The Lipstick Chronicles

Writing in Paradise

By Marcia Talley

Award-winning author Marcia Talley writes the Hannah Ives series. She's working on her next novel, "Dead Man Dancing," and sent us this guest blog from the Bahamas.

My friend, mystery novelist Elaine Viets who lives there, says that Ft. Lauderdale is the farthest south you can live and still get some meaningful work done. I’ve checked the maps, and my present location in the Bahamas, 26 degrees 35.51 North, 77 degrees 00.36 West to be precise, is exactly 28 minutes of latitude – approximately 32 miles – north of Elaine’s condo in Lauderdale, so as a novelist, I figure I’m safe, but it’s not always easy writing while living in paradise.

We’re in a rented house on Dickie’s Cay, a tiny strip of land in the Abacos that forms the harbor that protects Man-o-War Cay, a settlement of boat-builders and church-going people with a year-round population of approximately 150. There’s a hardware store – "if we
don’t have it, you don’t need it" – where items that went on the shelf twenty years ago are still for sale, with their original price tags. There’s one sit-down restaurant – "best hamburgers in the world at the Hibiscus," my husband says, a couple of gift shops, a sailmaker’s shop where four ladies sit at ancient sewing machines turning out the most beautiful and practical canvas bags, and two groceries that don’t sell cigarettes or booze. No law against it, they simply don’t.

Albury’s Harbour Market, where I shop, is the size of your average two-car garage, but I can’t think of anything that Phyllis doesn’t have – even half-and-half! – in that tiny, neat-as-a-pin store. I shop, she puts it on our tab, and we pay up at the end of the month. With a tab, I feel like I really belong.

There are no ATMs, the bank is open on Tuesdays from 10 to 2, and few cars. Rush hour is two golf carts meeting on The Queen’s Highway, an eight-foot-wide strip of concrete that bisects the narrow island.

There are no roads where we are on Dickie’s Cay, and our family car is an Avon dinghy. To go shopping or to eat out, we walk out to the end of the pier, climb down a wooden ladder, fire up the outboard and putt-putt across to Man-o-War.

On the porch of "Tradewinds" where I’m sitting right now riding a rogue wireless signal (thank you, whoever you are!) I’m finishing up my next Hannah novel, "Dead Man Dancing," drinking a cup of coffee, and watching the sun come up. Just a few minutes ago, the first boat of the day motored by, filled with Haitians from Marsh Harbour who come here to work building boats and houses, doing yard work, anything to earn a few dollars to send back to their families in
Haiti. They are a friendly, hard-working people who often spend their lunch hours reading passages from the Bible aloud, and seem delighted when I speak to them in my passable French.

I’ve adopted a cat, Dickie, who showed up one day so hungry that he ate plain, cold spaghetti and bits of garlic bread. We don’t know what happened to his family, but he may be a boat cat who fell overboard and swam ashore. We’re feeding him to help protect the local bird population. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
And speaking of birds, as I was writing yesterday a hummingbird whizzed by like a giant wasp, reversed suddenly and hovered just two feet in front of my face, wings a blur. I’d seen hummingbirds visiting the yellow flowers on the oleander in the garden, but I couldn’t figure out
what drew this little fellow to me, until I realized that on his side of my computer screen there is a brightly-lit white apple.

A sudden rainstorm followed by a rainbow, a sunset that sets the horizon ablaze, a tiger cat purring for the first time in who knows how long nestled against my side, and a hummingbird seriously checking me out. As I said, there are distractions while working in paradise, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

TEDDY BEARS AND BLACK SWANS

By John J. Lamb

It’s an unexpected honor to be invited to contribute to The Lipstick Chronicles, but then again, pretty much everything about my career as a mystery author has been surprising. I’m currently reading Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s The Black Swan, a fascinating book about the impact of highly improbable events, and couldn’t help but notice that my path to success as a writer confirmed one of the book’s key premises: The human race — both individually and as a group — is consistently lousy at predicting the future. And I’m a less prescient prophet than most.

To illustrate, before chasing down my dream to become a professional author, I spent eighteen years as a cop in one of the more violent cities in Southern California. I had a blast working the streets in a black-and-white and later served as a CSI, homicide investigator, hostage negotiator, and detective sergeant. Over the years, I worked on about a hundred murders and went to over a thousand other assorted death scenes. Moreover, I had a well-deserved reputation among the other cops for my macabre sense of humor.

