The Island Where It Happens

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Nantucket changed my life. Truly. It’s where Jonathan and I met, and my every memory of the place is wrapped in gossamer happiness. So when I heard about Steven Axelrod, who sets his mysteries (from the amazing Poisoned Pen Press) on the island, I was instantly hooked. 

So—welcome Steven! And I laughed and laughed when I heard about his main character--a bad poet! Brilliant.

HANK:  Your protagonist, Henry Kennis, has to be the world's most literate police chief, bar none. How did you decide to create a cop who writes poetry on the side? 

STEVE: First of all, I write poetry myself -- very much like the accessible reality-based verse that Henry composes, which is not really in fashion now. The wife of one of my MFA program professors, a very prominent modern poet, read Nantucket Five-Spot (which was written as my creative thesis) and remarked. "I love the fact that hero is such a bad poet! So charming." I guess I couldn't resist the urge to let some of these "bad" poems see the light of day. 

But it's an appropriate hobby for a detective. Crime solving and poetry require the same leaps of intuition, the same ability to make and recognize odd connections and relationships. Beyond that a poem is a good x-ray of a character's heart and soul. The poems help the reader get to know my Police Chief a little better.  

HANK:  The backdrop of your new book is the backstabbing world of local theater, in this case Nantucket's. The vicious confrontations between the characters who populate this  novel feel quite authentic... Have you yourself participated in local theater and experienced this level of drama?

STEVE: I did a fair amount of community theater acting when I was Henry's age, and I saw my fair share of high drama and low comedy in that milieu. The theater scene on the island seems much more serene these days. But  that's okay -- inventing conflict and setting crazy characters at each others' throats is part of my job description.

HANK:  You spent a portion of your childhood in a Hollywood environment, with your father being the famous writer/director George Axelrod. (Listen to this, reds and readers. His father is  best known for his play, The Seven Year Itch, which was adapted into a movie starring Marilyn Monroe. He was nominated for an Academy Award for his 1961 adaptation of Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's and also adapted Richard Condon's The Manchurian Candidate.  MY total FAVORITE. ) Anyway. So cool! 

STEVE: My Hollywood ties have frayed somewhat over the years though I remain a member of the WGA(w) thanks to a development deal some years ago with a big TV producer. There is currently some interest in the Kennis books as a series from different "content providers" I guess I should call them, to be as vague and cryptic as possible ... but it's hard to tell how serious any of them are. I keep my fingers crossed, though it tends to interfere with my typing.

HANK: I know the feeling!  So--When you prepare for a new novel, do you first outline everything from soup to nuts? Or are you a write-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy?

STEVE: I'm a combination of the two. I've always envied writers like Stephen King who apparently just charge into a book and let the plot details sort themselves out, with what Nabokov called "the velocity of intuition". 

HANK: Oh, I’ve never heard that. I love it. Is that what you do? 

STEVE: I tend to be more cautious. I need to know the ultimate outcome before I start -- who done it and why, and at least some of the clues red-herrings and detours that will lead Henry to the culprit. You're always telling two or three parallel narratives in a mystery, with several of those scenarios throwing  suspicion on the wrong people. The links between these versions of reality are the clues, which can be interpreted different ways -- the RACHE written on the wall in blood that Gregson and Lestrade assume to be an almost completed name -- Rachel. But Sherlock Holmes knows it's the German word for revenge.

HANK: Oh, we have to talk. More I cannot say. But wait til you read my new book The Murder List. J  But we digress.

STEVE:  So ... within that macro-structure, the big picture of the novel, I attack the story one chunk at a time, carefully outlining the piece I'm working on and usually emerging from it with only the vaguest idea of where I'm going next. So I read through the notes, refresh my memory about the larger story and start outlining the next bit of the plot. 

This gets simpler as the story goes on. Tales narrow down and pick up speed as they approach their climax and the writing becomes easier as more and more decisions have already been made. 

My father always told me, "If you have a problem with act three, the real problem is in act one." He referred to those final blissful writing days that sweep to the end of the story as "picking the daisies" -- flowers you meticulously planted many pages ago. All that being said, the actual content of each scene remains wildly improvisational. Except for a few essentials, I really have no idea what my characters are going to say to each other, or which way their conflicts will go. 

And that makes every writing day fun.

