Nancy Bush | THE BINKSTER's BLOG

(with a little help on the keyboard from Nancy Bush):

Most of you know, I'm a pug and star of the Jane Kelly Mystery Series by Nancy Bush. You probably think I lead this glamorous life. Not so! Today, as usual, I woke up and thought about food. Then I trotted out to my bowl, which was empty, and thought some more about food.

This is a continuing problem for me, and you'll see just how much when you read the books. I show up in the first of the series, CANDY APPLE RED. The truth of the matter is that Nancy actually wrote about the pug in the book before she bought me. (I'm sure there were MAJOR revisions to CANDY APPLE RED once I became flesh and blood.) In the story Jane is a reluctant dog owner. The Binkster is thrust upon her. Well, suffice it to say, I worm my way into her heart pretty fast.

But back to today--

After checking my bowl again, I climbed on the couch and waited for someone to feed me. Nancy came downstairs and headed out to the Coffee Nook—yes, that's the same coffee shop featured in the Jane Kelly Mystery Series—which is what she does every day. Ken came down a few moments later and fed me. Relief! Then he put me in my little fuzzy bed in the passenger seat of the car and drove me to the Coffee Nook.

At the Nook, Nancy and Ken took me for a walk so I could use the facilities and then they carried me inside where Julie—owner of the Nook—gave me a crumb or two from one of the muffins. Blueberry are my favorite. We do this most weekday mornings. Personally, I think I could eat a whole muffin, but there's this weight issue thing. (Sigh)

We all left the Nook, and Ken drove off to work. Nancy and I stopped by a local bookstore to see her new book in the window, ULTRAVIOLET, before we went home. It's snazzy! And, of course, I'm featured in it. In UV there's a dog who's moved in next door to Dwayne. This dog's totally bark-worthy, and I let him know. Not quite sure whether I like him or not. But It's great being a central character, although Jane Kelly's the real top dog. Boy, does she meet some kooks in that book. Wedding crashers! Botox babes! Rabid Junior Leaguers! And, of course, there is murder. Jane's client is that beautiful, scary Violet Purcell, first introduced in ELECTRIC BLUE, who's now accused of killing her favorite ex-husband by clobbering him with a tray on the day of his daughter's nuptials. You can read more about the book at www.nancybush.net/, where you can also join the Binkster Fan Club and a chance to win cool prizes.

But I digress . . . you wanted to know about me, right? So after the trip to the Nook, Nancy wrote on her laptop on the living room couch, and I got to curl up next to her. Sometimes I put my head on the keyboard. This creates drama as Nancy sucks in a breath and says, "Wait, wait! That paragraph just disappeared!" She feels obliged to tell me—again—that she's writing the book, not me. Like I'm missing that point. I would just like a chicken strip, or liver treat, or hey, basic dog kiblets are perfectly okay.

Nancy's been a little distracted as she's working on three books at once. She's finishing the proposal for the next Jane Kelly Mystery, which she's calling PINK CADILLAC. (I'm hoping I get to ride in it and hang my head out the window!) She's also writing a romantic suspense novel with her sister, Lisa Jackson, AND she's putting the final touches on the proposal for her own first stand-alone thriller, which should be out in 2009. Yeah . . . she's a little crazed right now. I have to snort a lot to remind her I'm there. Sometimes she reads me a passage from her new book. I cock my head and pretend to pay attention, but if it's not about me, I don't really care. To keep Nancy on track, I'll put my paw on her leg, just to remind her I could use a snack.

I worry sometimes that she'll get so caught up in writing that she'll forget about dinner. And I could expire before Ken gets home.

Maybe it's time for that head on the keyboard again.....

The Binkster

Maddy Hunter | Not Your Average Saturday Night

Having been raised in New England, educated in convent school, hired as a church organist at age thirteen, and born into a family that boasted five priests, I suspect the last place you'd expect to find me on a Saturday night is in Amsterdam's red-light district, but two weeks ago, that's exactly where I was.

