Mount Hermon, part 2

I'm not home yet. I got to my mom's last night, greeted by my teary-eyed kids at the airport. I missed them so much. Of course this morning, Josh has already thrown up and we have a flight out of here in four hours. Should be fun.

We decided the last day that maybe what happens at Mt. Hermon should stay at Mt. Hermon. Okay, it’s really not as bad as it sounds. We stayed up late a couple of nights telling really bad stories that I can’t even remember and laughing a lot. I haven’t done that in a long time. It’s good for you. And, obviously, I did a good job as a body guard. Nobody died. Well, at least not on my blog. According to Brandilyn Collins mayhem was afoot. Mike was even implicated in the scheme. However, the best news is . . . no one got to see my one-armed cartwheel.

Monday night we got kicked out of one of the buildings at 11:30 by the security guards. The previous night we closed down the soda shop at 11 then stood around outside for another half hour or so talking. Nothing deep. Really. Most of it was incredibly inane. But it was a ton of fun. Before we went to the soda shop, we had tried to play basketball. We walked all the way down to the gym to find it locked. The workout area was open, and it was gorgeous, but we couldn’t get into the courts. Then Mike found the women’s room was open and tried to get in that way. I wish I had taken a picture. Mike and Chris and Chris were all standing in the doorway of the women’s bathroom. I think that would have made good blackmail. Why no one asked me to go in to check I don’t know. It must have been because they were protecting me. Right? Yeah, I write fiction.

The phrase “grandma’s house” will from this time forth have a new meaning. Mike and Chris stayed in one of the cabins and they called it grandma’s house because that is exactly the aura this place had. I finally got to see it on the last day. Mike and Chris really needed someone to look out for them. They both forgot essential items like toiletries and clothing items.

Speaking of which, it rained off and on during the conference. I was pretty cold the first day or two then seemed to adapt. But the last day it just poured, and I had to haul my luggage down two flights of stairs, then up another out in the rain then down hill. I found out everything, including my computer bag, was waterproof, but I was soaked from the knees down. When I got to my mom's house last night I realized it wasn't exactly waterproof. A couple of books were nearly ruined and everything was quite damp.

Our room wasn’t grandma’s house. I forgot to take a picture of our room. We had the triple deluxe, which was pretty nice, like a hotel room. It had three beds, two twins and a double, which Jeanne and Pam left for me. Aren’t they sweet? The beds were comfortable, the shower hot and the temperature good. We had a nice balcony that only got used when Pam stepped outside to spray her hair. It had a great view but it was just too cold or too wet to sit out there.

This is the central area. I wish I had more time to explore the grounds. They are beautiful with streams running through redwood forests and plenty of hiking trails. It was just too cold or too rainy to do much exploring. However, they do a family camp in July which I’m thinking might just be the ticket.

A few people blogged from the conference. Brandilyn, Dave Long, Chris Mikesell. Check out their stuff. Chris has pictures of us. Good pictures too.

Mt. Hermon is a long conference. I think we were all at our limit by the last day, especially since we were getting less than six hours of sleep a night. But the connections and the learning and the friendships are just invaluable. Next year’s conference will be March 30 to April 3. I’m already saving my pennies.

Tomorrow, I'll talk more about the actual classes I took. If we survive the trip home.

Mount Hermon, part 1

Sorry I haven’t updated this before now. I got in Thursday and didn’t sleep at all that night so that meant Friday my brain was mush and leaking out my ears. Anyhow, I did sleep last night, so you get an update today.

I’ll do a more thorough wrap-up after the conference is over, and I have more time and more brain power. But for now, here are the highlights.

I came in on the early shuttle Thursday afternoon. My flight was twenty minutes late and then the shuttle to Mount Hermon got stuck in construction traffic. So I got here around four and completely missed lunch. As I was getting ready to climb the stairs to my room, Brandilyn Collins was coming down. We said hi. She actually recognized my name from her blog. And then she helped me carry my bags upstairs! How cool was that!

After that, I met up with Jeanne Damoff, Mike Snyder and his wife Alicia, and her sister, and Chris Fisher who were rehearsing. They played last night and tonight for the general session and sounded awesome. I got to guard their stuff since I am the official bodyguard. Which generally consists of shooting people dirty looks who appear to be thinking of rushing the stage.

Yesterday at noon kicked off the official beginning of the conference. I ran into Dineen Miller who gave me a gift of OPI nail polish, a glittery top coat to go over my Chick Flick Cherry toes. I haven’t shown them to her yet and she still wants to see that one-armed cartwheel. Yeah, she can keep hoping. I was just glad she didn’t give me a tire iron. Of course, I was relaying this story over dinner tonight while an editor was present. Her eyes went wide and frankly didn’t get much smaller as we were trying to explain the story behind the tire iron. Hmm. Maybe mentioning that wasn’t the best move.

It started raining last night, and it was foggy this morning. But now the sun has broken through and it is truly beautiful up here. I should take some pictures. There are camillias and azaleas blooming in the middle of all of these redwoods. I even enjoyed the fog since we don’t get much of that in Arizona. Still, I’ve generally been cold, which I expected. It’s supposed to rain some more, but for now I’m enjoying the sun.

Today started the major morning tracks. I’m taking the fiction track with James Scott Bell. I’ve already learned stuff I can apply to my writing. I’m typing notes, but I’d suggest getting the CD. I’ll post the info on where you can order them later. It’s definitely worth it since you weren’t here.

Also spent some time hanging out with Dave Long, Jeanne, Mike, Chris (Fisher) and Chris (Mikesell). We sat together at lunch Friday and then hung out a bit at the reception that night. These people are really as much fun in person as they are in the blogosphere. I’ve sat with Denny Boultinghouse of Howard Books twice and Andy McGuire of Moody. Meals are great and everyone has been very nice. It’s a great conference and I highly recommend it.

More later as I’m able. There’s not a ton of down time here and generally my head is spinning too much to write anything.

Oh, by the way, before I forget, Sunday is Mike Snyder’s birthday. Wish him happy birthday. He’s turning 60. Looks good for his age, doesn’t he?

We Survived This First Part

I'm now in the "OC." Forgot how crowded it was. Needless to say, we survived. And without major incident. Our plane was 45 minutes late taking off, so that was 45 more minutes I had to entertain "Calvin." I was pointing out planes, carrying him on my shoulders, tossing him around, anything to keep him from annoying the other people around us. My shoulders are already aching.

Tomorrow, a trip to the Pancake House to carb-load and then head up to San Jose.

I'll keep you posted.

Should be an interesting week

A new week, a new month, but not a new post. I wanted to talk about villians, but I don't have the brain power right now. I'm getting ready to head off to Mt. Hermon this week, along with Mike Snyder, Jeanne Damoff, and Dineen Miller. Should be a great time once I get there.

Before then I've got to do all the usual conference prep for myself, plus get my kids packed because they're going to grandma's for the week, and leave the house in some sort of order for my husband who will be here all by his lonesome. Well, him and the dog and two cats. And what's really sad is that people are actually feeling sorry for him, offering him dinner invitations while we're gone. Please. He's really looking forward to this, pigging out on Taco Bell and catching up on movies.

What I want to know is, who's going to feel sorry for me? (hint, hint, it's supposed to be you guys) I'm dragging two kids and luggage through the airport. I have to remember to frisk my son before we go to make sure he hasn't brought any toys that resemble weapons and hope that at the airport he doesn't do something that threatens national security and gets us in trouble. Last time we were at the airport, he tried to pull a fire alarm.

The plan is to try to update this blog while I'm at Mt. Hermon. We'll see if that actually happens. We might be having too much fun, uh, I mean we might be learning so much about writing, that it might not happen. However, I promise to let you know if I survived the trip through the airport and the subsequent flight with my kids.

Happy April Fools' Day!

I know it's a day early. Did I fool you? Nope? Didn't think so. Actually, I hardly know what day it is myself. I've been sick, still am a bit, so life has been one long blur.

I thought of any number of April Fools' jokes I could play on you guys here. But knowing how things can get taken out of context on the Internet, I decided not to do anything that could come back and haunt me later. Instead, I leave you with some world-famous April Fools' jokes. I actually remember #4.

Enjoy your day and play a (nice) prank on someone.

POV: Whose story is it, anyway?

March Madness was so “mad” that Peter didn’t think of a post for Monday, as you’ve no doubt already figured out because you are all so bright. All he can say is, “Go UCLA.” Now, I think this is interesting given who he was pulling for in football, but I’m not going to bring that up. I’ve already given Mike a wide opening to hijack this blog if he weren’t so busy writing his book. But since he’s occupied, I’m safe.

I think.

Point of View. We talk about it a lot in writing, generally in relationship to two things: head hopping and what a POV character can know. So if you stay in one head per scene and don’t have your character do something like thinking about raking her hand through her glorious auburn curls and blinking her emerald green eyes (unless she’s a self-absorbed ego maniac), you’re good.

Right?

I’ve read two books recently that deepened my understanding of POV as a storytelling technique. The first was The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. If you haven’t read it, it’s the story of a man who takes his family to be missionaries in the Congo on the eve of its independence from Belgium in the late 50s. The story is told through his four daughters ranging in age from five to fifteen. A couple of section intros are told from the mother’s POV after she’s in America looking back. But that’s it. Essentially, The Poisonwood Bible is four stories, one for each of the POV girls. It’s not really about the mother or the father, so their POVs are unnecessary, though on the face of it, you would think it would be natural to include their POVs. Through over 500 pages, you grow emotionally attached to these girls as they grow and live their lives. It’s their story, and you want to know what happens.

In contrast, I read a book (it shall remain nameless) that, while it kept the traditional POV rules, didn’t seem to know whose story it was telling. It starts out with the heroine and the hero. For about the first 30 pages. Then the heroine disappears and we have three other characters’ POVs. The heroine doesn’t reappear until around page 160. For one scene in her POV. There’s another later on toward the end. That’s it. And the book is supposed to be about her. The story felt disconnected and the characters felt distant.

