Yes, I know they are out there, but they ARE NOT WELCOME HERE. If you already know what happens, and you want to share, feel free to do it someplace else, okay? Thanks.

HAVING SAID THAT, what follows is from the end of HALF-BLOOD PRINCE. If you have not yet finished the 6th Book in the Series, skip the stuff in italics.

Now - I re-read most of the Half-Blood Prince and here is a recap of the end - remember to skip this part if you haven't finished it yet:

When we last left Harry, he was on the grounds of Hogwarts, immediately after Dumbldore's funeral. He had just told Ginny that they could no longer see eachother, but was unable to dissuade Ron and Hermoine from coming with him in his search for the remaining (four) Horcruxes. He carries the locket that held the note from R.A.B. that may indicate that the locket Horcrux has already been destroyed.

Albus Dumbledore is dead, killed by Snape's delivery of the Avada Kedavra curse. Snape stepped in and killed Dumbledore, despite the fact that Draco Malfoy had been instructed to do so, and in fact had every opportunity.

Bill Weasley, though bitten by a werewolf, is recovering and does not seem to have been turned. His wedding to Fleur is the only bright spot in Harry's immediate future.

The future of Hogwarts is uncertain.

J.K. Rowling has said that at least two main characters will die in The Deathly Hallows. Fans and foes of Severus Snape have been battling over his true alliances. Some fans even believe that Dumbledore may return.

OK - you can read now.

Tonight at midnight, we will all know. OK - probably closer to 6 or 7 am, we'll know - at least those of us ready to pull one final all-nighter for this magnificent series.

So, today it's all Potter all day here at TLC. Let's start with some basic predictions:

Who will die?
Severus Snape: hero or demon?
Albus Dumbledore: Dead or Alive?
Robbie Coltrane - perfect casting as Hagrid?
Viktor: Stud or The Studliest?

Update 530 pm - We are off to get costumed and out the door - here is the beginning of my Trelawney look - Jenn at my Salon out-did herself with the hair, huh? Wish we could all be together tonight, but at midnight, we'll share the Magic Moment!

Update 710 am. No spoilers, as promised. The book is magnificent. A fitting finale for a series destined to be among the greatest ever written. I turned each page with a mixture of anticipation and regret that I was one page closer to the end.

The Woodiwiss Legacy

by Nancy

In college, I read a book that changed my life.

It was not by Winston Churchill or Studs Terkel or even Gloria Steinem.

The book was The Flame and the Flower by Kathleen Woodiwiss, and it changed my life because I read it---no, I consumed it---in a single weekend, and when I closed the covers I wondered if I might be capable of writing books exactly like it.

Well, not exactly like it, because although the story was set in England post War of 1812 and full of the history of that period (well, quasi-history) it was bascially the lustful tale of a beautiful young English flower who is raped by an American sea captain, and they are forced to marry because she's pregnant. Which, even at the age of 19 in 1972, I knew was icky.

But rape wasn't really what the book was about.

it was about yearning.

Yes, the "hero" is a rapist and the "heroine" is a hapless twit, and they are foced to marry each other by stock characters and at first they have plenty of reasons for resenting each other, but they spend a good 500 pages struggling to stay emotionally apart while their inner selves hunger to be together. By the end of the book, the couple is madly in love, but the tension in the preceding 500 pages is agonizing.

The Flame and the Flower might not have been the first bodice ripper, but it was certainly one of the books that really set the historical romance genre--er--aflame in the 1970s along with similar rape fantasy books by Rosemary Rogers (the heroine of Sweet, Savage Love is raped by the hero, if I recall correctly, 17 times during the book, and I'm not kidding) and many other female (and at least one male) authors whose breathless, adverb-ridden prose entertained millions of women and earned publishers millions of dollars.

Mind you, I use the rape fantasy term loosely here. (And actually, the rape fantasy served a psychologial purpose in those days--just as The Pill  was starting to reach small college towns--when society still pressured girls to feel guilty for enjoying sex.--If she's raped it's not her fault, see? Hey, don't shoot the messenger. Go read Nancy Friday's book.) Since TF&TF was written, many non-rape fantasy romance plots have emerged--the marriage of convenience, the forced marriage, the secret baby, the reunion story, the family feud, the brutal hero civilized, the plucky heroine educated, etc, etc. and countless permunations of each. There's also the theory that all good romances are about a more highly evolved woman "taming" an alpha male. Whatever. They're all guilty pleasure reads. Nothing wrong with that.

