What We're Writing--Debs on Nuts and Bolts

DEBORAH CROMBIE: When I first started writing, I devoured anything I could find about how other writers wrote. Computer or paper, morning or evening, outline or no outline. I was sure there was a magic bullet somewhere--a formula you could follow for tackling what sometimes felt like an insurmountable task.

It turns out that there isn't (or at least I haven't discovered it,) other than butt-in-chair, which just so happens to be the hardest thing for me. But I'm still fascinated by the nuts and bolts, how other people do this weird exercise in making things up and turning those things into a finished book, so earlier this week when Hank gave us a peek at her editing process, I was agog. Hank keeps track of her edits! 

I am the edit queen, I swear I can edit a page fifty times, but I do not keep track! I don't save drafts, either. Once something is over-written, it is gone forever. Yikes! Contemplating this makes me feel a wee bit insecure, as if I'm writing without a safety net, but I think doing it any other way would totally discombobulate me. 

As for what I'm writing that might disappear into the ether, I'm still plodding away at Kincaid/James #20. Is there a prize for tortoise authors, I wonder...

It's hard to find a spoiler-free snippet, but here, edited even as I copy-pasted, Gemma and her sergeant visit a restored barge on the Thames. (This is not the barge described, but a view of the same stretch of the Thames above Teddington Lock.)

They reached the sturdy-looking ramp and Gemma strode up it ahead of Butler, and onto the deck of the boat. Before she could knock on the cabin door, it opened and Mabel was jumping and sniffing at Gemma’s legs, the fan of her tail wagging madly. Gemma crouched to stroke her. “Hello, lovely girl. Nice to see you again.” She glanced up. “Davey, this is Mabel. We met yesterday.”

“Mabel, enough,” said John Quillen, now visible inside the cabin. “Inspector,” he added, then acknowledged Butler with a nod. “Sergeant.” His t-shirt and cargo shorts made Gemma feel seriously over-dressed, but he looked more haggard than he had the previous day. He was unshaven, his wavy dark hair disheveled. “Do come in. I take it you didn’t have any trouble finding us.”

“You might have warned us about the parking,” said Gemma as they followed him inside, softening the comment with a smile. “Wherever do you put your van?”

His features relaxed. “Ah. Sorry about that. Sometimes I get lucky. Otherwise, I have a mate who has a repair garage off the High Street in Teddington. He lets me leave the van in his yard when he has the space.” The three of them and the dog made quite a crowd in the barge’s tiny cabin and Gemma was relieved when Quill motioned towards the open interior doorway. “If you’ll go down, we can talk in the lounge.” Mabel turned and vanished into the opening with a bound. After another encouraging gesture from Quill, and with growing curiosity, Gemma followed the dog. She found herself on ladder-steep stairs and wondered if it might be easier to go down backwards rather than forwards, but she was already committed to the forward-facing descent.

At the bottom, she stood, gaping. Somewhere in her subconscious, she supposed she’d expected dark and dank in a living space that was at least partly underwater. But the light pouring from portholes and skylights flooded the long room before her, and her first impression was of colors, reds and blues and the golden warmth of wood. A drafting table anchored one end of the living area, and in the other, there was a small sofa, a coffee table, and an interesting-looking modernist leather chair.

With a pang, she realized it reminded her of the garage flat where she and Toby had lived before they’d moved into the Notting Hill house with Duncan and Kit. That tiny space had given her a much-needed sense of control over her chaotic life as a single, working mother, and she had loved it passionately.

I want to live on this boat! I wanted to live in Gemma's garage flat, too. Maybe my obsession with small, organized spaces is due to the fact that I live in a big, rambling, messy house.

REDs and writer friends, how do you manage drafts of your work? 

And readers, do you like references to previous books in a series?

P.S. Mabel is a liver and white springer spaniel, and I'm sure I'm projecting my spaniel desires, too.

P.S.S. If anyone has discovered that magic bullet, do let me know.

What I’m writing by Lucy Burdette plus a Cover Reveal!

LUCY BURDETTE: It’s been a busy stretch, what with making the transition from Connecticut to Key West, finishing the first round of edits on my book 16 (coming next July), working on a short story, working on a murder mystery for the Friends of the Library, and so on.

I can’t tell you too much about the new book without spoilers – for some reason this seems more challenging than with other books. But I remember talking about the inciting event in an earlier essay. This involved Hayley Snow going along on a safe custody exchange, which I know some of you worried about. I think I’ve fixed the book so that is addressed—we’ll see.

Here is a bit of the opening again, but this time with a note from my editor. There are a lot of notes like this sprinkled throughout the book, which can feel impossible when they first arrive. But I’ve learned that addressing them always, always makes a book stronger. The trick is to read all the feedback a couple of times and let it sink in over a couple of days—the answers will come! In summary, I’m very lucky to have this editor! I’m also grateful to have my long-standing writers group pals Ang and Chris to bounce things off.