HANK: We are the same! But you are so eloquent about it. I just freak out and cross my fingers. Last question:

With Nantucket being so tiny, is it a challenge to come up with new plot concepts that don't tread on the ground already covered?

STEVE: I wrote a thriller twenty years ago and my agent at the time warned me "You better know what your next couple of thrillers are going to be. I'm branding you as a thriller guy." That scared me. I had literally used every idea, gimmick, action set-piece and plot device I had ever come up with in that book. I had been pebble collecting for it since high school. Now I was supposed to write another one? I had nothing, and told her so. Maybe I should have faked it -- the book never sold. Anyway, it's just the opposite with Nantucket. The little resort island teems with stories, plots, feuds, grudges, history and conflict. I'm always learning new things, from the existence of secret cock fighting clubs (Which I used on the first page of the new book) to the fact that the dump was built on an Wampanoag Indian graveyard. Spooky! The material seems inexhaustible. 

Nantucket is America in miniature, with all the wealth inequality, immigration issues, opioid addiction, gang crime and bureaucratic malfeasance a crime writer would wish for. The island is experiencing massive tectonic social changes. The larger aim of my books is to chronicle those changes  -- and try to make sense of them.

HANK: Yes, yes, this is so thought provoking! Reds and readers, have you ever been to Nantucket? Would you like to? What’s your image of it? Or where’s one place that changed your life?

 

Nantucket Counterfeit by Steven Axelrod 

The fifth Henry Kennis mystery takes us into the closed, gossip-riddled, back-stabbing world of Nantucket’s community theater.            

Horst Refn, the widely disliked and resented Artistic Director of the Nantucket Theater Lab, has been found stuffed into the meat freezer in his basement. Most of the actors, all the technical crew, and quite a few of the Theater Lab Board members, whom Refn was scamming and blackmailing, are suspects in his murder. The island’s Police Chief Henry Kennis has to pick his way through a social minefield as he searches for the killer.

At the same time, Henry’s daughter’s new boyfriend, football star Hector Cruz, has been accused of sexting her. Carrie knows the offending pictures didn’t come from him, and Henry has to prove it before the boy gets suspended, which means probing into the family secrets of Hector’s father, a firebrand agitprop playwright, who happens to be a prime suspect in Refn’s murder.

Every story is a fiction, every identity proves false, and every statement a lie. The counterfeit bills found at the scene of the crime are the most obvious symbol of the deceptions and distractions that obscure the investigation. The truth lies buried in the past, in Refn’s earlier crimes and the victims who came to Nantucket seeking revenge.

When the culprit has been revealed, the last masks torn off, and final murder foiled—live, on stage, during the opening night of Who Dun It, the eerily prescient opening drama of the Theater Lab Season—Jane says to Henry, “Is everything counterfeit?” He smiles. “Almost.”

Steven Axelrod holds an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts and remains a member of the WGA, despite a long absence from Hollywood. His work has been featured on various websites, including the literary e-zine Numéro Cinq, where he is on the masthead; Salon.com; and The Good Men Project; as well as the magazines Pulp Modernand Big Pulp. A father of two, he lives on Nantucket Island, Massachusetts.

Francine Mathews--Death in Nantucket

DEBORAH CROMBIE: One of the (many) blessings attached to writing crime novels for twenty-plus years is the writers you come to admire--and the friends you make--along the way. For me, one of those is Francine Mathews. You may know her as Stephanie Barron, for her wonderful novels featuring Jane Austen as a detective, or for her brilliant and original stand-alone novels. But I came to Francine's books with her first series, featuring Nantucket police detective Merry Folger, and those books have remained in my sacred shelf of favorites ever since.

Luckily for all of us, new readers now have a chance to know Merry, too, and there is a new novel to boot! Here's Francine (my favorite ex-spy) to explain how it came about.

FRANCINE MATHEWS:
WHEN YOU NEED AN ISLAND IN THE WORST WAY

Twenty-five years or so ago, I was working as an intelligence analyst at the CIA. I’d been assigned to Eastern Europe, because the Berlin Wall had recently fallen and the lack of knowledge on the part of the US was staggering. For example, I was supposed to study the region but I knew not a single East European language. I’d been researching Brazil in graduate school when I was hired. But the situation was dire--none of the Iron Curtain apparatchiks we’d been following for years was in power any longer, and none of the old intel assumptions applied. I spent my days researching and drafting psychological profiles of emerging leaders, people who’d been dissidents for years, like Vaclav Havel of Czechoslovakia and Lech Walesa of Poland. It was interesting work, but I suffered from something of a Princess Complex. I hated having to be at my desk from 8 a.m. until 6, regardless of whether anything life-shaking was happening in the world; and I figured out quickly that NOBODY is really capable of nine solid hours of mental effort. Most of us pretend we’re working for at least half of that.