All that plot theorizing aside, a romance novel should possess three basic hallmarks:  Hunger, yearning and obsession.

Part of me thinks that although those earily historicial romances were incredibly politically incorrect, the books helped a lot of women think about what behavior (theirs and that of the men in their lives) was unacceptable. Many of us--feminists, too--began to learn about ourselves by reading the examples--good and bad--set down in romance novels. Although the roots of it are indisputably sexist by today's standards, the genre has come a long way. Times have changed. The new, improved romance novel is very satisfying reading for a lot of people--even a few male readers, although they might not have a lot of choice in reading material during their incarceration.

I thought I still had my copy of The Flame and The Flower around here, but I can't find it. Which blows me away. Do you have "keepers" you'd never part with? TF&TF is one of those books for me, but it has disappeared. Maybe I lent it to someone? Maybe one of my daughters sneaked it off to college? I was going to re-read it this week to write this blog, but I can't believe it's not here in my library, which, okay, is huge and somewhat disordered. I am not a librarian who stores books alphabetically. (My office is the former law library of the judge who owned this house. I am surrounded by shelves--all of them stuffed with "keepers.")

Anyway, I had one of my best writing epiphanies while reading the Woodiwiss book:  Readers love suspense. "Make 'em laugh, make 'em cry, make 'em wait" is still great writing advice. Plant a narrative question early in the story, I learned, then drop hints and change the stakes and make the audience squirm and wonder and salivate until they can't stand waiting another second--then add a twist and make the waiting unbearable before handing over the satisfying ending on a silver platter. Any writer worth his or her royalty checks knows the lesson well.

In the years that followed my first reading of TF&TF, I taught school, got married, started a family and wrote one historical romance. I finished and sold it in 1981. Fair Kate was nearly half Woodiwiss, a generous amount of Austen and some other elements not very artfully stolen from authors like Mary Stewart and Carolyn Keene. (My first editor said it had a very Jane Eyre-like voice.  Is that good or bad?) But my second manuscript was cripped by the fact that I had two toddlers to haul to the library where all the historical research needed to take place.  (Bill Gates was still in high school, I think.) Faced with a bitter winter and an unreliable station wagon, my writing career seemed short-lived.  Then the copyeditor for my first book telephoned to ask if I'd like to write category romances.  (70,000 word books with contemporary settings and rarely more than two important characters.) She had been promoted to acquiring editor and was looking for authors.  When she said I wouldn't have much research at all, I accepted her offer without having a clear idea of what a catetory romance novel was.  (I had a sheltered childhood.  I'd never read a Harlequin romance.)

Maybe you read complex literary fiction with subtle subplots and a denouement that's mostly thematic and therefore as obscure as poetry. But the primary narrative question in a category romance novel in those days was:  When are they going to Do It? That is, when do the dual protagonists declare their eternal love for each other by way of the greatest sex possible? And that happy ending should be withheld from the reader until the next to the very last page--usually by way of two simultaneous, shattering orgasms. I wrote over 30 romance novels, so that's a lot of orgasms. When I left romance for the mystery genre ten years ago--somewhat wrung out, as you might imagine--I truly recognized how much I learned from and owe to romance novels. I salute the genre as a whole.

The best lesson--withholding the happy ending--was the one I gleaned by reading Kathleen Woodiwiss.  Who died last week, I'm sorry to say.

She was a military wife who wrote her first book, TF&TF, on a typewriter she bought for her husband for Christmas. The book was rejected numerous times before famed editor Nancy Coffee bought it for Avon. Publisher's Weekly gave the book such glowing reviews that Avon increased the initial print run to over half a million copies. In the first four years of publication, 2.3 million copies were sold.  I doubt the book has ever gone out of print, and I wonder how many total copies are in print. Meanwhile, the author raised a family while continuing to write romances that defined the genre. The Woodiwiss success story is one that still inspires.

To a certain extent, she invented the life I'm leading now--a popular fiction author with a family to raise--and she helped invent a genre that has evolved and grown, endured condemnation and ridicule . . . but always entertains.

Thank you, Kathleen Woodiwiss.

The Best Days to Sell Books

By Elaine Viets

There are some dates I never pass up for book signings. One is this Friday night, from 10 p.m. until midnight. That’s the witching hour for Harry Potter parties across the land. The stores are packed with kids drinking sugared punch and eating chocolate doughnuts and brownies.