Next, the manuscript will be sent off to the copyeditor. She or he will look for grammar and spelling mistakes, errors in the timeline, and general consistency. Over the course of 26 books, I’ve hardly had the same copyeditor two times in a row, so this process can be a little more fraught. Keep your fingers crossed for me please. Meanwhile, as we were driving, the cover arrived! (You can preorder here.)

What do you think? My only complaint is I wish some of that fruit was plates of cake and cookies:). But I'm thrilled to get a little mental rest from the book and work on some other things. (Although I'm rediscovering that short stories are hard!)

How do you celebrate the end of a big project? or do you just move on to the next item on your list?

**Meanwhile, here are some deals for you. The ebook edition of A DISH TO DIE FOR is on sale this month for $1.99! 

**The audio editions of THE KEY LIME CRIME and DEATH WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS are both on sale for $1.99! (Not sure how long this one will last...)

**Finally, after a several month delay, the audio edition of THE MANGO MURDERS is finally available!

Rhys on Leaving Clues.

 RHYS BOWEN: I have been extra busy recently, firstly with the edits for my next stand alone, then helping Clare plot the next Molly book, then come up with a story suggestion for next year's stand alone while at the same time writing the twentieth Royal Spyness book.

One of the things I'm passionate about is playing fair with the reader. That means dropping subtle and appropriate clues. I've noticed that not all writers do this. Agatha Christie, for all her brilliance, did not always play fair.  Poirot says "I happen to know that she was once wardress of a prison."  Okay. We didn't know that! And the books in which the first person narrator is the killer. I have to say in Roger Ackroyd she was pretty good about leaving subtle hints, but in another, which I won't name in case it's a spoiler for those who haven't read it, the narrator says near the end that he's been getting funny black turns when he doesn't quite know what he's doing.  We did not know that before!

So what kind of clues do you appreciate? Which authors do them well?

This Royal Spyness book, that I am calling TO CROWN IT ALL, takes place at the coronation of King George and Queen Elizabeth in 1937. a group of Georgie's friends and relatives are staying at her house before the coronation, plus a German man who has escorted Mummy from Germany. Oh, and there's a village fair going on outside the house. So it's quite a challenge to drop clues without being over obvious.  I'm not normally the spent match type of cluemaker. It's usually what somebody says, or doesn't say, or reacts to a statement by someone else. 

But this time I am using fingerprints. But what if they show the wrong person? What if one of Georgie's family actually seems to be the main suspect? 

It's quite a complicated plot: one thread involving Mummy, another involving security for the coronation and the crown jewels and yet another involving poor Georgie:  here are a few tell-tale lines about that plot. Georgie has been worrying about what to wear to the coronation. Since her husband has is only Mr. O'Mara she can't wear her peeress's robes if she's to sit with him. And she has no fabulous outfits. 

Then this happens:

At that very moment I heard a telephone ringing in the front foyer. I froze.  Mrs. Holbrook appeared, looking scared. “You’re wanted on the telephone, my lady,” she said in an awed voice. “It’s the palace.”

                      I couldn’t stop my heart from racing as I went down the hallway. Was it good news or bad? What if the secretary said he was sorry but could do nothing for my mother. What then? Then I would go over and bring her back myself, I decided. It didn’t matter what Darcy or anybody said. She was my mother.

                      “Hello?” I said into the receiver, hearing my voice shake a little.

                      “Lady Georgiana?”  It was a woman’s voice, a brisk efficient sort of voice.

                      “Yes,” I said. “This is she.”

                      “I’m sorry to disturb you but this is Lady Pierpoint, telephoning on behalf of Her Majesty. We’ve had a last minute set back for the coronation ceremony. Do you happen to know Lady Veronica Featherstone-Smythe? Lord Blanchley’s daughter?”

                      “I believe we’ve met,” I said, hesitantly, wondering what on earth this had to do with me.

                      “Horse mad, of course. Rode in a point to point and broke her ankle, stupid girl.”

                      I was still completely in the dark.

                      “She was to be one of the maids of honor for the queen at the ceremony,” Lady Pierpoint went on. “ Naturally carrying a train is quite out of the question and her majesty suggested that you would be a most suitable replacement.”

                      “Me?” The word came out as a squeak.  “You want me to carry the queen’s train?”

                      “My dear, you are an obvious selection. Closely related to his majesty and both their majesties report being extremely fond of you. You were mentioned at the very start but it was considered that the words maids of honor should primarily include unmarried girls. 

But given the circumstance and the late hour it was decided you would fit the bill perfectly.”

                      I was glad she couldn’t see me blushing. “Golly,” I said. “Well, I’d be honored.”