How much more efficient, I thought, if I simply put in a good four hours of work each day? --And did it at my own desk, instead of the Agency’s?

So I proposed the idea to my husband. What if I quit my job, stayed home, and tried to write a bestseller?

He was a little bemused by the suggestion. But he took me seriously enough to offer me a challenge. Don’t burden your dream with the necessity of financial success, he said. That’s too much pressure. Everybody has a good idea for a novel. Very few have an entire book in their heads. See if you can FINISH a story. And if you can—we’ll talk about you quitting.

I mention all this because it catapulted my writing career.

I knew it was a mistake to attempt the Great American Novel straight off the bat. The sort of people who’d taught in my college writing program—Toni Morrison, Joyce Carol Oates—specialized in those, but it seemed a tall order to me. This was essentially an exercise designed to convince my spouse I deserved to work in my pajamas, right? I cast about for a story template, something I could analyze (like an unknown East European leader) and emulate. I hit on my favorite kind of reading: The murder mystery.

I’d been devouring detective stories since I was a kid. I’d been watching them on PBS. I was inspired by authors like P.D. James and Elizabeth George (and later Deborah Crombie) who advanced the puzzle plot into a complex study of the psychological development of characters. I was also impressed by the strong sense of place and social order that certain localities, particularly British-based mysteries, gave to the world these authors created. I began to think seriously about setting interesting people in a distinct landscape and burdening them with violent conflicts that absolutely could not be ignored.

I chose Nantucket Island to live on, for the next nine months or so that my writing project required. Why Nantucket? I had first seen the island at the age of four and had loved the place forever, it seemed. I had spent my seventeenth summer as a nanny exploring the terrain with a three-year-old on the back of my rented bicycle. But I got there from DC all-too-rarely, now. If you have to inhabit a place in your mind on a daily basis and torture its inhabitants, it had better be a place you passionately miss. 

It seemed to me then, and still does today, that small New England villages offer delights similar to those of Agatha Christie’s St. Mary Mead. I would go further and argue that they have the same sterling qualities peculiar to Jane Austen’s universe of “two or three families in a country village.” Intimate observation of character, penetration of motive, and familiarity with ordered traditions—as well as the ways they can be violated—are the gifts of the amateur detective. They work for Emma Woodhouse in Austen’s eponymous novel as well as for Miss Marple in Nemesis.

In my case, however, I chose to make my protagonist a professional: the first female police detective on the Nantucket force, an institution run by her father and grandfather before her. Merry Folger is descended from one of the four founding families of the island, a lineage that dates back to the early 18th century. She knows Nantucket on an instinctual level, but her island is no longer an isolated, windswept and foggy world teetering on the edge of the Continental Shelf. It’s a tourist destination half the year, slowly overwhelmed by the rarified economics of outrageously wealthy Summer People who invade in jets every three seconds during the peak months of July and August. The potential for violent strains in a small community is amplified by the cultural divide between islanders and off-islanders, natives and Summer People. I’m particularly obsessed with the Nantucketers who sustain the island’s police, firemen, schools and basic services—but can barely afford to live there. They feel displaced and usurped and yet vital to a community that is their birthright; and those emotions often express themselves in violence. 

I managed to finish my Spousal Exercise. It had a beginning, a middle, and an end. I gave it tentatively to a few people to read. One of them was my mother-in-law, a newspaper editor with an acquaintance who was a literary agent. Without informing me, she sent it to him—and a few months later, I had a two-book deal.

I quit my job and moved to Colorado.

I eventually wrote four novels in the Merry Folger Nantucket mystery series during the 1990s, before exploring other themes that intrigued me, in standalone espionage and the long-running Jane Austen mysteries I write under the pen name of Stephanie Barron. The Nantucket years were golden. They coincided with the childhoods of my two sons, whom I carried off for summer weeks among the dune grass and the wind. I would spend hours researching such things as fishing fleets and heroin addiction and climate-based beach erosion and the dying scallop industry and the impact of lawn fertilizer on the algae bloom in the Harbor—or occasionally, how FBI forensic psychologists approach serial killers. But in between, I’d buy fresh harpooned swordfish and cook it on the charcoal grill for my sunburned boys while they played baseball in the yard with their dad. It was perfect.