I write the Passport to Peril Mystery series, featuring travel escort Emily Andrew and her band of quirky Iowa seniors, so I travel the globe looking for exciting places to kill imaginary characters. To date, I've committed murder in Switzerland, Ireland, Italy, Hawaii, Australia, and Scandinavia. With NORWAY TO HIDE due to be released at the end of October, it was time for me to select a new killing ground, which is how I happened to be eating dinner in an upscale Dutch restaurant, opposite two fellow tour members who suggested it might be fun to explore the red-light district after the bus dropped us off at our hotel.

The red-light District? That den of inquity where brothels had thrived for a century? Where people could indulge in hanky-panky while guzzling ardent spirits and smoking something even more potent than Marlboros? Me? Go there? A bit outside my comfort zone, thank you. My idea of a rousing Saturday night is five o'clock Mass and a burger at Culvers.

"Oh, let's," said a third tour member. "I'm game," said another. Even my husband expressed interest. Uh-oh. If I didn't agree to tag along, I'd not only look like a wuss, I'd be a poor excuse for a mystery writer whose credentials included killing people on three continents. I reminded myself that I'd been thinking of letting a couple of my characters -- "the two Dicks" -- run amok in the red-light district in the next book, so I wouldn't be gawking, I'd be... doing research. "I guess you can count me in, too," I finally spoke up, hoping I wouldn't live to regret it, .

After recruiting three more willing tour guests and receiving vague directions, we set off on our adventure like the pilgrims in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales– the New York paralegal, the IRS guy, the UCLA professor, the retired research scientist, the government employee with actual security clearance, the agricultural engineer, two avid Boston Red Sox fans and the cozy mystery writer. We walked in a clump, trying to blend in, but I suspected we weren't tall enough. (Factoid: If you're Dutch, you're really, really tall.) We passed a group of young men on a bridge and I heard the word "American" whispered. (Factoid: I wondered what gave it away? My husband's baseball cap, the IRS guy's Members Only jacket, or the name tags that were still pinned to our clothing?) We tried to determine which pathway we were on– the pedestrian sidewalk or the bicycle path. (Factoid: In Amsterdam there are walkways for people that run adjacent to bicycle lanes. The ground is littered with the bones of American who couldn't figure out the difference.)

"It sure is quiet for a Saturday night," I commented as we followed along a tranquil canal lit by strings of white lights. Amsterdam was spectacular at night with its patrician houses illuminated by sparkling chandeliers behind acres of glass. But the streets were oddly deserted. "Does anyone know where we're going?" asked the paralegal. "This way," said the BoSox fan, and after a left turn, we heard the commotion, which gradually increased to a rock concert roar.

So this was the red-light district. No wonder the rest of Amsterdam was deserted. Everyone was here! People milled shoulder-to-shoulder for as far as the eye could see along a narrow canal. Music blasted. Lights blared. Neon signs advertised products that I'd never find at my local Bed, Bath, and Beyond. A woman dressed in Victoria's Secret lingerie stood statue-still in a storefront window, staring at her cell phone. I couldn't figure out if she was sending a text message or having trouble with her system. "Stick together," the BoSox fan admonished as we wove through the crowd, grabbing onto the hems of each others' jackets.

The ladies of the evening occupied the same kind of cubicles made popular by Hollywood Squares. They were young, gorgeous, and looking for busy. Men gawked. Men whistled. My fictional Dicks would love it here. I was so glad I'd come! I could weave this into a story really well. Our BoSox fan started snapping pictures. "Should you do that?" I asked him. "I read someplace that you're not supposed to take photos in the red-light distract." "I must have missed that," he responded as he continued to snap away.

We walked briskly, losing our grips on each other as we snaked our way through the ever-thickening crowd. On a bridge across the canal I saw a group of brave souls holding up signs that proclaimed, "JESUS SAVES." I sidled looks at the ladies of the evening, my writer's curiosity piqued. Was there one woman who attracted more business than all the others? Did that make the others jealous? Did they ever get together to do lunch or shop? Was this their full time profession, or like in "Pretty Woman," were they only saving money to attend college? How much did they charge for their services? Did they have boyfriends?