I’ll be sitting in a chain bookstore, watching sugar-hyped kids take the store apart.

Why?

Because the children have parents who are wondering if they walk out of the store now, can they be arrested for child abandonment.

(The answer is yes.)

To distract the parents, I ask them if they’d like to buy my latest Dead-End Job mystery, "Murder with Reservations."

"You’re spending thirty bucks on your kid," I whisper, like the snake in the Garden. "Why not get yourself a treat?"

About that time, the little darling is pulling down a spinning card rack or dragging the white Harry Potter owl across the gray carpet. Yep, the parents deserve something. Probably a medal for motherhood.

"Sure," says the distracted mom, who is now wondering if abortion is retroactive.

"How would you like me to autograph your copy?" I ask. Once the copy is personalized, the book is sold.

"Make it to Jeanne," the long-suffering mom says, peeling her hyperactive offspring away from the Potter display. The kid throws himself on the floor and starts screaming, "I want it. I want it now."

Mom looks like she wants to sink into the floor.

I’ve sold thirty or forty hardcovers on Harry Potter night, mostly to parents. I could probably sell the Brooklyn bridge or oceanfront property in Arizona. The parents are so grateful an adult will speak to them. I’m not fazed by their kids’ behavior. I used to be a newspaper reporter, so I’ve seen much more childish behavior. I once had an editor rip out a phone and throw it across the newsroom. "We don’t print the truth, lady," he yelled into the broken receiver. "We just print what people tell us."

At least these kids are sober.

Here are other signing dates I never miss. These are not elaborate signings with a reading, Q&A time and chairs for the audience. I just grab a folding chair, sit at a card table by the entrance, and snag readers as they come through the door.

The day before Christmas: "Do you have a mystery reader in your family? Do you need a personalized present? I’m signing books right now."

The word that gets them is "personalized." A signed book looks thoughtful and classy. No one will know that you bought it yesterday.

The day before Mother’s Day: Sorry, gentlemen, but you’re notorious for waiting till the last minute to get your wife a present.

I do a version of my Christmas spiel, hitting the word "personalized." Works like a charm. Also, men are more likely to buy hardcovers than women. I don’t know if it’s because men make more money, or if there’s another reason. But I love Mother’s Day.

Father’s Day doesn’t work quite as well, because wives are more likely to buy in advance, and my books have a bigger women’s audience.

But at Christmas, Mother’s Day and Harry Potter Day, I declare a little holiday in my heart.

THE NOT MUCH AMUSEMENT PARK

By Sarah

This is what I want to know: What is it going to take to get a grip on these amusement parks? And when are people going to learn that swarthy, chain smoking parole violators are not the people to whom you should entrust your children, especially when your children are going to be twirling in the air, twenty feet above the ground, on a portable ride at the county fair?

Like most former kids, I used to love amusement parks, the older and groddier the better. Growing up we had Dorney with a rickety roller coaster and a few sad animals eating rye crackers. Then, suddenly, Dorney wasn't good enough. Hershey was the place to be, which was great as not only did it have a huge roller coaster in which you could ride upside down, but it also had chocolate. Rivers of chocolate .

After that it was Great Adventure in New Jersey. It topped Hershey and Dorney, yet was far less appealing. I missed the freakish aspects, the twisted German replica houses at Hershey that I'd later think of as Hansel and Gretel's crack houses. At Dutch Wonderland you could bump into a Cinderella with track marks making out with one of the three little pigs. Storyland had mildewed dioramas of fairy tales stuck in the woods. I LOVED THOSE!

These hard-core amusement parks were too in your face, too, "Ready to die little girl?"

To which the answer is, uh, guess so.

Let me list the tragedies, this summer's tragedies, that have made headlines:

* A teenage girl fell to her death on a bungee ride on the "Air Glory" ride at a Christian festival in Wisconsin last week.

* A 4-year-old boy drowned at Great America's wave pool in three feet of water this month.

* A 21 year old died on Mind Scrambler (ewww) at Playland in Rye, New York, this month, the third Playland death since 2004.

* A 13-year-old girl's feet were sliced off on the Superman Tower of Power at Six Flags in Kentucky in June.

And don't even get me started on the number of convicted - and non-convicted - child molesters who seek jobs in these places. A huge concern for the theme parks.

In all fairness, the amusement park industry claims that 300 million people visit their parks each year with an injury rate that is 1 in 9 million. Still, the fun is supposed be knowing that while it seems like you're about to die plunging, rolling, turning upside down, falling - you won't.