As you might expect, I someday saw myself writing gritty police thrillers packed with gunplay, gore, and graphic violence. My first two novels (deservedly unsold and, if there’s a merciful God, forever forgotten) reflected that orthodox mindset. Who could have foreseen that when writing success came, it would arrive in the form of a series of unabashedly cozy murder mysteries about teddy bear artists and stuffed animals? I still have trouble believing it and I won’t pretend I truly understand how it all unfolded.

So, how did a cynical street cop, who could devour barbecued ribs for lunch at Tony Roma’s between morning and afternoon autopsies, come to write teddy bear mysteries? It begins as a love story and if you saw this tale on some sappy made-for-television movie on the Hallmark Channel, you’d dismiss it as the worst sort of schmaltz. Yet, it’s true. I met my future wife, Joyce, at the police department, where she worked as a latent fingerprint expert and crime analyst. She was beautiful, smart, and one of the finest investigators I’ve ever known.

Shortly after we began to go out together, I bought her a girl teddy bear named "Skyler." To this day, I can still remember standing in that gift shop, carefully examining the faces of the teddy bears to make sure I’d picked out precisely the best one, while praying that no one from the police department spotted me. You see, I still had that reputation to uphold for being colder than liquid oxygen … not that Joyce ever bought into the charade.

Joyce and I were married in 1998. This was a time of enormous change. I’d been medically retired from the police department and was learning to enjoy a life that didn’t involve corpses, crazy folks threatening to kill themselves, and routine carnage. I suppose the teddy bears were an unintentional component in a psychic detox program. They were sweet and innocent … two traits I’d seldom encountered as a cop. We continued to collect bears and then we went to our very first teddy bear show. After that, we were hooked and our collection now numbers over 600 stuffed animals.

Fast forward to 2004. Joyce was now retired from the police department and we’d moved from Southern California to the pastoral Shenandoah Valley. We live in farmland about two miles from the Blue Ridge Mountains and less than a hundred yards from the South Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s a heavenly setting and our home is full of teddy bears, four golden retrievers, and six "rescued" cats.

My literary agent had just sold my first novel (a police procedural titled Echoes of the Lost Order) to Five Star and she asked if I thought I could write a cozy mystery, because Berkley Prime Crime was acquiring new titles. I tried to sound confident when I replied that I could, but I had my doubts. What did I know about cozy mysteries? Yet, as I sat smoking my pipe on our front porch, I had an epiphany: With Joyce and my backgrounds in cop work and a home full of teddy bears, I was living the setting for a cozy mystery. It seemed too good to be true. I wrote up a proposal and a couple of sample chapters and Berkley quickly signed me to three books. I still have trouble believing it happened.

And the improbabilities continued to pile up. Although I was a new and unknown author, The Mournful Teddy sold extremely well. Later, the book was named as a finalist for the Dilys Award, which was even more mind-boggling. Back when I was a cop, if someone had suggested that I’d be a finalist for a literary award, I’d have asked how much rock cocaine he’d been smoking. More success followed with The False-Hearted Teddy and Berkley signed me up to write books number four and five in the series. I’ve achieved a lifelong dream, but not quite the way I expected.

Looking back, I think I’ve learned a couple of things. First, I must never discount the fact that I’ve benefitted enormously from luck, fate, or maybe Taleb’s "Black Swan" or "highly improbable event." However, that propitious event would never have happened if I hadn’t stayed in the game for six years, refining my talent and never losing sight of the goal of becoming a professional author. Finally, I have to acknowledge one other very fortunate occurrence in my life and that was meeting Joyce. Without her, there would be no teddy bears in my life, no cozy mysteries, and no joy. So, maybe the ultimate "highly improbable event" is merely finding someone who brings out the very best in you.

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 Book Tarts are big fans of both Chris Grabenstein's series, starring John Ceepak and Christopher Miller. How does he write those award-winning books? Here's his secret.

TIGHTROPE WALKING WITHOUT A NET

By Chris Grabenstein

     Every day when I write, I’m reminded of the five years I spent in an East Village basement hopping on stage to make up scenes and songs about acne, hemorrhoids, Times Square, belly button lint, and whatever else the audience yelled out when we asked for suggestions.