When I sat down and tried to figure out what was wrong with this book, I realized the author didn’t really seem to know whose story she was telling. Every time we switch POV we start in on someone else’s story. The beginning was the heroine’s. Then it became about another woman. Then the heroine again. If we have five POVs in only 300 pages, and three of them don’t seem to add to the main storyline, then the reader isn’t going to know who to get behind, who to identify with.

This is why I think doing POV well is more than just refraining from head-hopping. It’s knowing whose story you’re telling.

So, what are your thoughts on POV? What do you consider when thinking about adding another POV? What do you notice about the POV in books you read?

I don’t know about you, but I’m going to toss my auburn curls (which I don't have) and pierce someone with my emerald eyes (don't have those either) while I think about it.

We Have a Winner!

The winner of a copy of Carol Cox's book Ticket to Tomorrow is . . . Malia Spencer!

I think this is particularly nice since Malia just had a birthday Friday. So happy birthday, Malia, and enjoy the book.

Interview with Carol Cox, part two

Today we are continuing the interview with Carol Cox. Her book Ticket to Tomorrow is coming out from Barbour. You can find out more about Carol and her books at www.CarolCoxBooks.com.

Yesterday we left you hanging with the chilling question What is a javelina? I'm sure you were up all night just waiting for the answer. Well, I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Here's the rest of the interview with Carol.


And for those who don’t know, what's a javelina?

LOL Around here, a javelina is also known as a wild pig, although biologists insist its proper name is a peccary. But we aren’t talking about an appealing barnyard animal, like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web. Think “pig with an attitude.” And tusks.



Not something soft and cuddly. It isn’t unusual to spot them from time to time when we’re driving along the highway, but occasionally they show up a bit closer to home.

At one time, we raised show rabbits. (Which could probably spark off a whole new line of questions. ) One morning my son and I were getting ready for a rabbit show, and he was down by the barn, loading the rabbits and their carriers into the back of our station wagon. I went out onto our back porch to check his progress and stopped dead in my tracks when I spotted a javelina hanging out between me and the barn.

Uh-oh. My son would be walking out to the car at any moment, and I needed to warn him. Calmly, of course. Unfortunately, a calm tone raised to a pitch loud enough to be heard some distance away can bear a marked resemblance to a panicked shriek. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Be careful when you come out to the car! There’s a javelina in the yard.

Son (in a nonchalant tone that would have done Gary Cooper proud): A what?

Me: A javelina!

Son: What kind?

Me: BIG!!

Please explain to me how his snickering could bridge the distance between us so much better than my attempts at vocal projection. I thought he handled it all with remarkable aplomb, considering this same son was once treed by one of the critters while visiting a friend’s house. He tells me the tusks make an interesting clacking noise when snapped together. Apparently he was able to observe this at length before the javelina decided to saunter off in search of something more entertaining.

Okay, now that we have the Arizona questions out of the way, let’s get back to the writing. What are you passionate about? What keeps you at your desk when you have letters imprinted on your forehead from banging your head against the keyboard? (Or is that just me?)

You noticed the “waffle” marks on my forehead? : ) The thing that keeps me going during discouraging times is the concept of stewardship. I have been given a certain number of days to use the gifts God has entrusted to me. He has called me to write; therefore, I’m responsible to make the best use the time I’ve been given.

I like that answer a lot because it makes it less about me and more about Him. Ooh, and to be controversial, what do you think about "gritty/edgy" Christian fiction? Where do you see the CBA going?

Good question! The Christian fiction we see today is far different than what was available just a few years ago, with a wealth of different genres opening up. With the recent spate of CBA publishing houses changing hands, there has been a lot of speculation about the direction the CBA will take. It’s going to be interesting to see how it all turns out in a couple of years.

I agree. I think it's a great time to be a writer (or aspiring one) in the CBA. What's the most devastating thing you've heard about your writing? What did you do?

I once got a reader response from a woman who said, “I got as far as page 28, then said Yuck! and threw it down.” Just the thing to brighten a writer’s day. LOL Years ago, something like that would have devastated me. This time, I grinned and told myself I had a viable entry for the “worst review” contest held by a writers group I belong to. If something really bothers me, I allow myself to sniffle for a limited time, then I get back to work. My skin has gotten a lot thicker over the years.

What do you do spiritually to keep writing or to help your writing?

The most important thing I can do for my writing is also the most important thing I can do for myself, and that is to stay in God’s word and continue to build my relationship with Him. The lessons He teaches me and the truths He instills will overflow into my writing.

Who are your favorite authors or authors who have influenced your writing?

I have a hard time picking favorites, because there are so many writers I love, and the list grows all the time.

Me too. I can never answer that question. Which is why I asked it. What's the funniest thing that's happened to you as a writer?

A couple of years ago, my husband and I attended a retreat for pastors and their wives. One of the pastors there came up and told me he’d seen my name mentioned in a recent magazine article. When I smiled and told him I was glad he’d seen it, a dumbfounded expression crossed his face and he said, “You mean that was really you?” LOL I guess it was easier for him to assume some other CBA author shared my name than to believe he was actually reading about someone he knew.

We hear a lot about marketing. Some writers seem to be in the camp of write-the-best-book-you-can marketing. Others believe only the author has the passion to really sell his or her book. And there’s everywhere in between. What are your thoughts here?

I absolutely believe that writing the best book you can is essential. At the same time, I’m getting more and more involved in marketing my books. I think the key here is to find a good balance. I need to do my fair share of marketing, but I can’t spend all my energy on that, or there won’t be enough left over to craft a compelling story.

What are some things you have found helpful? A waste of time?

Helpful things: Connecting with other writers. Reading books on the craft of writing. Learning about different approaches to plotting, etc., and deciding which one works best for me.

Waste of time: Stressing over the direction my career takes. (God is in control, and I need to remember that.) And I’ve really tried to cut back on that head-banging thing. It seems to create a great deal of distress for my chiropractor.

Advice for all of us wannabes?

When those inevitable rejections come, remind yourself that the Bible tells us perseverance produces proven character. What a wealth of opportunities we writers have to develop character! The good news is, more training and support is available than ever before. Get involved with a local or online writing group. Go to conferences, where you can learn both the craft and business aspects of writing and connect with others in the field.

Remember that it’s God’s business when and whether we get published; our responsibility is to obey and be faithful. Delight yourself in the Lord. Focus on becoming the person He wants you to be. Career accomplishments only last for a fleeting moment. Eternal rewards are. . .well, eternal. : )

Thanks so much for inviting me to be a guest on your blog, Jennifer. It’s been fun!

Thanks, Carol. It was fun and you had a lot of really great things to say.

Just as a reminder, anyone who leave a comment will be put in a drawing for Carol's book this weekend. If you don't have a Blogger account, make sure you leave a way for me to contact you.

Interview with Carol Cox

Fellow ACFW member and Arizonan Carol Cox has a new book coming out, Ticket to Tomorrow, with Barbour.















Annie Trenton and her late husband's partner, Silas Crockett, step off the train at the great world's fair in Chicago and walk smack into political intrigue. When a stranger accidentally collides with Silas, more than a satchel is unintentionally exchanged, drawing Annie, Silas, and a handsome rodeo rider into a world of deceptions and conspiracies. When Annie's keen powers of observation threaten to expose devious plots, more than her exhibition plans hang in the balance. Will Annie lose her life before she has a chance to surrender her heart?

You can read about Carol’s other books at www.CarolCoxBooks.com.

I have to confess, this interview was a lot of fun. I'm going to post part one today and part two tomorrow.

Carol, aside from the fact that you’re an Arizonan and this blog is about Arizona and writing, I wanted to interview you because I loved the idea that your historical has suspense in it. I write romantic suspense, but my first two books were historicals (and I have a degree in history), so they have a special place in my heart. What made you come up with the idea to combine those two genres?

Thanks for inviting me to be here today! And I’m glad you like the concept I used in Ticket to Tomorrow. I’ve loved romantic suspense ever since I discovered the genre way back in high school. The love of history came later. Much later. A college professor brought it to life in a way I’d never experienced before, and I haven’t been the same since. Writing this series let me combine those two loves. We haven’t seen much historical romantic suspense in CBA, so I was thrilled at getting the opportunity to do this.

Let’s talk a little bit about your writing process. Are you a pantser or a plotter?

Ah, the great “To Plot or Not?” debate! If I had to pick one or the other, I’d have to say I’m more of a plotter. But I honestly don’t believe it’s a matter of either/or. I see it more as a broad continuum, with Pure Plotting at one extreme, Pure Seat of the Pants Writing at the other, and many points in between.

I use note cards to capture ideas about scenes, characters, and plot points, then organize them and put the sequence into a spreadsheet. That gives me a solid grasp on the overall flow of the book, but still allows plenty of latitude for changes as new plot twists take shape during the writing process.

How do you feel about Randy's Snowflake method (not the Arizona town)?

I love it! The first time I heard Randy give a presentation on the Snowflake Method, I knew immediately it was something that would work for me. The more he talked, the more excited I got. That was about the same time some of the SOTP writers in the group turned pale and started to twitch. LOL But it works well for me and fits the way my brain organizes material.

And Snowflake, Arizona, is pretty cool, too. No pun intended. : )

I haven't been there yet. I have, however, been to Christmas, Arizona. You have to love the names of towns here. What's your daily schedule like?