Not so fun when maybe you will.

I dunno. Am I whacked?

Thrillerfest Post-Op

Well, several of the Tarts and Friends of Tarts spent a terrific weekend at ThrillerFest in New York City.

To be honest, everybody is still recovering, in one way or another (it's one of those "What happens in..." snow clones, if you know what I mean). So we all decided to write a little bloglet about it, and catch up with the real stories later. So anyway, that was what we all decided, and then, uh, most people were too fried and forgot, but here is a start.

Here is what you really need to know: New York is a great city. ThrillerFest was a great time. OK. Moving on.

From Michele Martinez:

For me, ThrillerFest was like one of those dreams where you're trying to get somewhere important and events continually conspire to keep you away. I wanted so much to see some of the great panels, but I was lucky to make it to my own. What was I doing instead? One meeting after the next, catching up with colleagues, even a photo shoot. (I was photographed in the Ramble in Central Park, where the victim's body is discovered in "Cover-Up," for a piece on setting in mystery for Spirit Magazine -- fun!) Oh, and hanging out with Nancy, Harley and Rebecca, of course. And cornering some great guest bloggers and interviewees for your entertainment. Stay tuned for a sizzling interview with Lee Child next week. How hot is it? Let's just say Margie stopped in, asked a key question or two and things took off from there.

From William Simon, Guest Blogger and FoT:

Thrillerfest was terrific. This was my first time, and I had the singular experience of meeting Jon Land, author of some very well done spy thrillers back in the 80's and 90's. At the Hollywood panel, chaired by TLC's very own Harley Jane Kozak, Jon was kind enough to autograph a copy of THE ALPHA DECEPTION for me. All this, plus meeting Nancy for the first time, and hanging with the Tarts....well I'm already looking forward to next year.

From Margie:

I LOVE New York. Every time I'm there, it's a little different - in the last ten years or so, it's better in the big ways - it's cleaner, it's safer, people are nice - and brace yourself for this one - the CABS actually defer to the PEDS. I don't know what the hell Rudy and Bloomie have been putting in that water up there, but it's working. Or maybe it's a mass hypnosis project. Hey - I think it is and I think I just figured it out, too. I'm good at that, you know - figuring stuff out. I'll talk more about it on Friday.

Anyway, it's a great city and the convention was - okay - it was a Con and in some ways, if you've been to one, you've been to them all. It doesn't really matter if it's Thriller Writers or the Future Farmers of America. Don't start with me, you know it's true.

The diff is the people there. A lot of these people were cool. Some of them were total tools. Big whoop. You can ID the tools in about 2.5 seconds, and you find the cool ones. More on that Friday, too, except just let me say that if you are ever at a Con with me, Margie, and you act like such a Tool that I see it more than once....well, I'd be very, very careful about getting into a crowded situation. Anything can happen - you know, like a rugby scrum or something. NOT that anything DID, yanno, happen. So chill. This is more like a little lesson at the end of a fable or something.

As usual, I am really the only one working here, so I guess I'd better catch up on all the office stuff. But I'll be back Friday.

From Rebecca:

First of all, no comment on Margie's comments. None. Don't ask me, I don't know anything. Call me Sgt. Schultz on this girl.

I thought the best thing about Thriller Fest was getting to actually meet people who post - or Guest Blog - right here on TLC. Blogs are a new thing, but believe me, when we mentioned The Lipstick Chronicles, people knew what we were talking about!

From Nancy:

Huh? Wha--?  Oh, I'm awake now, really.  Totally fried, yes, but awake.  I enjoyed meeting the diverse group of people who attended T-fest.  "Thrillers" seem to loosely define such a range of books!  I got a kick out of re-connecting with my longtime romance-writing friends who now write very successful romantic suspense and female-driven thrillers.  Interesting how everybody had a different "take" on the role of sex in the books.  I was especially amused to hear the men still talking in terms of high school jokes while the women could intelligently articulate why and how a sexual relationship could function in a plot.  Kudos, girls!

Also--the parties!  Whisking from one festive gathering to another took up most of my weekend!  Except I never managed to catch Margie at any of them.  Puzzling....

OOPS!

I had sworn I posted a few bloglets on Thrillerfest in Mr. Typepad last night, but lo and behold, it's not here!

So just stay tuned, and one will appear, like magic, as soon as I redo it and finish cursing!