                      “Splendid. I’ll tell their majesties.  We shall need you up in London right away for a dress fitting.  I think you’re about the same size as Lady Veronica, which is most fortunate, but small alterations will need to be made.  Then you will be required to attend several rehearsals, the first at the palace, learning the correct way to walk with the train, then in the abbey knowing the procedure of where to stand. You are free to come when summoned, I presume?”

                      “Yes, yes of course,” I said.

                      “Jolly good. Well done. Then I look forward to meeting you. Good evening.”

                      I put down the telephone and stared at the marble staircase, curving upward into darkness. What had I just agreed to? Carrying a train up steps, through the vast nave of the abbey with the whole world watching. Not dropping it, tripping up, tripping someone else. Oh golly, I said.

                      A wave of panic swept over me. I tried to remember her name. Lady Point to point?  I had to stop myself from calling the palace and telling them that I had changed my mind. But the king and queen had asked for me.  And it was a huge honor. I could hardly turn them down, could I?

Poor Georgie. You know she tends to be accident prone. Nothing could go wrong, could it?

And while we're on the subject of Royal Spyness books, then next one, FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE is published in just six days from now. I'll be holding a launch event at the POISONED PEN IN SCOTTSDALE with two other Jungle Reds, Julia, whose book is out the same day, and Jenn, whose book was out a couple of weeks ago.  It's November 18th.  Who will come to support us?

What Hank's Writing--A Sneak peek! And on the Lookout for Typos

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: The new book is IN. YAY!

It's in production, which means they are making the bound manuscripts for early early blurbers, and then they will make the advance reader copies--not yet proofread, and not yet copyedited,  to distribute to reviewers. 

Meanwhile,  the copy editor is at work on the manuscript, to fix all (we hope) the dropped words and repeated words and errors and mistakes and stuff you cannot even imagine that's happened in the 617,852 (that's the real number) of characters and spaces in the manuscript.  

In two weeks or so, I'll get that copyedited version back, and make (I hope) all the corrections. And, as always, find even more errors. I have rally found some doozies in those copyedited versions--once when a character went to a place in an Uber, and then departed in her own car. AHHHHH.

It's always amazing to me, once I struggle and slog through that first draft (imagine Jenn climbing those boulders, that's exactly how it feels) how many changes get made in a book

Here's a page from the novel --on this particular day, the document was titled  "NEWEST Trying no phone 5-8." (My file titles are always hilarious. Like: "New New USE THIS ONE  6-6 no steps." There must be a better way, but I have not discovered it. This is page 10. LOOK at all those changes!

Here's another page.  Page 42. SO many changes! 

When I look back, I see why I did the things--the sentence structure was awkward, or with the wrong emphasis. It was not a tight as it should be. Not as dramatic. Not as thematic. It was repetitive (one of my pitfalls) or overly internal.

(And looking at these pages, right now, I can still see several things I will change in the copy edits.)

I adore the editing process. It's my favorite part. It's when I take that unwieldy first draft and try to wrangle it into  being the story I meant to write. I always find something new, and I always discover a theme I hadn't known was there.

And I am always always shocked and supremely thrilled when I get that final email from my editor--she'll say: "Pencils down! We're done!"

For this book--and you are the first people in the universe to see pages from it--we have no title that I can tell you now. And we will have no cover for a month or so.

But it's about a mysterious place crash. A missing influencer.  Her frightened pre-teen daughter. And a writer who is searching for happy endings.  

And it is almost done!

And now, Reds and Readers, I need a good idea for the next book. 

You DO know that advance reader copies are NOT copyedited or proofread, right? They are for savvy readers who know how to read around the errors, and understand they are not reading a final version.

 A while ago I was hearing a lot about typos in final books, though. Are those still as prevalent as they were at one point? 

Reds and readers, are you finding typos in books? Do you tell the authors when you find them?

Authors, do you want to know?

What she wrote: An insane survival move

HALLIE EPHRON: Jenn's post on Saturday about her insane bout of BOULDERING (what WAS she thinking??) and her question: what have you don't lately that had you questioning your sanity, or words to that effect... got me remembering the  research I did in order for Ivy, my massively pregnant main character in NEVER TELL A LIE, to escape from a locked attic in a Victorian house. 

(Fortunately I consulted experts in rope climbing and did NOT attempt it myself.)

To make it work, I had to give the Victorian house a dumbwaiter and research what kind of cables would still remain today. Then I had to give Ivy a back story: competitive rope climbing in high school. Then figure out how she'd use her rope climbing expertise to escape. (Oh, and I also needed a straitjacket to show up earlier in the novel. In fact, there already was one.)

Just researching rope climbing was terrifying.

Here's a part of the scene where Ivy repurposes that ancient straitjacket, harnesses her rope climbing skills, and makes it out alive. 

At last Ivy felt a vibration as the front door to the house closed. A little later the car door slammed. The engine turned over.

Now was her chance—her only chance. She had to get moving.

