The news I've been dying to share. . . .

I have so much wonderful news to share today, I scarcely know where to start. First, since you are here, you see I have a gorgeous new website, but before I talk about that, my book cover for EVIDENCE OF LIFE is out!!! And I’m dying for you to see it! Feast your eyes! I think it’s stunning, one of the most compelling book covers in the entire world of books. Okay, so maybe I’m a bit prejudiced, but, truly, if you saw these eyes peering at you on-line or, better yet, if you saw them peering at you from a shelf in a bookstore, could you walk on by? Wouldn’t you just have to pick this book up? I don’t know how I got so lucky, but this cover captures the story that is EVIDENCE OF LIFE to a tee. Eerie and intriguing, yet lovely. I love the story in this novel; I loved writing it, and I hope you will love reading it, too. Look for it in March of 2013 or pre-order it now at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

And I’m sorry to continue gushing, but none of this would be happening without the village filled with fantastic people that opened its doors to me and extended me their faith and support, among them my fabulous agent Barbara Poelle and my equally fabulous editor, Erika Imranyi, and the whole fantastic team at MIRA. First they made this novel’s debut possible, then they framed it in this stunning, cannot-leave-it-on-the-shelf way!! It’s hard to put into words how grateful I am to them and to readers everywhere for this opportunity to put my work into your hands. Special thanks, too, to NYT bestselling authors Sophie Littlefield and Joni Rodgers for reading EVIDENCE OF LIFE and then providing their lovely endorsements. 

Now for the website. Isn’t it beautiful? To me this is one of the very best things about doing virtual business, the fact that you can build and design a virtual storefront with relative ease when compared to real world building and designing. This is noteworthy, I think, because the one thing that has been constant since I published by first indie book in August, 2010, is change. When I entered the world of virtual publishing then, my view was very different than it is now. A little over two years later, the landscape of my goals has widened considerably. Since then my opportunities have become as endless and deep as the sky. Looking back, I see that in opening that door, in allowing myself to take that leap, things, people, the right circumstances, all came together to achieve something much greater than what I originally conceived.

Imagine that the very thing you wanted to achieve is a beautiful jewel. It’s like that for me, and of course, a beautiful jewel needs an equally beautiful setting. Not one that would overwhelm the message, but one that visually, and in this case, virtually, enhances it. My website is a visual synthesis of the premise that launches each novel I’ve written and the others that are living now within the walls of my brain: At the heart of every crime, there’s a family, someone you love…  Whether it is a legally criminal act or more a breach of morality, there is collateral damage. Other people are affected, other lives devastated. The words, sentences, paragraphs in a novel spin out through the pages to unfold the story, but an image can capture a story in an instant. It can pull you through its doors in a heartbeat, or in this case, its virtual cover. Browsing websites and book covers is similar to walking along a row of shops. Why do you choose to go inside one and not another, if not for the window display, the setting for the jewel?

This particular setting, which so perfectly depicts the mood and ambience of the novels I write, was designed by Maddee James of www.xuni.com. She is a true artist with a fantastic and intuitive gift for finding out your vision for your virtual storefront and then translating it into images that capture the very essence of your idea. I loved and thoroughly enjoyed every moment of collaborating with her. She not only designed the site, she also redesigned the covers for my three indie novels.

I didn’t really intend to change those covers, but in what seems an almost universal experience in design, once one thing is done, it’s nearly impossible to stop there. While I love the old covers, I also wanted to create a cohesive look among them that would reflect the site and the nature of what I write, my brand, in other words. The gorgeous covers Maddee has designed, I think, perfectly reflect the idea of normalcy, of ordinary life … except things are a bit skewed, a bit off kilter. There’s the suggestion of impending calamity.

I am so fortunate to have found Maddee and www.xuni.com and I can’t thank her enough. Her artistry with my site and with the covers just has exceeded my every expectation. Thank you, Maddee!

   

Sample holiday reading treasures for free

Books make terrific holiday gifts, but finding perfect books for friends and family is always a challenge. If only we could flip through a few sample pages on our own schedules. If only the bookstore could come to us. Well guess what readers, we’re doing just that!

Twelve amazing authors have come together to offer you an amazing opportunity to sample their latest novels just in time for the holidays—12 awesome samples and quirky holiday-themed interviews in one FREE downloadable PDF.

Whether you like to read mysteries, romance, young adult, women's fiction, or suspense—this group has a book for you.

First Snow – Christine Cunningham
After The Fog - -Kathleen Shoop
A Charming Crime -  Tonya Kappes
Come Back To Me – Melissa Foster
Read Me Dead – Emerald Barnes
The Halo Effect – MJ Rose
Dancing Naked In Dixie – Lauren Clark
The Last Supper – Michaelene McElroy
The Hurricane Lover – Joni Rodgers
The Hounding – Sandra de Helen
Milkshake – Joanna Weiss
The Ninth Step – Barbara Taylor Sissel

Each excerpt is prefaced by information about the book and its author. Concluding each excerpt is an order page with clickable links to several online retailers

You can download the PDF “Holiday Sampler” here http://bit.ly/eBookSamples, and share it with friends by sending them this link: http://bit.ly/eBookSamples.