     From 1979 to 1984 I had the time of my life performing improvisational comedy with New York City troupes called things like STRICTLY IMPROV, THE FIRST AMENDMENT, and CHICAGO CITY LIMITS.  Every weekend, we’d do three or four shows, some with start times as late (or early) as 1 a.m., charge five dollars a head and, if it was a good night and our hippy leader was feeling particularly generous, we might actually get paid.  Sometimes as much as ten dollars, which we’d promptly go spend around the corner at The Great Jones Café on a couple Rolling Rocks and a basket of fries while we relived that evening’s funniest moments.

     Ah, those were the days, my friend.  We thought they’d never end.

     Improv, which originated in Chicago back in the 1950s with folks like Mike Nichols and Elaine May at SECOND CITY, was made famous again by Drew Carey’s TV show “Whose Line Is It Anyway.”   

Basically, improv comedians are tightrope walkers working without a net – the fast-thinking comedy equivalents to jazz musicians.  We had a few set structures, some semblance of a beginning, middle and end, and then we’d ask for suggestions from the audience.  A place where two people might meet.  A personal problem.  A household appliance you could tell your mother about.

We’d take whatever the audience gave us and make stuff up on the spot.  (A great history book on Improv is called Something Wonderful Right Away). 

We’d take those suggestions and create scenes, songs, operas, poetry, movie parodies, blues numbers, mini-Shakespearean epics, and interview shows discussing the political topics of the day – like Ronald Reagan proclaiming ketchup to be a vegetable. 

When I tell people that Bruce Willis used to work with us, they sometimes act surprised, forgetting how funny and quick-witted he is, especially in the early days of his career on Moonlighting.   Kathy Kinney, who played Mimi on the Drew Carey show (and made eye makeup famous or infamous) was another member of our troupe as was Jane Brucker who starred as “the sister” in Dirty Dancing.

The New York Times, in one of several reviews of the First Amendment, said that improvisational comedy was basically “impudent madness.”  Thanks to their vast new on-line archives, I was able to reminisce with a review from 1983:

Chris Grabenstein is a bulbous Kabuki actor who bounces through a pseudo-Japanese version of ''Oklahoma!'' Jane Brucker, asked by the audience to improvise about chocolate in the style of Tennessee Williams, slinks about the stage, drawing a scarf around her neck and whispering, ''I'm just about as hot as a Snickers in a store where the air-conditioning has failed.'' The eight members of the troupe are energetic, athletic, good humored and talented. They have made the First Amendment Comedy & Improvisation Company, one of the best such groups around.

     The rules of performing improv are simple:  you say “Yes, And…” 

     You never negate what your scene partner starts.

     If the suggestion is “The Top Of The Empire State Building” and the performer you’re working with says, “Wow, King Kong looks smaller up close,” you don’t say, “No, that’s not King Kong, that’s my mother-in-law.”   You might get an easy laugh, but you’ve stopped building the scene.

     If you said, while lifting your feet slowly as if trudging through mud (or something worse) and fanning the air in front of your face, “Gee, I wonder how many airplanes he ate today.  The motor oil’s not agreeing with his stomach,” you could build a scene about a giant ape on a rampage, swatting everything out of the sky, and maybe end up with King Kong ingesting Air Force One and depositing the occupants, one by one, on the observation deck.

     Or who knows where you might go.

     This is why, when I write the John Ceepak mysteries or Christopher Miller holiday thrillers, I don’t outline much beyond the beginning, middle, and what I think might be the end. 

     Every day, I play improv games in my head and see where my characters might take me if I let them, if I place them into a situation or predicament and say “Yes, And” or, the writerly equivalent, “What if, and then.”  There are no “No’s” -- at least not in the first draft.  There is just mental jazz gymnastics, letting the moment and the story take me where it wants to go.

     Ah, these are the days my friend.  I hope they never end.

Jimmie Ruth Evans’ trailer park mystery series featuring Wanda Nell Culpepper in "Best Served Cold" is a Tart favorite. We knew Jimmie Ruth would be exactly the right person to dish on trailer trash.

A Closer Look at Trailer Trash

By Jimmie Ruth Evans

When you tell people you live in a trailer park, you know they’re probably going to be thinking two things. The first one is that you’re "trailer trash" – and that means somebody with no education, numerous missing teeth, and a family tree that has suspiciously few limbs on it. The second thing they think is that it won’t be long before they see you on the news – one of those stories about how a tornado ripped through the trailer park and basically destroyed everything you own. Or it might be a story about how some bubba got drunk at a bar and came home and killed his girlfriend because he caught her in bed with another bubba who was probably her cousin. The fact that the trailer park is in Mississippi makes it even worse, with all the negative thoughts people sometimes have about the deep South.