Daily schedule? I wish I had one! LOL I’m a person who likes structure. But with my husband pastoring two churches, things can come up that send our well-ordered plans flying out the window at a moment’s notice. On what I’d like to consider a typical day, I homeschool our daughter in the mornings and spend the afternoons writing. When that happens, it’s wonderful and I count myself blessed. On the days it doesn’t (which seem to be the majority), I write whenever and wherever I get the opportunity. Louis L’Amour used to say he could sit in the middle of Sunset Boulevard and write with his typewriter on his knees. I’m not sure how my laptop and I would fare in the middle of Sunset Boulevard, but I’ve learned to adapt!

Yeah, I've been on Sunset Boulevard. I think you'd be dead, laptop crushed to smithereens. What do you love most about writing? Hate?

I love having a job that lets me make up stories and spend time with characters I love. And I have a legitimate reason to spend hours delving into research. Could anything be more fun than that?

What do I hate most? Getting that first draft down! LOL That is absolutely my least favorite part of the process.

I'm glad you said that, because I think for a lot of us, that first draft is like pulling teeth. What’s your worst writing habit? What do you do to procrastinate when you should be writing?

My worst writing habit would be paying too much attention to the voice of that mouthy little internal editor while I’m trying to get the first draft written. Conventional wisdom says to just turn it off, but I’m still trying to find the switch.

As far as procrastinating, there’s always Spider Solitaire . . . Word Racer . . . and let’s not forget e-mail.

Since a lot of wannabe writers read (or in my case, write) this blog, tell us about your journey to publication. How did you get into writing? Did you always write or did it come to you later?

I wanted to write ever since I realized that books didn’t just materialize on the shelf. Somebody created those stories. I couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than being able to do that. I read books on writing and scribbled down ideas for years, but hadn’t shown my writing to anyone but my husband. He encouraged me to keep at it and surprised me one year by sending me to a writers conference as a birthday present. I had completed a manuscript by then, and through the connections I made at the conference, I started the long process of finding a home for my story. And in the meantime, I continued to write. My first book was published in 1998. I’m now working on my twenty-first title, and sometimes still feel like I’m just getting started. There is always more to learn, which is one of the things that makes writing a great occupation!

You live in northern Arizona. Are you a native or did you move here from somewhere else like the rest of us?

Believe it or not, I’m a native. I was born and raised in Phoenix, where my dad—also a native Arizonan—had a dairy farm. My kids are the fourth generation of my family to live in the state.

Since I live in the Valley and am going through mountain withdrawal (soon to be satiated by a trip to Mt. Hermon in Santa Cruz, California), what do trees look like in Arizona? ☺

Having grown up in the desert, I loved getting acquainted with large plants that didn’t have thorns when we moved to northern Arizona. We live in the midst of miles of juniper trees, but there are forests filled with aspens, oaks, and Ponderosa pines only minutes away. I love watching the color of the aspens change to yellow, orange, and gold in the fall!

By the way, Mt. Hermon is a great place to get a “tree fix.” The first year I attended, I got strange looks from people when I’d stand a few inches away from the dogwoods with my camera to get a close-up of those gorgeous flowers! Only those who come from tree-deprived areas can fully appreciate the compulsion to do this.

Ooh, you have seasons! I'm so jealous. And for those who don’t know, what's a javelina?

Don't you just love that hook? I know y'all are just dying to know what a javelina is, so come back tomorrow and find out. Jenny, don't give it away!

Update: Carol has graciously offered a copy of Ticket to Tomorrow for me to give away. Leave a comment (with a way for me to contact you if you don't have a blogger account), and I'll draw a name this weekend.

Monday March Madness, part 3

Y'all were just waiting for this, weren't you? This post is right up my alley. Blood, people getting shot, trips to the ER. My completed manuscript has a whole scene in the ER and a couple of instances of people getting shot. And yes, my life has involved some blood and a few trips to the ER as well. As one nurse told me, I'm kinetically challenged. Let’s just say Peter being married to me has been good preparation for his job. He already knew his way around an ER before this.

By the way, you can tell he’s not a writer: he double spaces after periods. Okay, here's Peter's post.


Your house was dangerous to build! That’s what I discovered after only a few days in my current job as Superintendent/Safety Manager. Walking through a busy jobsite, I felt a “ping” that hit my jeans just below my right hip. A nail from a nail gun “deflected” from a block and, well, let’s just thank God that physics took place, and the nail lost a lot of velocity and momentum! I’ve been working for a local framing company with about 200 employees, and we have been very busy for the last 3 years (the Phoenix Valley is 2nd only to Las Vegas in new homes being built). I enjoy my job, but it has its downfalls (literally!).

Last year, we had over 20 injuries. Besides the various job-site injuries that are very hard to prevent (i.e. falls from ladders, stepping on/getting cut by exposed nails, back injuries, cuts from using hand saws, etc.), over 50% of our injuries are from the hundreds of nail guns that our crews use daily. Nail guns, if used properly, are easy to use, and they are safe. It’s when you forget the safety aspect of it (like looking at what you are aiming at!) that it becomes dangerous. I just took a guy in to the local urgent care because he shot himself in the foot. He said he reached down to pick up the nail gun, and accidentally pulled the trigger. Good thing he was aiming low!

Our guys are very creative in how they injure themselves! Last year, one of our guys shot a nail in his hand (we went to the ER with this one!). The nail went through the base of his thumb, and ended up going through the joint (you could even see the tip of the nail on the other side of the thumb!). They could not pull the nail out (we sat in the ER for 3 hours, and my poor employee just sat there with a nail sticking out of his hand!), so he needed to have surgery. Then, only one month later, one of our foremen shot himself in the shin. The nail penetrated fully into the bone (don’t you love the description here? ☺ ). What hurt worse was when “they” (in the ER) cleaned out the wound. By the way, I know little about health, but when the doctor injected saline into the wound (to clean it out), even I knew it was gonna hurt! Needless to say, he quickly switched over to sanitized water after our injured employee almost passed out!

The best one so far was early last summer. Our favorite victim was walking on top of the roof trusses, setting blocks between them. He bent down and reached for a nail gun that was hanging from the rafters (he was about 15 feet above ground), accidentally pulled the trigger, and “shot himself” in the chest! The first guy who noticed something was wrong didn’t see the accident, but rather saw a small waterfall of blood dripping onto the floor! When I got the call from the foreman, he asked, rather sheepishly, if they should take him to the hospital. I said, as calmly as possible, to “CALL 911 IMMEDIATELY, YOU--[ed. note: I write for the CBA, remember?] The fire department showed up in record time, and they transported him to the ER. The nail fully penetrated into his chest (3” nail is the norm), and missed his heart by about an inch and a half! I met him at the hospital. Needless to say, they were prepping him for surgery. He was/is fine, and was back on the job 3 weeks later! Oh, by the way, the whole jobsite was shut down by the fire marshal, because none of the roads was paved.

Not all “creative” injuries are from nail guns. Two months ago, a guy was using a nail puller (we call them chivas) to pull nails out of a wall … at eye level! Yes, he smacked himself in his nose, and got 6 stitches for the effort. Four days ago, a guy was using a nail gun while on a ladder, lost his balance, and fell down. As he hit the ground, he lost his hard hat, and then was promptly struck by the falling nail gun! Yes, he got 8 stitches for that act! Then, finally, my personal favorite was our version of the “magic nail”. Our employee “claims” that, while nailing a wall together, the nail went through the block, bounced off the concrete slab just below, and flew underneath his safety glasses. It ended up lodged in the top of his nose, not even ¼” from his eye! Lucky for him. He ended up with minor vision problems for a couple of weeks (and a good headache or two), but is now fine.

Believe it or not, but we do practice safety. All of our guys wear hard hats and safety glasses, and all of our nail guns have safety springs attached (before the guys disable them!). But after you shoot a nail gun a few hundred times, it becomes a little monotonous, and safety flies out the window. Chances are, someone got hurt while building your cozy home. Maybe it was just a scratch, maybe more. So when you complain about the roof leaking, or the floor creaking, or the door squeaking, just remember that the hard working blue-collar framing company had nothing to do with it! Blame it on the roofers, or the tile guys, or the door installers. And if you ever pull up your carpet and look at your slab, don't be surprised if you find some blood stains.

An Up-and-Coming Novelist as Guest Blogger

No, it's not me. It's my daughter. She wrote a book If Second Graders Ruld the World and I thought I'd share it with you. A special preview edition for my loyal blog readers, so you can say you knew her when. Clearly, she takes after her mother, already blowing things up and hurting people. Don't blame me for the creative spelling. Apparently, her publishing house needs to hire a copy editor.



If second graders ruld the world, I would make a big lemonad stand. And save the mony for charity. And make a big roket so people can live on Pluto, Venes, and the moon.


Then the lemonade axsadetly speld on the roket. then the roket blueup while people were in the roket. So the people that were in the roket were floting in outer space. But they got clocer to the moon.


And then they bounsed back to earth. But one of the girls brok her neck. And she had to stay in my casil tell she felt better. And do you know that Aubrey is the one that broke her head on the moon?


And so no budy lived on the moon, or Venes, and Pluto. Because Pluto is very cold. And avery body lived on Earth. They were happy. And avery thing was normal. Exsept 2nd graders ruld the world.


The End.

Blog schedule update:
Monday--March Madness from Peter again.
Wednesday and Thursday--a blog interview with Carol Cox, fellow Arizonan and ACFWer who has a historical suspense coming out from Barbour next month. Don't tell anyone but she has a javelina story. Don't know what a javelina is? Well, you'll just have to come back to find out.

Monday March Madness, part 2

It's Monday all ready. How does it always sneak up on me like that?

Peter's going deep today with a thought-provoking mystery. It might be too early in the week to actually take him seriously, however it's never too early to have a completely nonserious discussion.

Before I post Peter's entry, here's a comment my dad tried to leave about Peter's first post. Though the Ides of March are still a few days away, the whole madness concept still works.