A year or two ago, Soho Crime asked me to consider republishing the entire series, which had gone out of print, and write a new novel in Merry Folger’s life. The books had never been digitized for eBook download, and this was a perfect opportunity. I agreed to the idea, on one condition: That I be allowed to bridge the twenty-year gap that now existed between Merry’s original outings and the current Nantucket reality. That meant I would have to reread and revise the first four novels I’d ever written...twenty-seven novels later. Friends and relations, there is no more hideous assignment on earth.

Sitting down with that Spousal Experiment for the first time in two decades convinced me it should never have seen the light of day, much less a literary agent or publisher. On the one hand, it was comforting to recognize that I’d learned something in all the years I’d been writing. On the other, it was embarrassing to think that I’d put my name on this thing in the first place. And a blessed relief to be able to edit it again before it was offered to current readers.

I decided to bring the action forward from the 1990s—nobody’s favorite decade—to an achronological present. That way, the new fifth novel—DEATH ON NANTUCKET, due out in hardcover from Soho June 6th—moves seamlessly from the previous book, DEATH IN A COLD HARD LIGHT. Moreover, all kinds of tech advances in the intervening years have transformed police work. Consider that there was no DNA analysis when Merry debuted, much less cell phones or electronic crime databases, and you begin to get the idea.

My favorite thing? New covers.

The reissued Nantucket books are gorgeous trade paperbacks instead of mass market editions, graced with the images of Cary Hazelgrove, a longtime Nantucket photographer whose work I’ve collected over the years. They offer moody, atmospheric visuals that perfectly capture the whole world I wanted to describe in print, all those years ago.

My husband and I went back to Nantucket last May to research DEATH IN NANTUCKET. In mid-May, the Summer People have not yet arrived. Most of the restaurants aren’t even open. You can easily find a parking space on Main Street. Painters are scaling ladders to brighten the clapboard fronts of the gray-shingled buildings and landscapers are sticking hydrangeas in the ground. We drove an open jeep all over the island, revisiting the places we’d loved with our boys: the turtle-fishing pond in Madaket near the Town Dump; the hedge-lined houses we’d rented on Eagle Lane and Carew Street; the ice cream place in Sconset. For a few days, it was our island again.

In my heart, and Merry Folger’s, it always will be. 


DEBS: Readers who aren't familiar with the Merry Folger books, you are in for such a treat. 


AND we have an extra-special gift for today's commenters--Francine is giving away two complete sets of the five Merry Folger books!!!!

So tell us in the comments if you would like to get to know Merry, and tell us your island of choice for a dream getaway!

Meanwhile, I am dreaming of Nantucket...

Here's more about DEATH IN NANTUCKET.

"Mathews takes readers on a holiday tour with an ocean view, complete with a murder mystery as twisted as the emotions that family can evoke."
   —Publishers Weekly

Spencer Murphy is a national treasure. A famous correspondent during the Vietnam War who escaped captivity in Southeast Asia, he made a fortune off of his books and television appearances. But Spence is growing forgetful with age; he's started to wander and even fails to come home one night. When a body is discovered at Step Above, the sprawling Murphy house near Steps Beach, Nantucket police detective Meredith Folger is called in to investigate.
The timing couldn't be worse: It's the Fourth of July, Merry's planning her wedding to cranberry farmer Peter Mason, and her new police chief is gunning for her job. Merry is inclined to call the death at Step Above a tragic accident . . . until another member of the Murphy clan comes to a brutal end. As Merry grapples with a family of unreliable storytellers—some incapable of recalling the past, and others determined that it never be known—she suspects that the truth may be forever out of reach, trapped in the failing brain of a man whose whole life may be a lie.


 

An Island of Her Own

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Some of you will recall from earlier blog comments that I've been away on a one-woman writer's retreat. I'm leaving Nantucket today, after spending almost two weeks in my agent's otherwise empty house. It's been the best vacation I ever had, and that includes lounging on the beach in Cancun and hiking around the Highlands of Scotland. Honestly? If I wasn't getting phone calls from my husband reminding me that he misses me - a lot, so please come home soon - I'd just hunker down here until spring.