Where a person lives may say a lot about her income level, but it doesn’t totally define the woman. The heroine of my trailer park mystery series, Wanda Nell Culpepper, may not have a lot of money, but she’s not trash. Not by a long shot. She has to work two jobs to make ends meet, and she never went further than a high school education. Stupid she’s not, however. She made some mistakes in the past, like getting involved with Bobby Ray Culpepper in high school, getting pregnant, and having to marry the no-good sonofagun.

Wanda Nell isn’t the kind of woman to look back on the past and waste a lot of time on what might have been, though. She has too much to do in the here and now. She has her two daughters and a grandson living with her, and lately she’s been getting involved in some pretty unpleasant business. First, it was her ex-husband, Bobby Ray, who turned up dead in the woods near her trailer park, with the steel legs of one of her lawn flamingos stuck through his neck. She had to work pretty hard to convince the sheriff’s department that someone else killed Bobby Ray, plus protect her family from some pretty nasty characters. After that, somehow dead bodies seem to keep coming her way.

Some people might look at these characters and this set-up and still say they’re "trailer trash." No matter what you do, you can’t change some people’s minds. But you know what I see when I look at these characters?

I see family. These are the people I grew up with, the people I love and respect. They’re hard-working, they do what they have to in order to look after their own, and they’ll do anything they can to help a friend.

I see people who are down-to-earth, people who don’t put on airs to impress anybody. There may be people around them who are better educated, but it doesn’t mean those people are any smarter about living life and coping with all its little messes.

That’s what I hope my readers are seeing too.

Eileen Dreyer has entertained thousands of readers of mysteries and romance. But if you spend any time with her in person, you’ll find she’s deadly funny on the subject of writing and writers. The Lipstick Chronicles prevailed upon her to tell us her theories of the four types of husband of successful writers while she wasn’t out promoting her newest suspense paperback, SINNERS AND SAINTS.

The Four Types of Husbands for Successful Writers

By Eileen Dreyer

These are the four types of husbands seen with successful (meaning still employed) women writers. It started out being romance writers, but tracks right across into other genres. Husbands have been known to move from type to type, also. Unfortunately, more often in the
wrong direction. Ahem!

Husband Type 1: The Love Husband

Tends to show up after his wife has made her money. Has questionable background (membership in an heretofore unknown Indian nation or the Israeli Mossad is a favorite), even more questionable artistic talent, which the wife funds.

I do have pressings of one singing "between a rock and a hard place" in his leather thong. Finally, she sees the light and pulls the plug after catching him plugging one of the guests at a fan conference. We think one author killed and ate her husband after they procreated.

Husband Type 2: "Our Success"

He considers the career – created, managed and maintained by the wife – to belong to both of them. It is "our" agent, "our" contracts, "our" bestseller.

"Our Success" can often be seen shilling wife's work at conferences (I know this is completely unfamiliar to you guys), is particularly adept at shooting wife's career in the foot by interfering, insulting and aggravating every professional in her life. Truly the most uncomfortable of husbands, since at any publishing function he tends to stick to you like dogshit to your shoe.

And if the wife’s obnoxious, they tag team.

Husband Type 3: Mr. Threatened

He is so threatened by his wife's success and growing independence, that he either runs away --either physically or mentally – or becomes abusive.

Remember that the vast majority of us came to writing as a second or third career; moreover, our success was unexpected – at least by the husband. We've actually lost two romance authors to murder.

Husband Type 4: Mr. Perfect

I’m not exaggerating. He is perfect. He is supportive, supporting, at least as delighted as his wife by her success, his ego is completely separate from her success or lack thereof, he is a great help and the best cheerleader in the world. Okay, he will complain on occasion about the laundry not being done. But he doesn't mind being called Mr. Kathleen Korbel. In fact, he thinks it's a
kick in the head.

The really odd thing is that we realized that most of these guys bear a startling resemblance. I swear to God. They are mostly fair complected – light brown, red or blonde hair – medium to big build, and have what my editor calls "that cute pinchability" where you just want to take their cheeks and go "wudgy wudgy wudgy." Facial hair is optional.

Moreover, these men tend to fall into left brain careers: engineers, computer experts, chemists, etc. They tend to be much happier handling the practical side of the couple's life. If they partner with their wives to help with their businesses, they are excellent associates. They stick to no one’s shoes, but are remembered fondly by all they meet.