So go ahead and sample these fantastic novels from amazing writers! And don’t forget to help spread the word!

Happy holidays and happy reading!

Live to tell....

In movies when a film wraps I think they say it’s in the can. I’m not sure what they say when a book is finally through it’s last round of edits, but that’s where I am now with EVIDENCE OF LIFE: finished with the last round of edits. Erika, my fabulous and stern guide and editor at MIRA, has given the novel her blessing. It should be a relief, and it is in many ways. I’m at work now on Book #2 and loving it. But some days I can’t concentrate on the writing for thinking of next April when EVIDENCE OF LIFE will make its debut into the world.

It’s not unlike the young women who make their society debuts. I find I’m thinking in those terms. Oh, she needs the proper dress. Oh, she should be introduced to the right people who can showcase her to the max. My attention wanders and all at once I’m not writing anymore, I’m looking at websites, I’m talking to publicists. I’m learning the steps to a whole new dance. Finally I organized notes and with them in hand I phoned Barbara, my fabulous, calm and experienced agent to ask for her guidance. I mentioned to her that where I was one year ago (an indie author with one book indie published) and where I am now (three indie books published and a sale to MIRA for two more) are such unbelievably different places. I have to remind myself that it’s real, that all this change has really happened. And I have to remind myself that it’s about the writing. And while that’s true, and foremost, it’s also about the business.

Because of what use is it to pour your heart and soul into your art, and to have others engaged in pouring their hearts and souls into the same endeavor, only to relegate it to some shelf where all it gathers, after its initial unveiling, is dust? I can play it safe or step off the ledge. I can go for the well-lighted, well-trod path or go for broke. Joseph Campbell suggests that to find the real treasure of ourselves we have to go into the forest through the dark gate, the one nobody else has opened.

What I’ve found along the way to this place where I am, that is both wondrous and fraught, is an unexpected and remarkable s-curve in the unfolding of my journey. Much of what I’ve experienced isn’t at all what I imagined it would be when I was chasing the rainbow of being traditionally published. In fact what I think is that I had no idea how to imagine it. What I think is that the more I know the less I know, if that makes sense. In EVIDENCE OF LIFE, my heroine, Abby, goes on a journey, too. She is similarly challenged to rethink and reprocess all she thought she knew.

Good, bad or indifferent, huge changes in life can be disconcerting. Events come along and they don’t
necessarily show up the way we planned or when we planned. Sometimes they come long after we’ve given up. Often, in the midst of them, there’s no way to see where we’re going, whether it’s safe. And it’s for sure hardest to feel there’s any gift when the worst happens, but—in my experience, anyway—the gift is always there. My son David said to me the other day that it didn’t matter whether the change was cause for celebration or desolation, the stress is the same. He also likes to quote that great John Candy line from the classically hysterical movie, Planes, Trains and Automobiles, that we have to be: “Like a twig in the shoulders of a mighty stream.” John Candy. Who knew he was a philosopher?

Maybe the essential ingredient for change is trust. Because it’s for sure when you are caught out on the ledge and you peer over into the abyss, there’s no net. But think about this too, if you don’t step off, you’ll miss the thrill of flying and with a little luck you might catch a good wind, the lift of a strong warm thermal, and who knows where you could land, what wonderful unexplored territory could be there, yours to experience and to share … if you don’t crash and burn. If, instead, you live to tell?

BUY THIS BOOK: QUIET

The world is loud and people are always talking, more now than ever with the advent of social networking. It doesn’t matter anymore what time of the night or day it is, you can find someone to chat with, if not in person or via telephone then virtually, through Facebook, or Twitter, or any number of virtual venues. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, so many voices, opinions, words, noise. I think everyone, regardless of how extroverted they are, how socially inclined, feels oppressed by all the racket. I think that’s why when I walked into a Barnes & Noble not long ago and saw a book titled QUIET, I was automatically drawn to it. I scarcely bothered to read the endorsements of the author, Susan Cain, nor did I care much about her credentials. It was that word: quiet. I couldn’t resist it like the man in the desert thirsting for water. I have had the thought in the past that the human brain is a bit like a car’s accelerator and once in a while the driver really does need to take their foot off the gas.