I think the whole March madness thing was started by a writer who had more quips than you could shake a pointy stick at. He once said "beware the ides of March...". This blogger bloke was refering to some politician who was romin' around Italy sipping on an Orange Julius when the outfit he was wearing became a literal point of contention by a friend wearing a totally too tight toga. Perhaps he was just a Beowulf in sheep's clothing. Et tu Brute?

Obviously bad writing and bad humor runs in the family. Okay, here's Peter's post.


Although this has nothing to do with “writing”, I would like to know your thoughts on this.

Last week, the national radio station Air(head) America was shut down by the local radio carrier. Why? Well, (bad)Air America “claims” that they were forced out of the Phoenix market by the ultra-conservative Christian right. In reality, it had to do with ratings. They were the lowest rated radio show in the market! Sounds like Econ 101 to me. (Jen's note: Peter never took Econ 101, I did. Though he got the concept right.)

Anyways, the local radio carrier decided to go with religious programming. I was listening to a pastor (name unknown) preach about how God uses man-made creations to show his glory. He was talking about the Great Pyramid in Egypt, and listed a few possible “clues” that may prove why the Great Pyramid was built in the first case. After a little research, I found the following (from Kent Hovind’s Creation Seminar series):

- the Great Pyramid has no inscription to any Egyptian King (unlike the other 67 pyramids in Egypt).
- Inside, there is a broad way that leads to a pit and a narrow way that leads to the King’s Chamber (does this sound like Matthew 7?).
- The King’s Chamber is on the 50th row of the stones (50 was the year of Jubilee – Lev. 25:11)
- The cornerstone at the top is missing. Some say this is symbolic of Christ as the rejected chief cornerstone (Matt 21:42, Mk 10:12, Daniel 2:45).
- The pyramid was originally covered with 144,000 polished casing stones. That’s the number of witnesses in Revelations 7.

The fact is that no one knows for sure who built the Great Pyramid, and why. Many believe that someone other than the Egyptians built it. Theories range from Adam and his sons, Enoch (it’s the only structure to survive the flood), and even Noah (after the flood). Its an enormous structure, and many believe that it is not possible to build it today, even with our technology. Was the Great Pyramid and some of its features built to be a testimony to God? Thoughts?

It snowed!

But not our house. Almost though. Can it almost snow? The snow level dropped to 2000 feet. We are about 1500 feet so we missed it, but this picture is of the Superstition Springs Mountains behind our house. I've never seen the snow so low.



Final rain total: nearly two and half inches for us after about 24 hours of steady rain.

And if you think I'm talking a lot about Arizona weather now, just wait until we're routinely hitting 115 degrees.

IT'S RAINING!!!!!!!

After 143 dry days, it's been raining since about 3 AM. A good soaking rain sure to cause a lot of rejoicing and a lot of accidents. We already lost power once.

Peter's happy. He gets out of yardwork today.

UPDATE:
It's cold! 41 degrees and they're getting snow in the foothills to the north of us, about a foot.

Happy 38th Peter!

Join me in wishing my wonderful husband of ten years a happy birthday. And, in honor of his heritage, we went to a Japanese teppanyaki restaurant last night. In case you don’t know, that’s where you sit around the grill and the chef puts on a show for you while he’s cooking. The kids had never been, but Peter and I used to go in California.

I thought for sure the kids would love this. We were seated at a grill while nearby a chef was already cooking. Suddenly, his grill flamed up and little “Calvin’s” eyes got huge. “Whoa! Fire!” He stood up in his chair. I got him seated again, and he was happy with his lemonade until our chef showed up.

I think Peter was looking forward to using a bit of his Japanese. My daughter, too, though she tends to mix up Japanese and Spanish. Peter’s family is interesting. Between them, his parents speak seven languages. They only have English in common. On top of that, they didn’t come to the US until well into adulthood (they both lived through World War II in different continents, both enemies of the US), so they argue over how to say things in English. It is great entertainment. Plus, visiting with them is something like a meeting at the UN. I speak French to his mom, a little, while she speaks Japanese and Spanish to Peter. Then my daughter is bugging both Obachan (grandma in Japanese) and Nagypapa (grandpa in Hungarian) to teach her words in Hungarian and German.

Back to our chef. The whole staff in the restaurant is Japanese. So of course, we get the one white guy. He was nice though. Until he lit his grill on fire. Calvin dove under the table and wouldn’t come out. This is my son who is afraid of nothing. Except apparently fire. Guess he actually listened to my lectures on the dangers of it.

Finally, Peter dragged him out from under the table and carried him to the far side of the restaurant where they could watch from a safe distance. Once Dennis our chef pulled out the rice to make fried rice, Calvin was happy and returned to the table. He was fascinated, as I knew he would be, with our chef’s knife skills and soon was imitating him with his chopsticks. Though he was stabbing his food with them instead of using them properly.

I have to say, gaijin that I am (that means white girl) I know how to use chopsticks. I even eat rice with them (major applause, please). I also know enough to know it’s bad luck to stick your chopsticks in the rice bowl sticking up. So of course I have to do that. Peter’s mom would have a cow but nobody in the restaurant even noticed that I was courting bad luck. I live on the wild side. Can’t you tell?

As far as other excitement for the day, it almost rained. Almost. No rain 141 days and counting. They did get rain to the north of us, just enough to get the news helicopters up flying around chasing the raindrops. Also, the mountains got thundersnow. Yes, thunderstorms while it’s snowing. We just got dark skies and a dust storm. There’s nothing like seeing a wall of dust rising up about a hundred feet in the air heading toward you at thirty miles an hour. Woe to you if you leave any windows or doors open. You’ll find silt in the most interesting places for years.

This weekend has the best opportunity for rain. The jet stream is the most favorable it’s been in 12 months, so we’re hoping for a half inch this weekend. Yes, that’ll be the grand total of rain for the winter. A whole half-inch.

Completely unrelated to rain, but equally exciting, is a really terrific blog post Mike the-blog-hijacker-but-I-still-like-him Snyder wrote for theNashville ACFW group blog. If you’re in my crit group (you know who you are: Jenny, Malia, Sabrina) it’s mandatory reading. For everyone else, I highly recommend his take on what makes a good crit group/partner. Thanks, Mike, for not dumping me yet. ☺ Read the article to figure out what I mean.

And while I’m at it, a couple more interesting blogs to visit.

If you haven’t read Diary of an Arts Pastor, you might want to check it out. Scroll down to his February 28 post on his top ten. His take on Christianity, art, and culture is thought provoking without being too far over my head. He’s also an INTJ (Myers-Briggs personality type) like me. Probably why I like him. We’re only one percent of the population. Also in our company: CS Lewis, Chevy Chase, Dan Aykroyd, Jane Austen, Peter Jennings, Rudy Giuliani. Nice, huh?

If you read Brandilyn Collins’s blog, you’ve already seen this, but I thought it was funny and worth passing on.


More updates on Arizona weather as they become available. Don’t I sound all news-ish?

Monday March Madness, part 1

What is it with March’s association with madness? NCAA basketball has March Madness. There’s the saying, “As mad as a March hare.” Maybe it’s a prelude to spring fever?

Whatever the reason, it’s infected me. I have become mad enough to create something called Monday March Madness on this blog by allowing Peter to post on here each Monday in March. The madness part is my even thinking this was a good idea.

So with great fear and trembling, here is Peter’s first post.


Thanks to my wife for “allowing” me to present my first official blog in cyberspace (big applause). Now, why would you waste your precious time to read a blog from a no-name non-writer?

Well, it's about my 4 year old son. We decided to forget the cooking for one night and go out to eat at Applebees. Why Applebees? Because it’s about a 90 second drive from our home! Anyways, I don’t know if you have an Applebees that you frequent, but the one we go to is quite cramped. The booths and tables are in close proximity to each other. We were unable to get a booth (for you parents out there, you know how important getting a booth is!), so we settled for a table. Unfortunately, my son had access to a very busy aisle of customers, hostesses and waiters/waitresses running by our table.

What do I mean by access? Well, a young hostess was seating customers at the booth next to our table. Remember the close proximity thing? The hostess was backing up to let her customers sit down, and let’s just say that the hostess’ rear end was within arm’s reach of my son, and right at eye level.

My son was playing with his little stuffed dino. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help himself, and did what any 4 year old boy with a stuffed dino would do. He introduced the dino to the hostesses. That’s right: he shook her booty with his dino!

I will not comment as to the attractiveness level of said hostess rear end, but she must have known who “reached out to touch her”, because she turned around with a smile. Unfortunately, I think she was looking at me first! Hey! Just what kind of a guy do you think I am anyways?

All in all, nothing bad happened, except that my son is well on his way to being a teenager. And I have no idea where he got the idea to do this!

Make 'Em Sweat

Do you ever get the impression that God treats us the way we treat our characters? Let me explain what I mean by that. Maybe others don’t plot this way, but for me, one of the key elements in crafting a book is understanding my characters. I need to know two things about them to plot the book. One, what do they want more than anything in the world? Maybe even something they won’t admit to themselves. Two, what do they fear most? What secret do they hide? What wound are they trying to cover up? And mean person that I am, I make my characters go through that fear, that secret, that wound to get what they want most in the world.

Sometimes I think God is like that with us, though usually not so mean, and generally He takes a lifetime rather than 95,000 words. But I guess it’s human nature to want to make a cozy nest out of our comfort zones until life gives us a rude shove out. Our characters are no different, except that we authors get to do the shoving. It’s way more fun to do that to other people than to have it done unto you. Caveat: only shove people who live in your head. Doing it to real life people can be messy.

I’ve been thinking about this a little bit this week since, just as I thought I was getting my life back into its routine, I hurt my back and have been relegated to the couch. I like my routine. It’s my favorite weapon in the battle against the chaos that constantly threatens to envelop this household. And lately it’s been taking a beating. Between extra stuff at church, taxes, the yard, and who knows what else, I’ve felt like I’ve been playing catch-up and yet never quite catching up.