She scooped the straitjacket off the floor, held it out in front of her and rolled up the body, leaving the arms and dangling straps sticking out at either end. Then she raised the panel to the dumbwaiter. Draped the rolled-up straitjacket over the edge of the opening.

She sat on the dumbwaiter sill and swung her legs over, inside the shaft. Staring straight ahead, she braced her sneakers against the side walls.

Was she insane? She was thirty-three years old and massively pregnant. Still, her arms and legs were strong. And her other options were nil.

The baby shifted inside her, and Ivy felt a rippling arc across her belly like a shooting star. It could work. It had to. She would do whatever it took to keep this baby safe.

Don’t think. Just do!

Ivy grabbed the rolled-up straitjacket and leaned forward, fighting off a wave of dizziness and anchoring her senses on the steady patter of rain.

Don’t look down.

She wrapped the center of the thick canvas roll like a candy cane’s stripe around the cable—once, twice, three times—then pulled the spiral taut. Last, she buckled the straps at the ends of the sleeves together.

There would be no coach or teammates at the ready to climb up and rescue her, no mattresses piled up at the bottom if she fell—just a thirty-foot drop through pitch black to the packed-earth floor of the basement.

Visualize.

She took hold of the canvas-wrapped cable with both hands and slowly transferred her weight to her feet, resting them on the edges of two-by-fours on either side of the shaft.

It’s nothing more than a high curb, she told herself as she hooked one leg and then the other inside the strap sling and set her feet back on the ledges. She lowered her behind slowly into the buckled straps, bending at the knees, pushing down and feeling the spiral of canvas gradually tighten.

So far, so good. She ignored the fear that licked like flames at her insides.

She shifted more of her weight into the sling, feeling for two-by-fours farther down, just in case the spiral of canvas failed to generate enough friction to grip the cable. The cable rasped and groaned, but it held fast as the spiral of canvas kinked.

It was working. Now to descend.

Ivy transferred weight to her feet, easing up on the strap sling. The canvas spiral loosened. She tugged it down.

Would Melinda be arriving at the police lab already? Parking the car? How many more feet before Ivy reached the second-floor opening. Nine? Eight? In three-inch increments, that was going take… The math was discouraging. Hopefully, she had that long.

Ivy felt for a lower foothold, then inched the canvas spiral down. She could barely see her hands in front of her face. Above her, growing dimmer, was the rectangle light where the panel to the attic remained open.

She repeated the sequence again, and again, and again—bracing her feet against the shaft to loosen the canvas spiral and shift downward, then lowering herself into the sling, tightening the canvas roll, lowering her feet to the next foothold. She tried not to think about the darkness closing around her. Her every move echoed in the shaft.

Peristalsis. Eleven letters. She said the word, then spelled it as she continued inching her way down the cable, proceeding entirely by feel, imagining that the dumbwaiter was a snake and she was prey, slowly working her way through its digestive tract.

Arms and legs trembling with fatigue, Ivy kept going. Just as she was lowering her behind into the sling again for what felt like the hundredth time, the phone started ringing. The sound was reverberated in the shaft.

Ivy tried to ignore it. She felt for a lower foothold. Found it. The phone rang again.

She transferred her weight to her feet.

The answering machine clicked on. The canvas spiral loosened and she tugged it down a few more inches. Found a fresh foothold. The new voice message played, assuring the word that yes, she was just fine and still waiting.

“Ivy, where the hell are you?” It was Jody, screaming at the answering machine. “You know this makes me completely crazy. Are you screening this call?” A long pause. “Damn you!”

In the background, Ivy could hear Riker’s shrill cry: “Da-oo”

“If my son grows into a juvenile delinquent, it’ll be your fault. Would you pick up the frickin’ phone?”

I’m here! Ivy wanted to scream back.

“Honest to God, you can be such a pain,” Jody said, and hung up.

Focus. Concentrate.

Ivy’s clenched hands felt sweaty, slippery like they used to get during rope drills for Coach Reiner, especially when she reached the top of the rope and looked down.

She could imagine Melinda, chatting up the receptionist and flashing Ivy’s driver’s license. Banking on her disguise to fool the technician.

Soon Ivy had to reach the second-floor dumbwaiter opening. How much farther? She found herself staring down into inky blackness. She gasped and shuddered, panic rising inside her. One foot slipped off its perch. Then her other foot slipped. She fell with a lurch, and a moment later she was dangling from the straps by her armpits. Her legs bashed against the rough plaster wall, and her own screams echoed around her. The tough leather cut into her underarms.

But the canvas spiral had tightened and held fast. She flailed for another foothold, and at last she felt an exposed two-by-four on one side and a wider ledge on the opposite side to anchor her feet against. She rested for a moment, panting and catching her breath.