Well, I do also miss my dogs.

What have I done while here? Not much. Walked into or out of town on errands or visits a few times. Had drinks twice with a brand-new friend who feels like an old friend. Shoveled out the drive after the second blizzard. Went to church on Sunday and Ash Wednesday. Mostly, I've written. And what a pleasure and gift it is, to get up in the morning and realize, after making the bed and getting dressed, that I have nothing at all to do except write. In a quiet, clean house, where there's no dinner to fix or laundry to fold.

I have also fallen in love with Nantucket. Specifically, Nantucket in winter. I'm sure it's quite lovely and all in the summer with the beaches and roses and beautiful young things with tan legs biking around town. But I love the beauty of wind-scoured headstones and empty streets heavy with snow, and the gray-on-on-gray compositions of shingle houses, bare trees, and looming storm clouds.

This one's not mine - I clipped it from CBS News.

I also love the small town that's left behind after the tourists go. I went to St. Paul's Episcopal twice, and by the second visit several people smiled and welcomed me back. I've kept company with Nantucket historian Frances Ruley Karttunen (my agent's Aunt Fran) who came with Uncle Al husband to stay at "my" house during the blizzard. She introduced me to a few people and when I went to see her speaking at the Whaling Museum, I felt like I was sitting with a bunch of neighbors.

Picking up groceries at the Stop and Shop was like an after-church coffee hour, one person after the next hailing a friend and catching up. I'm not sure if it would be possible to do a quick dash in and out if you were a native.  When I went walking, drivers would wave as they passed me. Not many drivers - as near as I can tell, half if not more of the houses in town are shuttered for the winter. I have the feeling if I stayed one more week I'd probably wind up on a committee for historical preservation, or as a volunteer at the Atheneum, the town library.

I confess there's also a glamorous side to the winter here, albeit a different kind of glamor than the New York media celebrities and Masters of Wall Street of summer. The new friend I mentioned above is New York Times bestselling author Nancy Thayer (who loves mysteries!) While eating lunch at the Fog Island cafe, she said, "Oh, here's another writer friend I want you to meet! Nat! Come over here!"



It was Nathaniel Philbrick, Pulitzer Prize finalist and winner of the National Book Award. (He was very nice.) Uncle Al turned out to be Professor Emeritus Alfred W. Crosby, who pretty much single-handedly invented the discipline of ecological history. Nancy's husband Charley Walters, who gave me a fabulous tour of their 1840 house, is a former music critic for Rolling Stone.

Can you imagine who I might have met if I got to stay another week?

Coming off this amazing opportunity for daily writing and connecting with so many fascinating people, I have come to the conclusion that we need some sort of foundation - a large, well-funded foundation - whose sole purpose is to give crazy-busy women the chance to be alone and quiet and work at ---you fill in the blank. Their paintings, their books, their sun salutations, their souffles. In the meantime, I hope you all get a chance to run away from home - for a little while - to a place as marvelous as Nantucket.

Many, many thanks to Meg Ruley, David Lovett and the many members of the Ruley family who made my writing retreat possible!

Me and Aunt Fran after her talk at the Whaling Museum.

Getting to Know You Day

Whoooo are you? Who who, who who?
**The Who

HANK: Hey! Who's out there? If we talk about what we're doing and where we are and what we're thinking, will you do the same?

It's Getting to Know You Day on Jungle Red!

One of us has a brand new book out--hurray, Rhys! So she gets to go first and get the spotlight. The rest of us are..well, you'll see.

And then it's your turn. Introduce yourself!

And one lucky commenter will get a free copy of Rhys' new book! And hey, why not, someone else will get one of mine--AIR TIME. (Any other JR's want to jump in here? Watch the comments, readers, and see!)

RHYS: Royal Blood is spilled today!
Today my penniless royal heroine is back with a new adventure, called Royal Blood.

Lady Georgie is thrilled to be asked to represent the royal family at a wedding in Europe, until she finds out it's at a castle in Transylvania. She is a modern young woman. She doesn't believe in vampires--but something is definitely crawling up the castle wall, and why does the bride have blood running down her chin? Rhys has had tremendous fun with a completely spoof of the vampire genre. If you love to laugh and be scared at the same time, then this is for you.I'm setting off on a book tour this week, and would love to see Jungle Red fans along the way. The schedule is posted on my website.