QUIET gives so much support for the beneficial effect of pure silence, of aloneness, versus the sometimes deleterious effects of near constant noise. One of the aspects of the book that I found compelling was the history behind introversion and extroversion. Back in the day, think in terms of Abraham Lincoln’s and Albert Einstein’s eras, introversion was valued above extroversion, but in the 1950’s that changed. It became imperative in public schools that children be judged/graded/rewarded/honored/accepted based on their ability to socialize. It wasn’t enough that you could read/write/create/use your imagination. It boiled down to whether you could be popular and well liked by others in addition to being honorable, virtuous and smart.

From the text: “In the nation’s earlier years it was easier for introverts to earn respect. America once embodied what the cultural historian Warren Susman called a “Culture of Character,” which valued inner strength, integrity, and the good deeds you performed when no one was looking. You could cut an impressive figure by being quiet, reserved, and dignified. Abraham Lincoln was revered as a man who did not “offend by superiority,” as Emerson put it. According to QUIET, as the Culture of Character declined, it gave rise to our modern-day Culture of Personality.

Although some critics/ reviewers have suggested QUIET is biased toward introverted types, I didn’t find that to be so … maybe a bit, but for the most part I found the treatment evenhanded. Consider this from the text:

“[I]ntroverts like to be alone--and introverts enjoy being cooperative. Studies suggest that many of the most creative people are introverts, and this is partly because of their capacity for quiet. Introverts are careful, reflective thinkers who can tolerate the solitude that the idea-generation requires. On the other hand, implementing good ideas requires cooperation, and introverts are more likely to prefer cooperative environments, while extroverts favor competitive ones.”

To me, this suggests, sensibly, for my money, that it takes both types to bring about the desires and inventions of mankind. Regardless of which category we fall into, we can use a hand from the other. Nothing was ever created in a vacuum. As an introvert I have to say I was glad for the validation. It was a true and real relief to learn that living in my head is not the curse I’ve imagined it to be all these years. I’m not retarded, odd, or mentally ill. And it was interesting to discover that introverts can often be very social in the right circumstances, that, in fact, they can be extroverts, which I have been at times in my life. It works the other way, too. One note I was inspired to jot down while reading is that people will make a lot of noise in their heads to keep from having to confront, learn, deal with who they really are.

QUIET explains a lot about our psyche, the way we work and why. It is thoughtful and insightful, gentle, but very compelling in its tone. It is quiet and I highly recommend it.

Visit Susan at her website, which itself is worth the trip.

A tiny nest for grand creating

I have always loved making a home and for me, the experience of doing this begins at the street’s edge and extends to the limit of my view and ability and right to design to my taste the sort of story I want to tell, to share with passersby and visitors alike. I never used to think of designing a home in that way, that in bringing together elements we love, and collecting and arranging them just so, we are really telling a story about ourselves. We are teaching and learning and expressing who we are. What is that if not a story? It may even speak louder than our voices if it’s true that a picture is worth a thousand words. I know people who come into my home know me. They see the stuff I’ve dragged in here, from bird’s nests, to beetles, to a gorgeous antique French armoire and a tattered leather-bound edition of a novel titled Lucile that was in my great-grandparents’ library and they get a sense of who I am. Possibly that I like nature and old things and gardens, all of which is true.

There are days when being creative at writing fails me. I think its resistance. I am determined to tell the story in my head, the one that’s going to make a novel, but my brain refuses to cooperate. If perseverance doesn’t break down the barrier, I leave the writing and find a project. I get into my stuff, my home stuff, and I play. I add to my nest. I am like a bird bringing the new new bit of straw, or a dried flower, or a tuft of lint from the drier that caught on the grass, into my little place. I’m weaving a different sort of story, but for me it’s a story all the same. It’s as if my muse appreciates a different venue, another way to find expression. Often the resistance dissolves in the happy light of doing this, of making new art.

The other day, a very dear friend of mine, knowing our shared love of making a home, recommended a magazine, Romantic Prairie Style, and in it I found a tiny poem that perfectly expresses the way I feel, and in such an economy of words, I am in awe. It is called My Home and it’s by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

This is the place that I love best,
A little brown house, like a ground-birds nest,
Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,
Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
Far from the city’s dust and heat,
I get but sounds and odors sweet.
Who can wonder I love to stay,
Week after week, here hidden away,
In this sly nook that I love the best—
This little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest?

James Prosek's creative nest

Another very dear friend, Guida Jackson, without whose mentorship I might never have become a writer, commented recently on something I posted on Facebook about tiny homes. She said my fascination with them and all things tiny reminded her of an interview she heard on NPR with an artist, James Prosek. I was intrigued and visiting his website found his space described as “cozy” and “slightly rustic”, comparable in size to a “two-car garage”. It has a potbellied stove and sleeping loft beneath a pitched roof made from wide planks of chestnut wood. Six low-hung windows usher in an abundance of natural light. I can only imagine the serenity and joy he must find in painting and writing there.