The wider ledge—Ivy looked down and saw a sliver of lighter gray, seeping through at just that spot. She steadied herself, sweat trickling into her eyes, legs shaking. All she had to do now was raise the panel and climb out. She envisioned her fingers uncurling, her hand reaching out and pushing the panel up.

Three, two one…let go! With a clean swipe, she reached out in the dark, felt for where she knew the lower panel had to be, and pushed. Then she grabbed back onto the canvas-wrapped cable.

The cable shimmied and creaked, but the panel hadn’t budged. Or… Was it her imagination, or did the band of gray light seem just a bit wider?

A shadow moved across it, and for a moment Ivy froze. Then she recognized the sound of Phoebe's claws on the wood floor just beyond.

She reached out again and gave the panel a harder push. The band of light widened to a quarter inch.

She wedged her toe in the opening, and it rose an inch more.

There was Phoebe, just on the other side. The dog put her paws up on the sill, sniffed at Ivy’s sneaker, and woofed.

“Shoo,” Ivy said, as she pressed with her foot, raising the panel halfway. The dog rested her white-whiskered muzzle on the sill. “Go away!” Phoebe’s back end wiggled in ecstasy. “Phoebe, sit!”

The dog obeyed.

“Stay!”

She lowered its head onto her paws. Amazing.

Little by little, Ivy managed to raise the panel the rest of the way. When it was open as wide as it would go, she planted her feet on exposed two-by-fours on either side of the shaft, grabbed onto both sides of the dumbwaiter opening, and shifted her weight.

The straitjacket loosened. Ivy held her breath as it slithered away into the darkness below.

I do not remember how the movie makers who turned my book into a Lifetime Movie Network movie ("And Baby Will Fall") filmed this scene, but it's THE one that readers often say kept them up.

I hope Jenn will use her experience bouldering in one of her novels. Combined with fantasy? Why not!

Is there a scene in a book or movie (Dorothy drenches the wicked witch? Tunneling to freedom in THE GREAT ESCAPE??) that's stuck with you where a character risks life and limb to get untrapped?

The Fish Bowl by Heather Webber

JENN McKINLAY: I'm thrilled to have a long time friend Heather Webber join us today to talk about her latest book THE FORGET-ME-NOT LIBRARY. I've been a fan of Heather's work forever and particularly enjoy her magical realism novels, with her latest being particularly poignant. Here she is to tell us more about what inspired her.

HEATHER WEBBER:

On a shelf in my office sits a fish bowl.

It doesn’t contain fish.

It holds memories.

I’ve been dealing with memory issues for a long time now. Most of my childhood memories are gone, with only a handful remaining. My teen years are slipping away as well. All my medical tests are fine, so I figure my brain can only hold so much. If something new comes in, something has to go out. Decluttering at its worst.

Fortunately, every once in a while, a long-lost memory returns to me, sparked by a song, a scent, a photo, a dream, a conversation.

I consider those memories as gifts.

Treasures, really.

The warm, wonderful feeling that comes with a returned memory is what inspired the idea for The Forget-Me-Not Library, my newest novel, due to be released this week. The story takes place in a small Alabama library where long-forgotten, treasured memories are hidden within the books. Memories that bring about peace and comfort and happiness.

Oh, how I wish it were a real place.

I’m doing everything I can to hold on to the memories I’ve been able to keep, which is where the fish bowl comes in. It holds mementos that I’ve been collecting for the past thirty years or so. Bits of my life that have been important to me for one reason or another.

Along with many other things, in that bowl are the first library cards of my children (who are now in their 30s!). The kids were each five years old when they signed up for their cards and had to print their names on them. Seeing those cards with those carefully-crafted, shaky letters always brings a smile and helps me to remember how excited they were to check out as many books as their tiny arms could hold.

Definitely memories to treasure.

Do you have a way of holding on to memories? Or recall your first trip to a library? I’d love to hear about it. One commenter will win a copy of The Forget-Me-Not Library.

ORDER NOW

A detour. A chance encounter. Two women who alter the pages of each other’s story.

Juliet Nightingale is lucky to be alive. Months after a freak accident involving lightning, she’s fully recovered but is left feeling that something is missing from her life. Something big. Impulsively, she decides to take a solo summer road trip, hoping that the journey will lead her down a path that will help her discover exactly what it is that she’s searching for.

Newly single mom Tallulah Byrd Mayfield is hanging by a thread after her neat, tidy world was completely undone when her husband decided that their marriage was over. In the aftermath of the breakup, she and her two daughters move in with her eighty-year-old grandfather. Tallulah starts a new job at the Forget-Me-Not Library, where old, treasured memories can be found within the books―and where Lu must learn to adapt to the many changes thrown her way.

When a road detour leads Juliet to Forget-Me-Not, Alabama, and straight into Tallulah’s life, the two women soon discover there’s magic in between the pages of where you’ve been and where you still need to go. And that happiness, even when lost, can always be found again.