And then yesterday, not only did I wake up with a sore back, I got an interesting little publishing-biz wrinkle I had to iron out that ended up being quite time consuming.

So as usual, I start complaining to God. Some days I’m sure I really annoy Him. Heck, I annoy myself. “Hey, what’s the deal here? I thought I asked you for more hours in the day, not more problems.” We’ve been having this conversation for a couple of weeks. What do I keep, what do I cut, how do I make my life feel less out of control. It’s not really out of control, it just feels that way to me. And we all know, life is all about my feelings.

But He hasn’t been giving me any answers on this. Which I find very odd. Instead He said, “What are you afraid of?”

Uh oh. Smart person that I am, I know where this is going. I do this to my characters. They don’t like it, but it’s good for them. I don’t like it either, but I suspect it’s going to be good for me.

And ultimately, once again I’m humbled by this calling to be a writer. It seems to me a unique privilege God has given us to peek into His mind, to in some small way replicate in our story world what He does in our lives. Words are important to Him. He could have created the universe in any number of ways, but He used words. The book of John tells us Jesus is the Word made flesh. And He’s given us those same tools to create with. Not sure why, but I’ve got to trust that He knows what He’s doing and step out despite my fear.

Your Turn

I tried to come up with something witty to blog about, but frankly, I don’t have too many brain cells left that aren’t fried to a crisp. I spent today doing our taxes. Leave it to the federal government to make everything tedious, burdensome, and generally life-sucking. How can someone who makes so little money generate so much paperwork? Flat tax anyone?

So after that rant, can you all believe I have a degree in finance? Yeah, I do. Don’t ask.

On a positive note, Arizona may get rain. We're nearly 130 days without it. But it's raining in California, so there's a chance it could be coming here. Unless those evil Californians keep it all for themselves.

So, anyone want to talk about anything? Preferably something that doesn't require me to think.

And the worst mommy award goes to . . .

Beware of days that start out well. I had a good day writing. Didn’t get a lot of words written, but I got a lot planned and felt better about this book than I had in a long time. I paid the bills, and we actually had money left over. That hasn’t happened in a year and a half. I went to the chiropractor and got my shoulders unstuck, and my son got a sucker.

So it was in this happy mood that I went to the library to return the CD version of Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin. This is definitely worth listening to as he reads it himself. And I had to pick up a collection of Flannery O’Connor short stories that Chris Fisher was talking about on his blog.

We take care of business at the library and get back into the minivan. I buckle my son in, toss all my stuff on the front seat, and close the door. I go around to get in my side.

The door is locked.

Oh crap.

Through the window I can see all the doors are locked, but I still pull on the door handle like somehow reality will change. I can see the keys sitting on the driver’s seat, along with my purse and cell phone.

But I know my son can unlock the doors. Except that he’s strapped in his car seat. However, childproof things have never deterred him before. I tell him how to get himself out of his seat. “Just push that red button.” He pokes at it, sucker in his mouth. Then he pushes harder, but he just doesn’t have the strength to get it. We try seeing if he can unbuckle the car seatbelt and free the car seat, but he can’t reach it.

There’s no hope. I’m going to have to call and get help. But my phone’s in the car, too, so I have to leave him to go back into the library. It goes against every instinct to leave my son alone in a car while I go inside. But, I think, if someone can break into the car to steal it (and who wants a 98 minivan with 180,000 miles on it?) I could at least get my son out. So I hurry inside to try to find a pay phone. Apparently pay phones don’t exist anymore. I finally ask the librarian.

She laughs. “Oh, I don’t think it works.”

Not funny. “I need a phone. I’ve locked my keys in the car with my son. I need to call somebody.”

“Oh, I guess you can use this then.” She moves her desk phone toward me.

Gee, thanks. I can’t believe she’s not shocked or astounded. Do people routinely lock their children in the car while they’re at the library? I call Peter, who luckily is at the office and not on the other side of the valley. He tells me to call AAA. I patiently explain that my phone and purse—with my AAA card—are in the van. Now, in the interest of full disclosure here, Peter has locked himself out of that car more times than I can count, to the point that he carries a spare key in his wallet. Said spare key was what I wanted him to bring to me. We won’t mention the fact that I think that is the only spare key since I lost his whole set of keys by leaving them on the bumper of the Expedition and driving off. Never did find those things.

Anyhow, on my way back to the car, there is this guy who has been outside the library trying to get people to sign his petition. I don’t know what for, and I don’t care. He’s seen me walk by now four times and starts pestering me to sign his stupid petition.

“I’m a little busy right now.”

“Doing what?”

Oh, the things that went through my mind. I didn’t say any of them, however. Let’s just say that the next dead body in my book will be a guy that looks a lot like him trying to get people to sign a petition. I just kept walking to the van where I hoped my son wasn’t a sobbing hysterical mess. He was frowning, but I think that was because he had dropped his sucker.

So I lean my head against this really dirty window—when was the last time Peter washed this thing anyway?—and talked to him. People driving through the parking lot stared at me. What was this crazy woman doing talking to a car? A police officer drove by. I watched him, half hoping he’d stop. He didn’t. I tell my son to go to sleep, and for once in his life, he minds me.

I'm really thankful it's only the upper 60s and not 112. I start thinking which window would be the cheapest to replace and look around for a big rock. Nothing. If it were 112, I have no idea what I could use to break the window. Well, he's asleep, Peter should be on his way, and other than people thinking I’m nuts, there isn’t any problem with waiting for him to get here. Just that my daughter gets out of school in 30 minutes and since our neighbors moved, there's not a house for her to go to if I'm not home.

I’m standing against the car, with not even a book to read. I watch cars go by, looking for a white construction truck. You know how many of those are out here? About every third car.

After about 25 minutes a tow truck pulls into the parking lot. It takes me a minute to realize Peter had called AAA for me. Hmmph. Here I was looking for him, and he sent a tow truck instead.

They guy gets out with all his equipment. Then he sees my son. “Hey, if we’d known there was a kid in the car we would have gotten here in five minutes. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I actually didn’t call. I’m guessing my husband did.” Yeah, why didn't he tell them? I'm pretty sure I would have mentioned it.

The guy gets his equipment out and starts prying open the door with this little inflatable device. Very cool, though frankly I don’t care if he rips the door off.

Then a white construction truck pulls in. Peter.

“That’s my husband,” I tell the tow truck guy.

“Does he have a spare key?”

“I don’t know.” Because at this point, I really don’t. It might have been on that set that somehow got left on the bumper of the other car.

“I might.” Peter has a keychain that weighs more than our children. But somehow he pulls the right key out the first time. The door opens. My son wakes up. The tow truck guy packs up his stuff.

I think I’m going to throw up. That Flannery O’Connor book had better be worth it.

Dinner Reservations?

My husband took me out to a wonderful dinner last night. It’s one of his weaknesses—good food and wine. When we lived in Orange County, California—and before we had children—this wasn’t a problem. There were many excellent restaurants within easy driving distance. But last night was the first time since we’ve been in Arizona that we went to a nice restaurant. Actually, it was the first time since our anniversary since we’d been out anywhere together without kids.

I think most of us have good memories of a nice restaurant on a special occasion or a memorable meal. So it seems natural for us to create those kinds of situations in our books. Right?

Donald Maass doesn’t think so. In his Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook he calls these low-tension scenes. He says the most controversial part of his workshop is where he tells authors “to cut scenes set in kitchens or in living rooms or in cars driving from one place to another, or that involve drinking tea or coffee” (know how often Starbucks shows up in my book?) “or taking showers or baths, particularly in a novel’s first fifty pages.”

Often these scenes are skimmable. They don’t add new dimensions to the characters, or deepen conflict or complicate matters. They relax tension and review what’s happened. Basically a Sequel in Swain/Bickham terminology.

And I have to admit, when we went out to dinner last night, it was pretty low tension. Except for when my daughter called in tears because the dog had taken her brother’s piece of pizza, and she was afraid the dog was going to get sick. He’s allergic to animal protein. Yes, I know, we have a weird family—even the dog.

In real life, I want a low-tension dinner. I don’t want Peter to tell me he’s been fired, or we’re being investigated by the FBI, or he lost one of the kids. And I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear that someone’s been stalking me or torched our minivan. However, I’ll happily do that to my characters.

And yet, can you imagine a novel with no eating or drinking or driving or showering scenes? No. So what do you do?

Well, obviously famous writers make it work. Maass uses the example of the Da Vinci Code. While a good portion of the book can be a study in what not to do, Brown’s pacing at the beginning is quite good. And lest you think this only applies to commercial or genre fiction, Maass goes on to use two literary examples: Sister Noon and The Lovely Bones. While we don’t typically think of literary works as being tension-filled, there has to be a question, something we want to find out that keeps us reading. Tension and unease do this. We’ll keep reading to see what happens next.

I’ll be brave and look at my recently completed manuscript for these low-tension scenes in the first fifty pages. I’ll admit it. I have a car ride and three lunch scenes in the first fifty pages. Yikes! (I also have two car chases and a gang initiation.) However, no one has complained about the lack of tension. Here’s why I think that is. Kyle, who has just met Heather, is giving her and his friend Bernie a ride out to lunch with a couple of other people from church. I added tension to this scene in a couple of ways. One, Heather is interested in Kyle so you have all those little jitters going on. Two, she just found out he’s a cop, and she’s not sure how she feels about that. Three, Bernie keeps bringing up the day’s sermon, a topic that makes Heather uncomfortable. So I use the car as a way to force Heather into an uncomfortable situation with no easy escape.

And I don’t let the tension up at the restaurant. I actually wasn’t going to write this scene, but Mike Synder made me do it (gotta blame him for something). Mostly I was afraid that it would be a boring scene, but at his encouragement, I switched to Kyle’s POV and built up tension by having him and Bernie both being interested in Heather and doing a little positioning for her attention.