There is no known bridge between the first three husbands and Type 4. There is just this giant chasm. I've seen a couple of Type 3s make the climb to 4s, but I've never seen a 4 fall backwards into any other category.

And there you have it. I'm thinking of doing a paper for American Psychology.

By Elaine Viets

I’m delighted that my new book, HIGH HEELS ARE MURDER, will be discussed by the Heart of Tartness book club this Wednesday, November 15. OK, it’s true I know all the Tarts, since the book club is part of the Lipstick Chronicles. But I didn’t do any serious arm-twisting or anything. Well, I didn’t have to pay.

Anyway, for our link of the week, here’s a sneak preview of the cover and the first chapter: http://www.elaineviets.com/pages/novels/high_heels.asp

What do you think of the cover? I love those little knives in the shoes. Gives new meaning to "stiletto heels."

Barbara Peters’ The Poisoned Pen made HIGH HEELS one of the top ten paperbacks for November, along with Sarah Strohmeyer’s latest Bubbles’ mystery, BUBBLES ALL THE WAY. Check it out under Recommended Reading: http://www.poisonedpen.com/

If you want to read more than the first chapter, you can buy HIGH HEELS ARE MURDER, as well as Sarah’s book, at The Poisoned Pen or other mystery bookstores, including the one closest to my home, Murder on the Beach in Delray Beach. http://www.murderonthebeach.com/pages/fl_authors_details.asp?AuthorID=26

See you Wednesday.

While Sarah's making an undoubtedly distinguished appearance

                                          

at the New England Crime Bake, the Tarts are here to shamelessly plug the publication of BUBBLES ALL THE WAY.  No kidding, it's a hoot of a read with a blockbuster ending.  (If you're a mystery writer with a series character and you're wondering what you might be able to get away with---hooobaby, you need to read this book!)

To give you a taste, here's an excerpt. 

Romantic Times made the book a Top Pick! which we would prove by linking to the review, but it's not available unless you subscribe to the magazine--and even if you do, getting the website to allow you to see the review is a task Margie was too busy to accomplish before her hot date last night. Ahem.

Anyway, isn't this a cool cover?    So hip.  So Tart-ish.

Don't forget:  On Wednesday, we're holding a meeting of the Heart of Tartness Book Club and reading Elaine's HIGH HEELS ARE MURDER.  So while you're in the mood for witty mysteries, pick up a copy of BUBBLES ALL THE WAY.  Perfect for that pre-Thanksgiving weekend of relaxing reading.  Next week we'll talk turkey.

Meanwhile: 

By Elaine Viets

Readers always ask, "Which of your books is your favorite?"

My answer is: "Which of your children do you love best?"

My tenth mystery, HIGH HEELS ARE MURDER, came out yesterday, and I still can’t decide which one I love best.

My first Dead-End Job mystery, SHOP TILL YOU DROP, should be my favorite. The book is now in its eighth printing. It got me out of debt. I certainly loved that part. I came to love SHOP’s bimbo characters. I had to spend time with real bimbos to write that book, and I learned that these women are smart. Maybe not in any way you would admire, but I’d never call them stupid.

What about MURDER BETWEEN THE COVERS? I worked at a bookstore for a full year to write that novel. Bookselling was the one job I’d do for real. I feel better surrounded by books. I enjoyed matching readers with just the right book. I liked working with book lovers.

DYING TO CALL YOU was the job I hated most. I worked as a telemarketer. Telemarketing "boiler rooms" are modern sweatshops. We worked split shifts – 9 A.M. to 1 P.M. and 5 P.M. to 9 P.M., with a five-minute break every hour. The office was filthy. We shared broken desks sticky with spilled soda. It was a horrible job, but I loved that book, because I learned so much.

Nobody ever says, "I want to be a telemarketer when I grow up." People are forced into that job by debt, divorce, disease and dire circumstances. One woman was trying to pay medical bills for a grandchild who had a catastrophic illness and not enough insurance.

I learned most Americans have two sets of manners: one for people in their own class, and another for the downtrodden. I was surprised how many "nice" people enjoy being mean to those who don’t count in their world.

JUST MURDERED was set at a wedding dress shop, where people spent a quarter of a million dollars on weddings. Sex, major money and high emotion are a volatile combination. I wondered why there weren’t more murders during the nuptials.

I should love MURDER UNLEASHED the most. That was my first hardcover mystery. I thoroughly enjoyed working in the dog boutique. Dog lovers are a delight compared with telemarketing clients. But I didn’t love this one more than my other books.