HEATHER WEBBER is a national bestselling author known for crafting stories that celebrate the power of family, friendship, and community. Her novels, including Midnight at the Blackbird Café and At the Coffee Shop of Curiosities offer comforting tales of love, hope, and personal redemption. Heather loves to spend time with her family, read, drink too much coffee and tea, bird-watch, crochet, and bake. She currently resides in southwest Ohio.

What Was I Thinking?

 JENN McKINLAY: Surprising no one, I'm sure, many of my chats with myself frequently begin with "What Was I Thinking?" 

And it's not just my poor fashion choices such as wearing heels on a cobblestone street in Ireland or donning a T-shirt when it's obviously sweater weather. I'm talking those moments when you think how exactly did I get here?

An example? Bouldering at the gym with Hooligan 1. Don't know what bouldering is? Yeah, neither did I. It's basically free (no ropes) solo rock climbing on indoor installations. See picture below:

How it started: Overly confident.

How it finished: Got to the top and debated do I just fall fifteen feet or climb down the way I got up? Dilemma! 

I climbed down. Even with the fat marshmallow floor below -- truly squashy, might have napped on it if allowed -- I try not to fall if I can avoid it.

Who was responsible for this? Hooligan 1, natch.

http://www.boulderingproject.com

Hooligan 2 and I run 5Ks, which is a whole other What Was I Thinking -- usually around the middle of the third kilometer -- but H1 is a climber. He always has been part goat so when this gym opened in Tempe, he found his home away from home. H1 talked about it so enthusiastically that when he invited me to use his guest pass and try it out, how could I pass up the opportunity? He was also great about doing  "beta climbs" for me so I could figure out where to move my limbs, etc. There is real brain engagement in bouldering and also some panic. LOL.

My conclusion? Honestly, I loved it. It's a full body stretch, pull, twist, and turn style workout but when you get both hands on the "top" marker, the sense of achievement is pretty rad. Of course now I'm typing this with jelly arms but whatever...

So, tell me, Reds and Readers, what is something you've done lately where you had a What Was I Thinking moment?

Happy Halloween!!!

 JENN McKINLAY: I love, love, love passing out candy and checking out the Halloween costumes that parade across my porch. My favorites are when entire family dresses up together, but I am a generous candy giver regardless. There might be an extra fun sized chocolate bar tossed into the jack-o-lantern bucket for obvious extra effort but otherwise it's all good and everyone's a winner at my house.

One of my favorite things about October is the costume pics that come across my feed, starting in September. Since it's Halloween today, I thought I'd get us all in the mood with a few recent favorites.

Being from AZ, this was a winner for me:

Look at those baby Granny faces: Cuteness Award!

For those who remember Ye Old Blockbuster:

After Wednesday's post, I fear this is me:

Brilliant couple costume and very funny:

Another one for the couple/group:

I think that's Kenough - LOL.

What about you, Reds and Readers? What are some of your favorite costumes that you've either seen or worn yourself? Lookin' at you, Karen!

Haunted Houses by Jenn McKinlay

JENN McKINLAY: I remember my first haunted house. It was put on by the boy scouts in our small northwestern Connecticut town. There was a lot of giggling and slimy stuff and jump scares. It was the length of the stage in the school cafeteria/gym but it felt like a mile to my seven-year-old self. 

Full disclosure: I was the kid who could never let a hand or foot be uncovered by my protective blanket lest the monsters that roamed my room at night grab me.

Needless to say, after one jump scare to many, I grabbed my mom's hand and death gripped it all the way through the exit where I turned to her in relief only to discover she was not my mom. Not a monster but not my mom. I was teased mercilessly about that for years.

When the Hooligans went through their first haunted house, oldest was fearless. Nothing scared him. Not the spiders climbing the walls, the snakes on the ground, the zombies trying to grab him, or the vampire rising out of the coffin. Youngest desperately wanted to go through but he was terrified. Our solution? I covered his eyes with my hand and we went through together and while he jumped at the creepy noises, he managed to get through it. Now, they both go to those elaborate Scream Farms, but I'm good. I don't see well in the dark and the potential for me to wet my pants is high (sorry for the overshare), so, no thank you.

             Tiffany Haddish and Andy Lassner visit a Haunted House

How about you, Reds and Readers? Are you haunted house fans or no? What experiences have you had in haunted houses?

We Need to Talk About the Cats.

 JENN McKINLAY: Happy National Cat Day to all who celebrate! 

True confession. I did not grow up in a cat house...wait, that sounds weird. Let me rephrase. I didn't grow up in a house with cats. My people were bird people and as such they did not like cats. It just was the way it was and I didn't question it. We always had dogs and a menagerie of other critters so I wasn't deprived. 