Rebecca the Bookseller

The Dinner Threat

By Sarah

It's Sunday, a day that like no other day in the week holds a special reverence and, ipso facto, special duties depending on who you are and what you want out of life. There the church goers, of course. Even the all-day church goers who finish off Sunday morning services with a picnic and more communing. There are the indulgent urban types who lie around doing the New York Times crossword puzzle before hauling their thin asses out of bed for more latte. There are also the sports nuts and home-improvement maniacs.

And then there are the cookers.

I am not one of these people, but I read about them all over the place including here. These are, to me, supremely organized fanatics who have not only done all their food shopping for the week (probably on Saturday) but who then do all the cooking for the week on Sunday, too. Plus, they're always cooking chili and freezing it for later. I'm sorry, but I can only eat so much chili before I start feeling like a bloated cow.

But I get where they're coming from. As a working mother, dinner is not so much a daily meal as a daily  threat. Yet we all know that if you don't eat dinner with your children at a set time like it was 19 freaking 56, they will develop low self esteem, poor family values, alcoholism, drug addiction, mediocre SAT scores not to mention lousy table manners.

Still, I've come to resent it and the assumption that I have to cook it every single night. Oh, sure, Charlie does his share but I'm not sure how many dinners of steamed artichokes my family can handle. So I'm always looking for tips on how to get from Monday to Thursday given that Friday, Saturday and Sunday eventually take care of themselves.

I used to work with a photographer who had it down. Her week went something like this: Monday, roast chicken. Tuesday, stir fry with pork. Wednesday, pasta with a jarred sauce. Thursday, leftovers made with Monday's chicken. Friday, delivery pizza (or, pizza made at home.) Saturday, take out anything. Sunday leftovers.

That worked for me until Some People Who Should Not Be Named and who are at camp right now decided that they couldn't bear the thought of another animal dying for his satisfaction. And so he became a die hard vegetarian. Which means I'm cooking at least five extra dinners for him. There is also my teenage daughter who is trying to stay away from bread and pasta (bless her) so that shoots Friday and Wednesday.

And no one wants the house heated up with a roasting chicken in this weather.

So, I guess you could say I'm looking for ideas. Right now, I'm down to: grilled chicken Caesar salad, sandwiches, pasta puttanesca over whole wheat spaghetti, cold poached salmon in dill sauce, the occasional steak and pork chops with balsamic vinegar. Sounds nice, I know. But try eating it for 52 weeks straight.

Any suggestions?

Sarah

PERSON, PLACE OR THING.....

By Sarah

It wasn't until I became a fiction writer (and, please, no cracks about my journalism career) that I fully understood how Place could be a Person, a fully formed character. Sure, I remember an English teacher mentioning that in passing but to be perfectly honest I am a lifelong day dreamer with very poor attention skills.

Then I decided to write my first novel. Originally, I was going to set it in Vermont among a group of Dartmouth graduates who'd been living "off the grid" and were pretty tired of it. It was also going to be a mystery, the informal term being a "closed room" mystery. That's when I interviewed a Very Famous Author who scoffed and said, please, no one wants to read about Vermont.

Oh.

Months or maybe a year later, I forget, I had redone the novel and set it in my hometown of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. "Excellent," said an agent who later agreed to represent me. "Everyone either is from the Lehigh Valley, has passed through the Lehigh Valley or knows someone who has and wishes they hadn't." He asked me about the setting before he asked me about either the mystery or the character. And he was right. So many letters I get about the Bubbles series have to do with how they, the readers, also have a connection to Bethlehem, Bethlehem Steel or Allentown.

Since then, I've set books in Cleveland, Central New Jersey and Boston - all thrilling places where I've lived. I've kind of run out which means I'm left with one of the more dangerous stops on my road to adulthood - West Texas.

I spent three months or so in the Midland/Odessa area and the experience was fraught with leering men, big men, men who wanted to buy me drinks, men who wanted to give me car rides, men who wanted to show me their guns and huge gas stations where you could pick up a road beer in the handy ice display right by the cash register. At the time, Odessa had the highest murder per capita rate in the country and for good reason. There was lots of money to be had in West Texas and, concordantly, lots of money to be stolen.

On the plane ride from Dallas to Midland, outside my window civilization fell away to vast brown patches of land. "Oil," said my seat mate, pointing to the darker spots where, sure enough, a rigger, nose down and stalled, had been abandoned. Like everyone else in the plane, he wore a cowboy hat and string tie. Ahead of me row upon row were wide sunburned necks in various hues of red. I was the only woman.