My Josie Marcus mystery shopper series should have been my stepchild. I didn’t ask to write this series. My publisher came up with the idea. I jumped at the opportunity. My mother was a mystery shopper and I grew up in the business. She shopped with her best friend, just like Josie shops with her friend, Alyce.

But this series was more difficult to write. Josie is a single mom with a nine-year-old daughter. I had no children, so I had to borrow a friend’s kid to find out about girls that age. The result was DYING IN STYLE.

Now my new book, HIGH HEELS ARE MURDER, is out. In this mystery, Josie encounters suburban scandal, housewife gambling – and toe cleavage. I liked the offbeat information I discovered.

Do you know women with gambling problems may be discriminated against? Because they often prefer slots and similar games, they are dismissed as "granny gamblers" and their problems are not taken as seriously as poker-playing men.

Do I love this book the best? I love that it’s done.

But I love all my books. Not equally, but differently. I hope you will, too.

****

Join me here at the Lipstick Chronicles next Wednesday, Nov. 16, for the Heart of Tartness Book Blub discussion of HIGH HEELS ARE MURDER.

By Elaine Viets

When I was growing up, I carried the Bible in my book bag. I kept it by my bed at night. My mother was delighted to find her quiet A-student in religious study.

Good thing Mom didn’t look any closer. I wasn’t reading the Bible. I was deep into a banned book, which I’d hidden behind a Bible cover.

I grew up in the 1960s, which were really the 1950s in Florissant, Missouri. My church and my parents had long lists of forbidden books.

I read them all.

Many of the books banned when I was a kid are still under fire, according to the American Library Association.

Banned Books Week is September 23-30. Schools and libraries can’t stop pulling classics like "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn," "The Catcher in the Rye" and "Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl." They’ve added shelves of new titles to the banned list, from the whole Harry Potter series to books by Judy Blume and Maya Angelou.

Most books are banned for the finest reasons: to keep young minds unsullied by impure thoughts and bad language.

Please keep banning books. Yes, it’s wrong. It’s evil. It’s arrogant and un-American. But it’s the best way to get kids to read.

I believe in banned books. Here’s what they did for me:

(1) Banned books made me question authority.

How could any adult believe "The Grapes of Wrath" promoted Communism? That was the excuse my church gave for banning John Steinbeck. Once I read that novel, I knew the authorities were dead wrong. I figured they had to be wrong about other things, too. I was on the slippery slope to independent thinking.

(2) Banned books improved my mind.

Steinbeck, J.D. Salinger, Mark Twain, Harper Lee – I read all these banned classics. If a teacher had ordered me to read "Madame Bovary," I would have whined it was boring. Fortunately, it was banned. I reveled in every adulterous word.

(3) Banned books made me resourceful.

Or sneaky. Depends on how you look at it. I went to great lengths to conceal my beloved banned books. I read them by flashlight late at night, with a throw rug stuffed under my bedroom door.

Even the most trusting parent gets suspicious when a kid reads the Bible too much (some of those begats are pretty graphic), so I brought home piles of "age appropriate" books, such as "Little Women." They were good, but they lacked the zing of a banned book.

(4) Banned books made me strong.

Some of those suckers, especially the gloomier Brits and Russians, weighed several pounds. Hauling around weighty novels gave me real muscle.

(5) Banned books made me rebellious.

Banning books led me to more dangerous things, like racing semis on I-70 in Daddy’s Pontiac 444. Yes, there is a connection. Thanks to banned books, I thought rules were stupid, even good rules. After all, the same people who banned books made speed-limit laws.

My parents never guessed that their angelic A-student was having high-speed races on the interstate. I was lucky. The message in some of those banned books finally got through: I wasn’t immortal. I could wind up dead as any doomed heroine, if I didn’t take my foot off the gas pedal.

Don’t get the idea I only improved my mind under cover of that Bible. I read plenty of banned novels with no redeeming social value, including "Peyton Place" and "Valley of the Dolls." I didn’t always understand the sex, but I enjoyed the thrill of the forbidden.

Banned books were irresistible. I couldn’t stop reading them.

Banned books made me what I am today.

Think about that, next time you want to yank a book out of a kid’s hands.

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NOTE: For more information about books that have been banned or challenged, check out the American Library Association at www.ala.org/ala/oif/bannedbooksweek/bannedbooksweek.htm