The first cat I cohabited with was in college when my roommate brought home a tiny little orange fellow that he named Chubby in the hopes that as the runt of the litter, he would bulk up. Spoiler: He did.

I adored him. Having never had a cat, I had no idea how funny, smart, snuggly, and all around charming cats were. I lived in a three family house, second floor, and usually got home from bartending at two in the morning. Chubs would sit on the portico roof waiting for me, which meant I had to climb out the window and retrieve him on my way into my apartment. Good times! Still, Chubs was an excellent ambassador for feline kind. 

My roommate took off to be a waiter on Martha's Vineyard for the summer, and naturally Chubs became mine. When I moved to Arizona a few years after graduation, Chubs rode shotgun. Here we are in 1992 having just arrived in our desert digs.

Chubs passed in 2005 at the age of 17. I was devastated. The house just wasn't right without a cat so the Hooligans picked out the next two, Patsy and Loretta. 

Then, of course, I found King George abandoned on our front stoop at just a few days old. Next I found a litter, three of the four of which stayed with us--Shackleton, Wynona, and Tiger--and then tiny Henry climbed up into the skid plate of Hub's car and now he's ours as well. Patsy and Loretta passed a few years ago, so it's just the five gray tabbies now. Just five. LOL.

Oh, wait, then there's the yard cats that we share with our neighbors. Collectively, we trapped, spayed or neutered 25 cats in the hood. A tuxedo named Pepe, who never leaves our yard. We even got a collar on him. Then there are two Siamese old men, Sinatra and Deano, Mama (the mother of our found litter), Scooter, Pearl, Smoky, Tony, and Tom (aka Big Boy, who also rarely leaves our yard). None of them are homeable (way too feral) so we have built a cat sanctuary on the side of our house with little houses and a cat tree nestled under our grape arbor. Meals are served twice a day and they all show up - it's like a cat soup kitchen. A few of them let me pet them, the hairier ones allow me to brush them, and Pepe lets me pick him up. Just me, though, no one else.

So...I think it's safe to say I have become a cat person. Just don't tell my dogs!

How about you, Reds and Readers, are you a cat person or no? No judgement (well, maybe from the cats but not from me)!

WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN release day!!!!

 

BUY NOW

JENN McKINLAY: What a long strange trip it's been (to quote the Grateful Dead) to reach this release day. As most of you know I have written A LOT of books but none have punted me out of my comfort zone quite as far as this book. 

What was different? The world building, for sure. In mystery, a dead body really moves a plot along. In romance, there're the conflict between the two people who are clearly supposed to be together, but in fantasy, well, it's whatever you want it to be. Honestly, it felt like there were no rules!!! At first, I was resistant and wrote a mystery with romantic elements but as I turned in draft after draft, my editor kept pointing out that the more fantastical elements, the better, so I went all in.

In the end, our librarian who desires a quiet non-magical life, ends up dealing with a sentient grimoire, a pesky raven, an undead Viking, a ghoul, ghost pirates, and a very evil dark witch. Not gonna lie, it was an absolute blast to write this fantasy. I'm working on WITCHES OF QUESTIONABLE INTENT right now and having just as much fun since I'm much more comfortable in the world I've created. Clearly, getting out of my comfort zone was a good move.

How about you, Reds and Readers, what's something you've done that is out of the ordinary for you?

The staff of the Books of Dubious Origin collection:

More about the book: 

When a librarian discovers she’s descended from a long line of powerful witches, she’ll need all of her bookish knowledge to harness her family’s magic, in this enchanting cozy fantasy from New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay.

Zoe Ziakas enjoys a quiet life, working as a librarian in her quaint New England town. When a mysterious black book with an unbreakable latch is delivered to the library, Zoe has a strange feeling the tome is somehow calling to her. She decides to consult the Museum of Literature, home to volumes of indecipherable secrets, some possessing dark magic that must be guarded.

Here, among their most dangerous collection, the Books of Dubious Origin, Zoe discovers that she is the last descendant of a family of witches and this little black book is their grimoire. Zoe knows she must decode the family’s spell book and solve the mystery of what happened to her mother and her grandmother. However, the book’s potential power draws all things magical to it, and Zoe finds herself under the constant watch of a pesky raven, while being chased by undead Vikings, ghost pirates, and assorted ghouls.

With assistance from the eccentric staff of the Books of Dubious Origin department—including their annoyingly smart and handsome containment specialist, Jasper Griffin—Zoe must confront her past and the legacy of her family. But as their adventure unfolds, she’ll have to decide whether or not she’s ready to embrace her destiny.

Favorite Fantasy Series : Let's Discuss

 JENN McKINLAY: On the eve of the release of my first fantasy novel -- WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN drops tomorrow, in case you have inexplicably missed me talking about it for the past six months -- I’m thinking about the fantasy genre in general and, frankly, what books landed me here. 