I thought, "What have I done?"

Don't get me wrong. I love Texas and I have a lot of readers in Texas. Then again, that's partly because there's a lot of everything in Texas. Texan women are the most beautiful in the country and they know  it. Texan men can be stolid cowboys or kinda scary good ol' boys and a lot in between. My interview at the Odessa American was a cross between being in a men's poker game and a strip joint. Again I was the only woman in the room surrounded by big, big men who smoked like chimneys.

I'll admit it, I cracked. Maybe if I'd been engaged to a different guy, maybe if I'd really been in love I could have handled it. But at that point I wasn't ready for the Midland/Odessa scene. I think I could do it now and I look forward to going back to visit.

Though, I better go back before I publish the book. Lord knows what they might do to me afterward.

Okay, so tell me about the scary/interesting places where you lived. I'm always looking for new characters,

Sarah

My Wonderful Root Canal

By Rebecca the Bookseller

In times gone by, the sound of a young man's voice urging me to sit, back, relax and "Let me make you feel wonderful - I'll do all the work" would have been just the ticket.

Recently, and I hate to admit it, it was even better.

Better than sex?  OK, not all sex. 

But finding someone who can make the pain stop is like finding a great lover - it's fantastic. I've been lucky with my teeth. Until a month ago, when my dentist, after making me take anti-biotics that made my mouth taste like an old penny, gave me the news:  you need a root canal. 

Duh-duh- duuuuuhhhhh. The mere words struck fear into my normally-sturdy heart.

Naturally, because it didn't hurt at that moment, I blew it off.

Two weeks later, the pain was so acute that it even overrode my visions of Marathon Man.  And so I began my search for an Endontist.  I found a small practice in a lovely little neighborhood near the Bookshop, took an anti-anxiety drug, and showed up.

I was petrified, but by that time half of my entire face was throbbing and making it impossible for me to think about anything other than: Make. It. Stop.

And he did. 

My new best friend, Dr. Derek. Yes, that is his real name.  He may not look exactly like McDreamy (with those masks on, who can tell) but he made me feel mcdreamy.  He numbed everything up even before he shot me up with Novacaine.  And then it was nothing but a little noise.  Not even bad noise.  An occasional whirring, is all.  And then, before I knew it, it was over.

A root canal?  Over in five minutes?  Yes.  And it didn't hurt.  In fact, after the swelling went down (36 hours) it didn't hurt AT ALL.  Compared to the level of pain I'd been in beforehand, it was nothing short of a miracle!

My tooth is intact, no crown, no cracks - because I went in time to save it. 

If you wait too long, it can be much worse.

Why did I even wait as long as I did?  Fear of the unknown and sheer stupidity, that's why.

When I went back on Wednesday for a check-up ("We can't have you leaving town with any questions") The Xrays were beautiful and clear. "Wow! You have a killer immune system!" Dr. Derek said. "Gee, thanks!" I replied, "I think it's the metaphysical weight training." He laughed. Brought the staff in to hear it again - they laughed. Laughing in the dentists' office? I'm telling you, it's a new day, people.

I know it's a Friday, but I'm in New York cheering on Harley and Michele while they do their Thriller Fest panels, and meeting some new authors who will hopefully come to our beautiful Mystery Lovers Bookshop, so I can't be here to have an ongoing discusion.

So instead, I am giving you a gift - just take it from me - Don't wait.  Get the damn root canal. It is so totally worth it.

Here's how to make it the best experience possible:

1.  Find a practice that ONLY does root canals - they are called Endontists. They've got all the best new technology and equipment, and they have it down to a science.

2.  Get someone else to drive you so you can take something to calm you down first.

3.  Take ALL the meds.  You have to take the anti-inflammatories because the infection in the root makes your gums sensitive and the procedure irritates it.

4.  You have to take the antibiotics - all of them.  Don't ask, and yes the new ones make everything taste awful.  Tough.

5.  Pain management - I learned this one the hard way - don't miss a dose.  Do NOT miss a dose. If you let the pain get out of control, you can't get it back.  Nobody needs to be a hero with this stuff.  Take it and feel better. 

And be nice to your dentist.  These guys and ladies just want to help.

And if you don't have a dentist story to share, feel free to share another one that will save one of us some hassle, okay?