HANK: I'm in Boston, and where did summer go? My dahlias are amazing, and I can't even cut them fast enough. Still fighting the stupid biting ugly earwigs that love to live in the beautiful flowers. (Is that a metaphor? I do think it is.)

In my study, working working working. Will it be a new book? I'm thinking about how many people it's believable to have killed in one two-week period in one city. A big city. So--what's ridiculous and what's logical? (On so many levels.) I had a synopsis, but that's getting changed every second as I write the actual book.

In my day job as TV reporter--desperately looking for a blockbuster story or two. (Any ideas?) And got a new sweater dress and boots. So it's fall, for sure. (Anyone wearing the little ankle boots with skirts? Can't get used to the look.)

HALLIE: I'm enjoying everything about summer's end. Going barefoot. Eating delicious fresh tomatoes and corn. Sleeping with the windows open. Walking on Wollaston Beach (Boston) where it's easy to find parking.

Noticing how all the weeding this summer I did in my garden has paid off and everything looks abnormally tidy and peaceful. Ideas for the next book are starting to bubble up. Did we have stretches of hot disgusting summer weather? I've already forgotten.

Also gearing up for "Seascape Escape to Write" retreat in Madison - this will be the fourth time Roberta and I and S. W. Hubbard and I have run this intensive Friday-Sunday workshop in a wonderful house that used to belong to Marlo Thomas and Phil Donahue set on the beach in Madison CT.

ROBERTA: Of course, I'm getting ready for "Seascape: Escape to Write" too! We're expecting 15 students this year, all crime fiction writers--so that's a lot of work reading everyone's submissions so we can be prepared. Always so much fun to put faces to the names and the work--and then to watch the stories improve over the weekend by leaps and bounds!

Last night, I took the train into New York (from Connecticut) to the MWA New York chapter meeting where James Patterson was the speaker. I won't take up too much time here--I've posted more on my blog. (http://www.robertaisleib.com/blog) If you don't think that room was crammed with people wanting to know the secret of his success!

And work--yeah. Slaving away on a thriller, maybe it's suspense, never can tell the difference. And waiting to hear about a couple of other irons in the fire. Does everyone have their fingers and paws crossed out there?

JAN: After two and a half weeks on the beach (in Nantucket) I'm ready for fall. I never want to eat grilled food again, and I'm thrilled to be home and back to my work routine. While I was away, I got a lot of big breaks on my non-fiction book, tentatively named the Combat Zone, and am working out the fine points of the proposal. This is the same 1976 murder I wrote a screenplay about and let me tell you, it's incredibly hard to go from a Screenplay to a book. You have to get the first structure out of your head, but it doesn't want to stay out. It keeps infiltrating.

I also finished the first draft of my novel, The Devil In Waverley, when I was on vacation YAY!!! Still a a second draft to go, but the Challenge and the change of seasons have done wonders for me. And if I'm being completely honest, I've benefited from tennis elbow and not being about to get on the court!

ROSEMARY: I was at the Patterson dinner too. Got to sit with the great man himself. Really charming - especially when one questioner asked how he chose his writing partners "Do people send you sample chapters?" Yeah, right!

My garden (in Connecticut) was heavenly this summer, but I'm bringing in far too many plants to overwinter. Spent two long wonderful days at the US Open and hope to see Roger Federer hoist that trophy before I head for the Cape where I will kayak and hatch some ideas for next book.

Oh, yes...lots of drama this week over the cover for SLUGFEST. Life would be so simple if people just did what I told them to do.

HANK: Oh, YES. I'm with ya, Ro. Going to mention that to my boss right now. And SPILL! What did James Patterson say? And as for paws and fingers,yes, crossed. Big time. (And for you, too.)

So, your turn! Who's out there? Where are you? What's on your mind? What are you working on?

It's the thought that counts...sure it is.

RO: I know I'm supposed to feel it's the thought that counts - and every other year I'm good at pretending I really like the gift that my darling husband buys me. But every OTHER year I can't seem to suppress the urge to say something along the lines of "what posessed you??" or "gee, I guess this will go with all of the other Carmela Soprano-like jewelry I have."