The earliest fantasy book I can remember reading is C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I still think it has the most perfect title ever and I know it was particularly compelling to me because it merged the real world with an alternate one. For me, having a fantasy novel that has one foot in the known world always makes it that much more compelling. The next most impactful fantasy of my childhood was A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle, yet another perfect title. After that I was ready to step into a fully realized high fantasy which I did with Anne McCaffrey’s series the Dragonriders of Pern. From there, fantasy joined my love of mysteries and romance, making me a fully realized genre reader.

How about you, Reds? What are your favorite fantasy novels or are you a hard pass?

RHYS BOWEN:  when I first learned to read it was the Faraway Tree and the Wishing Chair. Then, like Jenn, the Narnia books, all leading up to the Lord of the Rings, my favorite book ever!!! As an adult I have enjoyed Anne McCaffrey and Ursula LeGuin but more recent fantasies have either been too dark or seem like pale copies. You know: Tom the fisher boy is the only one who can save the kingdom from the curse of Yurg! 

LUCY BURDETTE: First let it be said that I’ve preordered Jenn’s book and can’t wait to read it! But…when I read the question, I thought, I don’t read fantasy. Then I read further…of course I read and loved THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE  and A WRINKLE IN TIME. Plus, funnily enough Rhys, I’ve downloaded THE LORD OF THE RINGS and we are listening to it on our way south!

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Yes, so excited about Jenn’s book and I have it pre-ordered! I do read fantasy, and it sounds like we have most of the same fantasy lineage. I think my first foray was A WRINKLE IN TIME, then the Narnia books, then THE HOBBIT and THE LORD OF THE RINGS, then T.H. White’s THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING. I read McCaffrey and too many other fun things to name. I love Phillip Pullman’s AMBER SPYGLASS trilogy, and now there are more books continuing Lyra’s story. Apparently they are read by Michael Sheen so I think I’ll be going with the audio version of those! Lucy, I’ve been listening to THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING and have almost finished it–the narration is so good!

HALLIE EPHRON: I’ve been a huge fan of fantasy, starting with The Wizard of Oz which I read to myself when I was in fourth grade, along with the 15 or so sequels (The Marvelous Land of Oz, Ozma of Oz…) by L. Frank Baum (not so much the sequels by other writers.)

JENN: I remember reading The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to the hooligans when they were little and I was SHOCKED to discover the ruby slippers are...silver!!!

Later, The Once and Future King. The Golden Compass. The Golden Compass. All the fairy tales, especially the ones Disney adapted. Most of the works of Roald Dahl (The BFG! The Witches…). And of course, the Harry Potter books. 

And me, too! I’ve pre-ordered and cannot wait to dig into Jenn’s Witches of Dubious Origin.

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Jenn, I loved all those series you mentioned! Some others I’ve loved enough to read over and over: Lois McMaster Bujold’s Sharing Knife and World of the Five Gods series. She made her mark as a highly regarded SF writer and is just as gifted at fantasy. 

I adore Sharon Shinn’s Twelve Houses series, and after umpteen years she has a new novel set in that world coming out, so it’s the perfect time to catch up! Suzanna Clarke knocked me and the rest of the reading world out with JONATHAN STRANGE & MR. NORRELL. Katherine Addison (pen name for Sarah Monette) has an amazing five book series that began with THE GOBLIN EMPEROR, which was shortlisted for all the major Fantasy/SF awards. 

JENN: LOVED both Addison's and Clarke's books. SO good!

And finally, another of my fave SF writers, Martha Wells, has begun a new fantasy series that I loved almost as much as I love her Murderbot books. WITCH KING is the first novel, and its sequel, QUEEN DEMON, was just released this month!

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Oh, yes, you chose some wonderful and foundational examples!  Let me add The Diamond in The Window by Jane Langton–it’s in the “smart kids use their wits and determination to succeed” genre–my fave, especially for a nerdy kid like I was. Am.  Also The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet by Eleanor Cameron!  Oh, an my very total complete and life-long favorites are the Edward Eager fantasies–The Time Garden, and Knight’s Castle (where the four smart kids find themselves in Ivanhoe, and since one of them has read it, they know what to do) and Half Magic, where the secret amulet or coin or whatever it is will give you your wish, but  only half of it. So you have to wish for twice as much as you want. Which can be difficult–how to do you ask to be half-again twice not-here?

Once and Future King–I bet I think of that every day. And of course, Narnia. And all the Phillip Pullman, I could not believe how incredible the The Golden Compass is. (NOT the movie!)

Recently, though. Hmm.  

But of course Jenn’s is pre-ordered!

JENN: Hank, I loved The Diamond in the Window - I can still see the cover in my mind and remember finding it on the library shelves when I was a kid. So good!

Thank you all for the enthusiasm!!! It's very exciting to leap into a new genre.

How about you, Readers? Fantasy lover or no?