“It's my little room,” he says. “All of my stuff is here and no one can get at me.” He goes on to say, “I try to make it sound smaller than it is. There’s a small space where I work because I want it to be a humble space. Humility is a big part of being open and receptive to everything you see. Part of being a good observer is to know you don’t know anything.”

Like Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s poem, this says so eloquently in just a few words how making a home is so much more than the stuff. It’s the receptacle that contains the sense of yourself, your essence. It describes us and defines us. It informs us and others of who we are. “Artists need a story,” Prosek says. “This space is my story.”

I couldn’t put it better myself. My home/work space is my story too.

The beautiful wreckage

Today I finished a draft of EVIDENCE OF LIFE, the novel MIRA will publish in April of next year. You would think I would feel elated or relieved, something happy, but that isn’t ever how this process seems to work for me. I feel more like a motel on the side of the road, the one everybody forgot when the big highway got built, that has the “Vacancy” sign lit all the time. I feel like that announcement, “Elvis has left the building,” if you were to substitute “My brain” or “My sensibility” for Elvis. The focus for me when I edit is so intense. For days/weeks/even months on end, I try to hold in my mind the story’s timeline, the position/interaction of all the characters, the plot points, red herrings, pacing, character growth, emotional tenor … all these details in a single dish, arranged in a coherent pattern. Does each element proceed with grace to the next? Beads on a necklace, matched pearls, or as nearly perfect as I can get them. By this point I love these people; I know them like my own family. I want them to step, full-blown, off the pages for the readers as they do for me. I think the letdown I feel once I’m done, before the sense of accomplishment comes, (because it does, finally, every time!) is connected to my sense that I can believe to the center of my being I have done them and the story justice and I am, indeed, finished, and yet, I know it's a lie because if I were to look again, take a peek at the pages, I’d change something. I’d look in my Thesaurus for a better word. I’d rearrange a sentence, a paragraph, something. My difficulty is in letting go, pushing the manuscript out the door, off-loading it from my machine onto my lovely partners’ in crime, my agent’s and editor’s, machines. But I did it today. It’s done, so yay!

And then I went to the grocery store. The one in my neighborhood has beautiful fresh flowers for sale. I usually stay far away because fresh flowers are my weakness, but today I thought I could have something beautiful and so I treated myself to a bouquet of peonies. They were a favorite flower of my mother’s. She grew a row of them along our fence line in Des Moines. They were so beautiful and smelled divine and when I saw them today, I thought of her and I thought how thrilled I am to be an author for MIRA with a novel coming out next spring. And I wished she were here. I wished I could see her smile. She was a writer too and passed her love of the written word, her love of exacting self-expression, of finding just the right way for that, to me. In regard to books and life in general, she challenged me to read between the lines for meaning. She said if it was the truth, I would recognize it by the way it resonated. She taught me to stretch beyond my capacity to understand, to look deeper, and then she took time to talk about what I read and what I thought  with me as if it were valuable. I can see her at her desk clacking away on her Smith Corona. She wrote short stories, adult stories and children’s stories. She wrote poetry. She sent us outside, my sister and brother and me, to play on summer mornings and we’d hear the typewriter through the open windows. She mailed off her stuff and she got rejected, over and over. It broke her heart and made her sad. I remember that too.

And I remember the day I told her I wanted to write, that I didn’t want to study classical ballet anymore as she had wished/planned/paid for lessons we couldn’t really afford. I remember when I made my announcement, she wasn’t very happy and said, a tish sarcastically, how fine it would be if I were to be published before her. I never wrote another line after that, not for years and years, except for my journals. Not until after she died. I didn’t realize it then, that her response came from her unhappiness over never having fulfilled her own dreams. She wouldn’t say that to me now. She would be thrilled for me, I know. Why else would the florist shop in the grocery store in Texas have peonies so late in June? When they seldom have them even in spring and they usually cost an arm and two legs?! And I brought home not one, but two beautiful bunches for less than ten bucks! It was her gift to me, her bouquet of love and congratulations. She’s the one who taught me to look deeper than the surface, to read between the lines, that there’s the text and the subtext. I know she sees me, what I’ve accomplished; I just know it, that she’s with me. Thank you, Mommy! For the unique and beautiful wreckage of my childhood, its hidden layers, its unexpected gifts of wisdom. And for the gorgeous peonies!

What is your safe place?

Lion head brass and wrought iron bed circa 1880

This month, in honor of Dawn Raffel's wonderfully inspiring book, The Secret Life of Objects , a memoir of personal objects and mementos that are made meaningful and treasured by the passage of time, the League of Extraordinary Authors blog has invited writers and readers to share thoughts and memories about artifacts large and small that connect them to important people, places and moments of their lives. Today, I shared a story about this rather large artifact, a brass and wrought iron bed that I slept in as a child that as an adult became an island of safety for me. I hope you'll come and read my short piece here and the others as well, and perhaps contribute one of your own.