As soon as the words leave my lips I regret them. If I don't actually utter the offensive words, there's still "the look." The frozen smile. The eyebrows disappearing into my bangs. I'm horrible...I know it.

But I can't help it.

We've been together now for close to 20 years and if you count Christmas, birthdays and Valentine's Day presents that makes approximately 60 times I've had to grin and bear it...and pretend to like the autographed picture of Alan Houston..the camera that wasn't the model I asked for..the incredibly expensive earrings that would look lovely on a 25 yr old hooker or the dvd of The Sound of Music (I'm more Martin Scorsese than Maria von Trapp.)

He tries so hard - he's taken to emailing my friends and asking them for advice. But it's no good. If it's possible to misinterpret or hear a name wrong, he will. If I want silver, he gets gold.

To be honest, I'm not the best gift buyer either. I had a good run in the early 2000's - kayak, telescope, prescription diving mask, bicycle. But I'm running out of ideas and he's running out of hobbies. Right now his favorite activity is reading The New Yorker. And he gets a comp subscription. If I buy him another sweater he's going to have to learn the Mr. Rogers song..."Will you be my friend?"

It's not that either of us needs more stuff, but I'd just like to open a present one day and think "Wow! That's just what I wanted!!"

So..on the outside chance that some significant others are reading this post, what do you all want for the holidays?

JAN: I want to NOT spend a ridiculous amount of money on Christmas. I say that every year, it never works. Bill loves Christmas. He's frugal about a lot of other stuff, so I can't complain.
He knows to consult me first on jewelry decisions (but we've been together 33 years, and its taken that long....) and it helps to have a daughter with excellent taste. She considers it her personal mission to do most of his Xmas shopping for him..... I lucked out.

PS. Have you heard that Verizon ad: "If it really was the thought that counted, wouldn't there be thoughts underneath the tree?"

RO: I love it!

RHYS: I learned long ago to be specific if I wanted something males are not good at buying. eg: Go into Nordstroms, first jewelry counter on the right, third necklace from the left. (or even tell them that my husband will be coming in so please help him). But having been married waaaaay longer than 20 years, I've resorted to pyschology. I ask for presents that a. he will approve of and b. he will have to research--his favorite occupation. So last year I got the most fabulous camera. I am still in love with it. One thing that doesn't work is to say, "I'd love a surprise." I said that one year and got Winston Churchill's War War 11, because he wanted it. My problem with him is that he doesn't want presents. If he needs something he goes out and buys it. Even if it's a week before Christmas he'll go to the store and buy what he wants. Infuriating.

RO: Bruce does that too! He just bought a laptop and a camera..in December..what's up with that??? (So..how was the Winston Churchill documentary? Was it The Finest Hours..I loved that one.)

HALLIE: I love soap. Seriously. Especially if it smells like mango or tangerine. Or dark chocolate-covered just-about-anything. Or tulips--especially near the end when they get that "in flagrante" look and seem to be about to fling their petals. Oh yeah, and good caviar and champagne. Generally speaking, give me sensual stuff that disappears when it's used up.

RO: Sensual stuff that disappears when it's used up? Do you think you were a man in a previous lifetime?

ROBERTA: I'm like Rhys, I don't leave too much to chance. I've been known to even order the item in question and then hand it over to be wrapped. My inner control freak at work, I'm afraid. Last year my hub turned up with a gift certificate to the store he knows I love. Now that was a great surprise! And he almost always delivers a box of chocolate-covered cherries from one of the local chocolate shops. He can never go wrong with that!

HANK: Jonathan is amazing at choosing jewelry, and that's what he generally buys. To my great delight.(When we first met, we were strolling down the street in Nantucket, and he said, "What kind of jewelry do you like?" I was so hilariously overwhelmed, I said, "Hang on a second, I have to go call my mother.") But this year, I don't need a thing. Not one thing. But I do love...shower gel. And grapefruit-smelling anything. And scarves and shawls. What to get Jonathan? One hundred per cent impossible.

RO: Yikes, with all this thinking, maybe it is the thought that counts. Aside from the thoughts, I'd like the last two seasons of the Sopranos on dvd, a signed copy of U is for Undertow, a white gold and pearl ring and a black cashmere sweater, but I promise to love whatever is under my tree this year.

(Stop back tomorrow for JR's favorite non-mystery books to give for the holidays. And visit us on Wednesday when book blogger extraordinaire Jen Forbus tells us about her incredible Six Word memoir project.)