The next two lunch scenes are settings for conflict too. One, Heather’s stalker ex-boyfriend shows up while she’s having lunch. And in the other Kyle’s friend Joe basically calls Kyle a chicken for not asking Heather out yet.

Ultimately, I think the point Maass is making is not that scenes involving food, drink or cars are bad, just that writers often uses them as crutches for weak writing. So keep the tension up in your lunch and dinner scenes. In your writing that is. In real life it’ll just give you indigestion.

I know y’all aren’t shy. Anybody care to share how they infuse their “no-no” scenes with tension? I need some ideas for my current book.

Things I Learned in the Army

I've never been in the Army, but my dad was during Vietnam. He has some interesting stories to tell. This is a picture of him with my daughter a couple of years ago when we were camping. He was out visiting last weekend and read my blog (Mike and Peter, you should be glad he has a good sense of humor), and so I asked him to send me this story, which is one of the most memorable from my growing up years. And you might be able to see where I get my sense of humor from.

So, without further ado, here's the post from my dad.


As a non coffee drinker I share the following anecdote: While in the Army it became my turn to go in early and make coffee. I checked with my wife to find out how much of the brown stuff to put in the top basket thing with holes in it to go along with the 2 gallons of water. When I opened the lid and peered into the aluminum pot I was surprised to see how dirty it looked. In the Army we were told that everything needed to be clean and polished. So, like a good soldier, I proceeded to clean and polish with cleanser and steel wool. All the time I wondered how the others before me were able to get by with such seemingly unclean procedures. But, I knew the results of my labor would be impressive to the officers and noncoms who were actual coffee drinkers.

They were ALL VERY IMPRESSED ! The colonel even "invited" me into his office to discuss whether I was member of the U.S. Army or possibly an enemy insurgent bent on disabling the entire 525th Military Police Battalion.

After my little chat with the C.O., Major "Mac" called me in to let me know I would not need to "prepare" the coffee anymore. Something about the chemistry of aluminum, steel wool, chlorine cleanser, coffee and ignorance being a bad combination. I seem to recall him saying everyone would be safer, if I just disarmed land mines in the break room.


Have a great week everyone. And get some writing done!

Writing from the Senses--or More Ways to Procrastinate

Looks like winter is over here in Arizona, though I’m not sure it was ever here except for a couple of weeks of cold and frost. Just enough to decimate my backyard landscaping. We hit 82 degrees yesterday. Since the morning started out at 45 degrees, I wore three different outfits, ending up in shorts when I took the kids to the pool for a bit.

Fire season has also started in the mountains north of us. Apparently we’ve had so little rain, the moisture content of the trees is equivalent to what it would normally be in July. One unexpected difficulty of fighting forest fires in February is that it still gets down to about ten degrees in the mountains at night. So the reservoirs and lakes the firefighters would normally use for water are frozen.

Orange County, California—where my current series is set—has also been fighting brush fires pretty early this year. In an eerie coincidence, they just contained a fire awfully close to the location of the fire that opens my second book in the series.

All this has me thinking I’m going to have a lot of inspiration for my writing this spring. Since last summer I’ve been playing around with the idea of creating an environment to trigger my muse into waking up and getting to work each time I sit down at the keyboard. It started with listening to an RWA conference CD in which someone, I think Tara Taylor Quinn, talked about writing from the five senses. I was bogged down in the middle of my first book, so I was looking for anything to jumpstart the old muse. At that point, I was leaning toward a defibrillator. So here’s what I did.

For sight, I got some foam core board and put it above my desk. I mocked-up a cover for the book and pasted it in the center. Then I filled in the rest of the white space with pictures of my characters, photos of the setting, and my ten, twenty, and fifty word blurbs. I’d heard of writers doing this. Some walk into the craft store and start picking up stuff that just seems like their book whether it makes sense or not. I wish I could afford to do that as I think it’d be a fun thing to do. I haven’t done this yet for book two, as I don’t think I know enough about it to start making visual representations. But I have been collecting pictures and putting them in an album in iPhoto. I also think objects that remind you of your characters or things in your book would be helpful. I’m thinking of stealing one of my son’s fire engines.

Smell was the easy one. I wanted something that smelled like the ocean. So I wandered around the craft store until I found Marine Mist. It doesn’t smell exactly like the ocean—it’s missing the dead fish and rotting seaweed component—but it’s evocative of the beach. Oddly enough, I think this cue has worked the best. The moment I open the candle (it has a lid) I think of Kyle and Heather. And the flame is a signal to my family that I’m writing, so don’t bother me.

For book two, I wondered if I should use the same scent or something different. I spent sometime thinking about what it should be. Joe, hero of book two, is a firefighter, and so I thought something that smelled like a campfire would remind me off him. No, burnt toast doesn’t qualify. But, I thought roasted marshmallows might. Of course with the way fire season is going this year, I’ll probably just have to write outside to be filled with ambiance. After sniffing a bunch of candles, I decided Tahitian Vanilla smelled a lot like roasted marshmallows. I haven’t burned it yet, so I’m hoping it works as well as the Marine Mist. Gotta love those cheesy names.

Touch was kind of a weird one because I’m mostly touching my keyboard. But I thought maybe for those times I’m not typing, a bowl of sea glass might provide some tactile stimulation. I don’t know if it works, but I like playing with it when I’m supposed to be working.

Sound is a difficult one for me. I can’t listen to music while I write, even classical music or soundtracks. I start humming along, directing the orchestra, making up silly lyrics to the songs. I am so easily distracted. The other day, though, I saw a whole CD of beach sounds. So I got it and played it while I was doing edits on my first book. It didn’t distract me. Whether it helped, or just made me have to go to the bathroom more often, I don’t know.

Finally, taste. According to the workshop I listened to, mint is supposed to make your mind sharper and help you concentrate. To me, that sounds like a good excuse to stock up on Peppermint Patties. Because chocolate can only improve mint, right?

Whether any of these things actually make me a better writer, I don’t know. However, they can be fun things to play around with to see if they light a fire under your muse. And as long as you don’t use them to procrastinate (do as I say, not as I do), they can’t hurt. Well, unless you forget about the candle and burn your house down. Or eat too many Peppermint Patties and your butt gets so big you can’t fit in your chair.

Oh never mind.

Feel free to share what has sparked your muse.

Go Somewhere Else

Really. This has nothing to do with my trying to wrestle back my blog from the male chauvinists who've absconded with it. Seriously. There's just a couple of other good blogs out there y'all might want to check out. I mean that.

Dineen Miller has an interview with suspense queen Brandilyn Colllins this week on her blog.

Robin Miller is doing a series on agents and this week has Sha-Shana Crichton as a guest.

And Christopher Fisher is doing an awesome job relaying his experience at Stonecoast MFA in Creative Writing program, University of Southern Maine. The post “Day Two (continued again): Ann Hood, Narrativity and Film” is an excellent summary of story elements and presents some great thoughts that we can all apply to our WIPs.

Besides, nothing has burned at my house lately and I’m not injured, so I don’t have anything to say.

And no one really wants to read the comments from the last post, I'm sure. Nope. Nothin' there, so don't even bother to look.

Best Laid Plans . . . and all that

God has a sense of humor. I love Calvin and Hobbes so he gave me a son just like Calvin. Yesterday was a perfect example.

Being a Monday (following a Sunday where I had a serious discussion with my husband about schedules, etc.) I had mapped out my day, determined to stick to my schedule and get back on track after last week pretty much being a wash.

My son is not a morning person. Thus, I write in the morning. Usually, about a half hour before I’m ready to call it quits, he begins to rouse from his catatonic state. Now, at this point, he’s been awake and out of bed for about 3 hours. But he hasn’t really been functioning. Which is to my advantage.

So yesterday morning, I’ve almost hit my word count, need about 300 more words, when he comes in. “Mom. I’m hungry.”

“Finish your breakfast on the table.”

He comes back two minutes later, jam smeared on the cutest little cheeks. “I want a snack.”

“Give me fifteen minutes. I’m almost done.” I’m in the middle of a scene. I know where I’m going. It’s flowing. I don’t want to be interrupted.

He goes off and does something. I don’t know what. I’ve got 40 words left. With my mom ears I hear him climb on the kitchen counter. “Get down.”

“I’m making a sandwich.”

Great. “Get down. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I hear the sound of the toaster lever plunging, followed shortly after by the scent of smoke. I’m out of my chair and around the corner. Smoke is billowing out of the kitchen. I mutter a few non-CBA approved words. My son is climbing off the counter, rubbing his eyes. “I was making a sandwich.”

Smoke’s pouring out of the toaster but no flames. I unplug it and carry it out back, tossing it on the patio. Now the house is filled with the acrid scent of burnt toast. I hate burnt toast. I can see smoke swirling around the rooms, heading toward the ceiling. All I need is the smoke detectors to go off.

I start opening windows and turn on the ceiling fan. I go to open the patio door when I notice the toast is no longer in the toaster. The dumb dog has eaten all four pieces of charcoaled bread, probably burning his doggie lips in the process. I’m surprised he didn’t eat the toaster.

I finished my word count, then we went to Sonic for lunch. At this point, my schedule’s only off by about half an hour.

That was okay until about 1:30 when my e-mail went down. Again. I wait a couple hours, trying all my various trouble shooting techniques on the different computers in our house. Nothing. Finally I call Cox. They can’t figure it out either. Great. I love being a conundrum. After about an hour they finally figure it out and I get back my e-mail and my lifeline to the world outside my house.

Of course by this time I’ve forgotten to start dinner and the whole afternoon and evening schedule is shot.

Ah well. There’s always tomorrow.

Um, that’d be today.