YOU NEVER KNOW DAY

Journeys end in lovers meeting,

Every wise man’s son doth know.
**********Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 3.

HANK: This vacation time of year, my thoughts turn to love and travel. Why? Because just this time of year, 14 years ago, I met Jonathan.

I had been invited to share a house with a group of friends in Nantucket. I was six months (or more?) out of a deadend reationship (another story) and said--no thanks. And then I reconsidered. Of course, why not go? So I packed up my books and my bike and my tennis racket, and headed to Nantucket on the ferry.I was so--unready to meet someone, I didn't even bring any makeup. (I will pause while you howl with laughter.)

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, another person sharing the house had invited Jonathan. And the other person didn't know I was coming.

I arrived from Boston. Jonathan arrived from Boston. I took one look and thought--yikes, get me to drug store make-up counter. (I didn't go, by the way. I thought--this is me. Take it or leave it.)

We haven't been apart since then.

But we don't celebrate the anniversary of the day we met. Every year, we celebrate the anniversary of the day BEFORE we met. We call it "You Never Know Day." Because you never know what wonderful thing is just around the corner.

How did you meet your true love? By chance, by choice, by fix-up, by proximity? And how do you know it was the real thing?

JAN: Although my older brother and I hung around a lot together, when I followed him up to Boston University he told me not to expect to hang out with his college friends. I had to make my own friends.

A year later, he decided that he really didn't like my friends, especially not my boyfriend, who he claimed spoke in "monologues." So he fixed me up with one of his friends, Bill. He didn't tell me he was fixing me up, he just brought Bill back to his apartment one night when I was there cooking him dinner, and we went to a party afterward, Then he pressured Bill until he called and asked for a date. And yes, I knew immediately it was the real thing.

My brother passed away young - at 26-years old. Ironically, since I stayed in Boston, I've spent my entire life hanging out with his college friends.

HALLIE: Mine was a fix-up too. I was a junior at Barnard when I ran into an ex-boyfriend on the corner of Broadway and 116th Street. He asked how I was and I said "fine." In truth I was between men but this ex was an extremely odd duck and I didn't want to give him any ideas. He must have been far more perceptive than I gave him credit for, because a few hours later I got a call from his roommate inviting me to a college hockey game. I went and had a great time. Took me a lot longer than my husband to realize it was "the real thing." But 40+ years later I'm utterly convinced.

ROBERTA: Sorry to hear you lost your brother so young Jan--sounds like he was the best kind of friend! I met John at a singles tennis night at the racquet club in the next town. We got matched up for mixed doubles and had a good time. But when he called to ask for a movie date, I couldn't remember who he was. (I attribute that to being blinded by my infatuation with an inappropriate guy who was quite enamored of himself.) After about six months of playing doubles with John (as friends), I began to realize just how special he was. So I invited him to dinner one night. "Who's coming?" he asked. "You," I said. And we've been together ever since.

HANK: Aw, Roberta, that's so sweet.

RO: Well, I knew right away Bruce was the one. He took a little convincing though. To the tune of 13 years before we actually got married. He was the boss when we first met, and um, otherwise engaged. I left the company and got on with my life and then we hooked up again in - of all places - Las Vegas, where we were both attending a video convention. At a show filled with fading B actors, wrestlers and adult movie stars, we were two of the more normal people there. It was fate. Then we dated for 10 years. (Why rush into anything?)

HANK: I was at a signing the other night--talking about AIR TIME (on sale tomorrow, whoo hoo, stop by here then to hear more and WIN BOOKS!).

Anyway, in AIR TIME Charlotte McNally has to decide if she's found the real thing--both in her reporter life (tracking down the source of phony designer purses), and in love. (And in the dedication: flight attendants.)

A woman came up to me afterwards, and told the story of how she'd always always always known she wanted to be a flight attendant. She got the job, passed the tests, and boarded for her first flight. And sitting in seat whatever--turned out to be the man she later married. And they just celebrated their twenty-fifth.

You never know.

How about you all?

(A big week coming on Jungle Red: Tuesday, big contest! Wednesday, Megan Kelley Hall with the secrets of promotion. Thursday, Marilyn Brant on seeing mystery authors as others see us. And Friday, coolest of the cool Seth Harwood!)