102 and Counting

Don’t know if any of you actually care (well, Jenny might), but Arizona has hit a rather dubious record. 102 days without rain. It’s the longest dry spell since someone began keeping records. Between the construction, farmers plowing, and the fact that the desert is just generally dusty, the air has a continual brown tint to it, and the air quality has been less than ideal. To the point that I no longer run in the mornings, only walk. Since it’s supposed to hit near 80 by next week I don’t think we’ll be seeing any improvement anytime soon.

So, anyone want to come swim in our subdivision’s heated pool? Expect to see a post or two from poolside next week. I know, gotta get the perks in now before I start complaining about the heat come July. Or, more likely, May.

Points for Originality

I love Calvin and Hobbes. Peter got me the complete collection for Christmas. There’s a touching story behind that gift that I won’t share here. Needless to say, I’m married to one awesome guy.

Here’s the gist of one strip. Too bad you can’t do comic strips justice in print alone.

Calvin asks Hobbes for help with his homework. “What’s a pronoun?”
Hobbes answers: “A noun that’s lost its amateur status.”
Calvin: “Maybe I can get points for originality.”

I was going for points for originality the other day when one of those door-to-door sales people came by. We’re really close to breaking a record for the longest dry spell here in Arizona, nearly 100 days without rain. We haven’t had rain since October. Everything is covered with a layer of fine red dust that infiltrates everywhere.

Which is the point the sales girl was trying to make when she came by my house the other morning. She had some cleaner guaranteed to get off the toughest dirt in my house.

I sense a challenge. She hasn't seen the dirt in our house. I can never resist a challenge, no matter how stupid. Explains a few things in my life. Anyhow, my son has a fascination for black Sharpie and apparently his muse, in a modern art period, can’t be confined to paper. Thus the walls of our entryway and stairs are decorated in black. He blamed the dog. And I almost believed him.

So I point to the marks on the walls. “Let’s see if you can get those off.”

She starts scrubbing.

The black starts coming off the wall. Ooh, I’m impressed. An idea forms in my mind. “Okay, well, what about this ink over here on this door? I haven’t been able to get that off.”

She scrubs the door.

“And the grime on the banister?”

It comes off. By the time I start asking her about bloodstains on the carpet (okay, I’m a suspense writer, but it’s not what you think), she straightens and looks at me. “Yeah, it works on that.” No demonstration. She’s caught on to my scheme to get her to clean my house. Too bad we hadn’t gotten to the kitchen floor yet. But I figure she if she’s going to sell me something, she should earn it.

So there’s my housecleaning tip for the day. Get the sales people to do it.

And hide the Sharpie.

I'm a Real Writer Now

Warning. I have a concussion. So I can’t be held responsible for what I post and that's why I haven’t posted in several days. I’d like to say I got this concussion from an incident that involved a tire iron and possibly a clairvoyant basset hound, but alas, that was another post. And no, I didn’t get it from banging my head against the keyboard, though given how I’m feeling about Promise, the sequel to Witness, that’s a good guess. No, I got it from one of my children’s toys, as much as it pains me to admit that. One of these days we can discuss how much damage children and their toys inflict on their parents. Ever stepped on a plastic block or a Matchbox car?

Anyhow, with that warning out of the way …

Woo hoo! I’m officially a “writer.” You may wonder how I got this official status bestowed on me. Well, I’ll tell you. I visited my daughter’s second grade class. They are learning about writing, and her teacher asked me, a “real” writer, to come in and talk to them about it. So there you have it. By virtue of being asked to speak on a topic as a professional, I have now been recognized as said professional. Forget publication, awards, reviews. Just need the recognition of twenty second graders. And my daughter’s beaming face. “That’s my mom!”

Pretty cool, huh?

Of course, the teacher got sick just before I was going to speak, no reflection on me I’m sure. So the principal stepped in to take over the class. Now, I don’t know about you, but I still have a strange reaction to principals. I sat up straight, made sure I wasn’t chewing gum or talking. Oh wait, I was supposed to be talking. Anyhow, after I remembered I was an adult, I did just fine.

We talked about stories for about twenty minutes. Played a few “What if” games. They asked really good questions, including what I liked to read. They loved the fact that I use the Internet to stay in touch with other writers all over the country. And of course they were hugely impressed that I made enough money last year at writing to go out to dinner. Once.

And the respect of a classroom full of second graders might be enough to motivate me to get back to my keyboard and try and make something of Promise. Of course, by the time my name actually appears on the front of a book, they won’t be in second grade anymore. Sigh.

If You Like Short Stories ...

If you remember, I posted here a while back about the short story contest Infuze Magazine was running. Well, the top ten made it into their anthology which is now available. It even looks cool. Here's how the announcement read in Infuze's weekly newsletter, which I'm quoting because it names Mike Snyder's story as a reader favorite. Which, of course, we already knew.

Forty nominees were chosen. Twenty finalists (ten short stories, ten poems) were voted on by you, Infuze Magazine's readers. And now, our first-ever printed anthology is finally here.

Inside, you'll find reader favorites like Michael Snyder's ingenius short story "My Name Is Russell Fink" and Marcia Lee Laycock's clever "Simile at Starbucks." Plus, we threw in a special bonus: "Super," the 9-page comic book by yours truly and artist Tim Bates.

If that weren't enough, Bethany House Publishers has been kind enough to let us include an excerpt from Relentless, my upcoming first novel. The entire first chapter is included, and this is your first look at it anywhere (and if you read Prodigy, here's your chance to get a taste of what it's become).

And all proceeds go into building the future of Infuze.

You can order it here.

The End of This Thread as We Know It

All right. It's done. This is the final installment in the group story formerly known as "untitled." I'm torn between "The Secret Life of Russell Fink" or "The Promise of Russell Fink." The second one only makes sense to a few people. Kind of like me. Or most writers I know.

And on the off-chance you can't get enough of these round robin stories, our buddies over at Story Board--Dineen, Robin, Ronie and Ron--are starting their own. Check it out here.

Without further ado, and with apologies to Dallas ...

Part Ten

“Alyssa?” Russell ran out from behind the cop cars and headed straight for them.

The arm loosened around Sarah’s neck, and she gulped air.

“What are you doing here, Russell? Following me? We broke up.”

“Actually, I broke up with you.”

Sarah didn’t care who broke up with whom. She just wanted this gun out of her back. And if Russell could do it, she just might kiss him for real this time.

The gun slipped lower and in a flurry of bodies, Sarah was slammed to her side by someone who must have been a defensive lineman before becoming a cop. Dang, she was going to have bruises. Better than being dead, though.

The lineman offered her a hand up while other cops hauled off Alyssa who was screaming something about a publicity stunt.

Russell stood there looking stunned while Kyle hustled over carrying a box.

Russell nodded to the box. “What’s in there? The drugs?”

“You could say that.” Kyle lifted off the lid slightly. Two of the ugliest toads Sarah had ever seen blinked back at her.

Sarah stepped back. “What are those?”

“Poisoned toads. People smoke the venom.”

She shuddered. Yuck. She just wanted to go home. Maybe get a massage, take a nap. She was so tired, she felt her eyes drifting shut …

*****

Sarah was hearing voices. Where was she? The rollers running up and down her back reminded her. Oh yeah, the salon. Wow, that was a good story idea. She’d have to hit the computer as soon as she got back home.

“She thinks she’s such a great writer but I read one of her books and didn’t get it.”

Lynne murmured something but Sarah didn’t hear it. She kept her eyes closed. This could be interesting.

“I mean, they didn’t even have sex. What’s up with that? Good grief, all that chemistry and then… nothing.” A pause. “She’s asleep, isn’t she? I mean, she can’t hear me, right?”

That’s right, honey. I can’t hear a thing. Good grief.

The machine stopped and Sarah opened her eyes, blinked, and pretended to wake up, stretching out her arms in front of her.

Lynne hurried over. “Color looks good on you. Chick Flick Cherry. Very nice. You rest?”

“Yep. Had a nice little nap.”

“Good. See you in two weeks.”

Sarah slid her feet into her flip flops, paid and left the salon.

A man turned as she came out the door, holding the leash of a basset hound. He smiled at her. He had the cutest smile.

Maybe …

Nah, she pushed the thought out of her mind. The vestiges of her muse’s dancing in her brain still swirled around her, affecting her view of things. Still, if he ever read her book …

She strolled toward him, giving him a smile. Stopping within a foot of him, she reached her hand out. “Thanks for walking Sonny for me.” She took the leash out of his hand.

“No problem. When do you need me again?”

“I’m not sure, I’ll call you. Come on, Sonny, let’s go home.”

Sonny didn’t come at first, turning to look at the man before waddling after her.

She could have sworn he winked.

Round Robin Story Part 8

I'm sure you all were just dying to read this latest installment over the weekend. Sure you were. Well, here it is. As a reminder, you can find Part One and Four here, Part Two and Six at Malia's blog, Part Three at Sabrina's blog, Part Five at Mike's blog, and Part Seven at Jenny's blog.

By the way, we still need a title. Any ideas?

Part 8

Kyle hung up the phone and pushed out of his office chair. Russell Fink and Ryan Taylor both were waiting for him up front. He’d asked them to come in today to go over their statements, but he hadn’t expected them at the same time. Russell was obviously taken with Sarah, which Kyle could tell really torqued off Ryan. Of course Ryan thought at least half the women he met harbored romantic fantasies about him. And probably a few of the men.

When Kyle walked out, Russell and Ryan were sizing each other up across the room. “Hey guys, thanks for coming in. I didn’t expect both of you at the same time.”

Ryan lifted his chin. “I was here first. Plus, I’ve got rehearsal in an hour.”

Nice. Ryan was already getting territorial. The guy had a great singing voice but a lousy personality.

“Okay, Ryan—” Kyle’s phone rang. He unclipped it and looked at the display then answered it. This should be interesting. “Hi Sarah—”

“Kyle! Help me. This woman just killed Lynne and I don’t know if she’s chasing me or not—”

“Where are you?” Kyle waved to get the attention of the officer at the desk. “Call dispatch.”

She rattled off the name of a salon and the street she was running up. Kyle gave it to the officer who relayed it to dispatch. “Sarah, officers are on their way, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m going.” Ryan headed toward the door.

Russell was right behind him. “Me too.”

Kyle stepped in front of Ryan, blocking his path. "You're both idiots, you know that? This is police business and I don't have time to argue. Stay here." He yanked the door open and strode out—almost tripping over that basset hound that went everywhere with Russell—knowing that was the last thing they would do.

*****

Ryan was torqued. Kyle knew how he felt about Sarah. How could Kyle think he could just stay here and wait for news? Well, he wasn’t going to.

But what about this Russell guy? He wasn’t sure what was going on with him and Sarah, but he was just visiting. Ryan lived here. He just had to bide his time. He could afford to be generous. “I know where Sarah’s at.”

Russell stared at him for a beat. “I thought you had rehearsal in an hour.”

“Want a ride or not?”

“Let’s go.”

*****

Kyle had put Sarah in the front seat of his unmarked unit. She’d already given her statement to the officers who had first arrived on scene. Right now, Kyle just wanted to make sure she was okay. Her hands still shook, the only indication that she was still suffering from her ordeal. She finally clasped them tightly in her lap.

He stared at her hands a moment before it finally dawned on him. He’d have to make sure, but it looked like Sarah might be just what they needed to break this case open. From what they’d been able to piece together, the nail salon was some sort of communication center for the drug ring Chas Akana’s sister had gotten involved with. The proper combination of color and nail décor acted as a password.

And from what he could tell, Sarah was wearing that password on her fingers.

Sarah let out a sigh. The color had returned to her face.

“You doing okay?” Kyle had to ask. If she wasn’t then there was no point in going to the next step.

She nodded. “I think so. A little shaken, but okay.”

“Good. How’d you like to be a decoy?”

Pardon This Interruption

Interrupting our round robin story here to let you know that Mike Snyder's story, All Healed Up, is posted over at Dave Long's Faith*in*Fiction blog. This was part of the short story contest that Dave sponsored. On a personal note, this is my favorite of all of Mike's short stories. So what are you waiting for? Go check it out.

Round Robin Part Four

In my previous post I explained that several of us were going to try our hand at writing a round robin short story and I posted Part One. You can find Part Two on Malia's blog and Part Three on Sabrina's blog. Player number four was suppost to post this part, but since I can't resist a dead body, I jumped in. Um, yeah, don't draw too many conclusions from that last statement. Anyhow, feel free to join us.

What I've discovered so far: it's more fun to play with someone else's characters. And, I can still write even if I don't know where the story is going, something that's often hard for me to do. Okay, so on to Part Four.


Part Four

Russell looked up at her, then back at the tire iron in his hand. “Oh, it’s not what you think. I came over here to give you and Ryan some privacy when this guy came running up with this crazed look in his eye and blood streaming down his face.”

Sarah focused her eyes on Russell. One look at the body was all she needed. She put her hand behind her to feel for the boat rental building and sagged against it. They were on the backside of the building. Unless someone purposely came out here for a reason, no one would see them.

Sonny had stopped his growling and leaned heavily against her legs before plopping down on her feet.

“He had the tire iron in his hand. I thought he was going to hit me with it. But instead he handed it to me. Along with this.” A bottle of nail polish dangled from his fingers. OPI’s Chick Flick Cherry, if she wasn’t mistaken. A favorite. “Weird, huh? Then he just collapsed. I checked for a pulse, but he’s dead.”

As she stared at the nail polish bottle, she realized she could see the dead man’s boots out of the corner of her eye. They looked familiar. Where had she seen them before? She worked with a lot of contractors so why would this pair have stood out in her memory? There was nothing to do but look at his face. She closed her eyes. She really didn’t want to do this, but if it could help solve what happened …

She squatted down and scratched Sonny’s neck, his soft fur giving her comfort. He snuffled a few times then settled into a rhythmic breathing pattern. The dog was asleep on her feet, probably the only one relaxed around here. Well, except for the dead guy.

Continuing to stroke Sonny’s ears, she let her gaze travel up from the man’s boots, up his jean-clad legs and button-down shirt with blood spatters, to his face. She held her breath. It didn’t look as bad as she had expected. She recognized him. But from where?

She glanced up at Russell. He was looking at her, but not saying anything. She closed her eyes. This guy had something to do with a jobsite, she was sure. She let her mind wander. She’d driven up to the site of the building she was designing yesterday, but had gotten lost. Nothing unusual there; she had a horrible sense of direction. She’d stopped and asked two guys—

That was it. He was one of the guys she had asked for directions. And as she had driven away, in her rearview mirror she had seen him arguing with the other man.

She abruptly stood, disturbing Sonny who yawned and resettled himself on her feet. “We’ve got to call the police. I know this guy.” She unclipped her phone from her waist and speed-dialed Kyle, her best friend’s boyfriend, a detective.

While waiting for him to pick up, she noticed sunlight glinting off the top of the nail polish bottle Russell still held. That was odd. She took a step closer and saw a small rhinestone—like what would be used for a nail decoration—stuck to the top of the bottle. Why was that there?

Blog Round Robin

It’s a new year and some of us (me, Jenny and Sabrina) are starting on new wips. Through various IM and e-mail conversations the topic has come up about whether or not blogging helps or hurts our writing and creativity. Personally, I’ve come to the conclusion that it can be helpful as long as it doesn’t cut into writing time on my wip. It can help stoke the creative fires—and things can get pretty creative around here.

I don’t know if I can blame him for starting this chain of thought, but Mike Snyder (who always seems to be the source of, um, “creative writing” on this blog) left a comment last week about brainstorming a story. Then Malia mentioned the idea of a round robin story on her blog. So she and I brainstormed and came up with the idea of doing a round robin short story through our various blogs. The more the merrier so feel free to kick start your creative juices in the new year and jump on in.

Here’s what we came up with:

Anyone who wants to join in will write a 300-500 word segment of a short story. Hopefully we’ll end up with about ten segments but that’s not set in cement.

Each segment should include at least one of the following:
A tire iron
Nail polish
A map
A dead body (for us suspense writers)
A kiss (for the romance writers)
The ocean
The desert (because it’s my blog)
A visit to a salon
A writer who gets her book trashed to her face (knowingly or unknowingly)
A rainbow
A clairvoyant basset hound

Use your imagination. These things don’t have to be used in the way you would normally think of them. Feel free to steal each other’s characters or use your own.

What I’m thinking is that as you write your section, post here in the comments what part you’ve written (part two, part three, etc), then we can go read it on your blog. Then when it’s all done, (if ever) I’ll post the whole thing all put together either here or on my website.

Okay, I’m going first.


Part One

Sarah sat in the warm sand, digging her toes deeper to find the coolness underneath. The last rays of the day played across the water, turning the film of water left by a receding wave the color of champagne. It was beautiful, relaxing, perfect… yet she felt none of those things. Why did Ryan have to disturb her world? Why couldn’t he have given her some warning instead of making such a huge display, forcing all eyes on her while they awaited her answer. She couldn’t have said no.

She needed to go home and work on her dream house plans. That would make her feel better since the beach wasn’t doing it today. Today she’d run across a molding design that would be perfect for the built-in bookcases in the library, and—

Something warm and wet slithered across her hand. With a small yelp, she jerked away, then looked.

Soft brown basset hound eyes stared back.

“Well, hi there.” What a sweet dog. She lifted her hand slowly and the dog obligingly sniffed the back of her hand.

Realizing he must have an owner, she followed the leash up to the man holding it. Strangely enough, her first impression was that the dog and his owner shared the same soft brown eyes.

“Sorry about that. Sonny must really like you. He’s not usually that friendly.”

Sonny nuzzled Sarah’s hand, and she rubbed his head and scratched his ears. “He’s sweet. Sonny’s his name?”

“Yeah.” He moved a step closer and the leash sagged with slack. “I’m Russell.”

“Russell and Sonny, huh? I’m Sarah.” Still scratching Sonny’s head, she studied Russell out of the corner of her eye. Nice, boy-next-door good looks. “Visiting?”

A surprised looked flashed across Russell’s face. “Yeah. Why?”

She nodded toward the sign fifty feet away. “Dogs aren’t allowed on the beach this time of year.”

He looked at the sign. “Oh. Didn’t see it.”

“Not a big deal since there’s no one around to complain.” If it were the weekend with the lifeguard towers fully manned, that’d be a different story. She gave Sonny a final pet then stood up, brushing the sand off the back of her shorts. Friendly or not—nice dog or not—this guy was a stranger.

Sonny sniffed her legs, rubbing up against her. Wedging his nose between her ankles he pushed his nose forward.

Sarah took a step away and tripped over Sonny’s leash, falling backwards.

Russell grabbed for her arm, but momentum already had a hold of her, and she landed in the sand, pulling Russell with her.

Warm sand enveloped her back. Russell’s weight pinned her from the front, and Sonny continued to sniff around her feet, tickling. She kicked her feet away.

Russell rolled off of her and sat up. “Sorry. Are you okay? I tried to help but I guess I just made things worse.”

Sarah sat up and shook the sand from her hair. “I’m fine. It’s sand. I had a soft landing.” He still looked concerned. “Really. It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into Sonny.”

Sonny had left Sarah’s feet for something more interesting. He made soft snuffling noises as he strained against the leash, following some scent in the sand.

“Sarah!”

Her head snapped up at the familiar voice. Uncertainty rolled through her stomach. Ryan. Striding down the bike path, headed her way. How’d he find her? She came here to get away from him.