The lights and music came to an abrupt end at a bridge and the members of our little troupe straggled onto it one by one. All except our BoSox fan. "Has anyone seen Dan?" asked his wife. We'd all seen him, but not within the last few minutes. So we waited. And waited. And waited.

No Dan. My husband whistled into the crowd. Someone whistled back, which did nothing but prove that two people in the crowd could whistle really loudly. We waited some more. "We should probably go back to the hotel," said his wife after a while. "He'll find his way back."

Go back? But what if something had happened to him? What if he didn't know his way back? What if he'd been arrested for taking pictures? What if he was floating in the canal? This was terrible! (Factoid: On the other hand, it was really great because it was inspiring some great ideas for my next book.) "He's a big boy," his wife assured us calmly. "He'll be fine." I was so admiring of her. If I'd been in her shoes, I'd be frantic. I was really regretting coming here. So we reluctantly shuffled back through the crowd on the opposite side of the canal, constantly looking over our shoulders for Dan. No one wanted to face our tour guide in the morning to tell him that it was only day two of our tour, and we'd already managed to lose a guest.

The eight of us trooped into our hotel with the weight of the world on our shoulders. "What do you want us to do?" we asked his wife. "Should we stay with you, contact our tour guide, contact the authorities?" "I'll give him a couple of hours," she assured us, "and if he's not back by then..." At which point Dan came bouncing into the lobby, bursting with enthusiasm. "I got some great pictures. You wanna see?"

"Where WERE you?" we asked as we crowded around him. "I was right there," he said as he flashed us a picture of a sultry blond. "With the JESUS SAVES people."

Jesus saves. Thank God. (Factoid: Yup. The Dicks were going to love the red-light district.)

Please visit my website at Maddyhunter.com.

Shirley Damsgaard | "Witch" is Better -- Romance or Mystery?

How did a small town Midwesterner ever decide to write about witches?? Well, I’ve always been the type of person who believed if I could read about it, I could do it, so when at the tender age of 48, I decided to write, I bought every book about the craft of writing that I could. The first piece of advice was to write what you like to read, and at the time I was reading a lot of romance. Okay, so we’ll try our hand at romance.

I bought (again) the books I deemed necessary to help me with my quest and set about writing a romance novella. I leaned two things. First of all, I can’t write a love scene to save my life!! And if one is going to write romance, love scenes are kind of important! The second thing I learned is that if you use a password, be sure, and write it down. You might not remember it six months down the road if you don’t. Yes, I pass worded that terrible novella, but forgot what it was! The good thing is—that piece of literature, and I use the term loosely, is forever lost and can never come back to haunt me!!

What to do now?? It was during one of my whines about my lack of skill that my late husband suggested I give mysteries a go. He pointed out I was always ruining movies for him by telling how they would end. He thought writing mysteries would be a more profitable way to exercise my talent at figuring out plots, and leave him alone to enjoy his movies!

Okay, so mysteries it would be, but what type of mystery? Since I have no background in a profession, such as law enforcement, that would lend itself to creating a detective, I knew my protagonist had to be an amateur sleuth. The problem was deciding what type of amateur sleuth. I’ve been interested in the paranormal since I was a teenager, so how about a psychic? What a great idea! It was such a great idea that several, already published authors, had the same thought! I needed a different kind of a hook.

Another interest of mine has always been folk remedies, herbs, old wives tales—it wasn’t much of a leap to jump from folk medicine to folk magick, hence witches. More books about the subject were purchased, and Ophelia and Abby were born! And it’s been fun! I’ve met psychics, real witches, a rune-master, a Native American medicine man, and lots of others who’ve made my life more interesting than I ever conceived it could be. Not bad for a small town Midwesterner who can’t write a romance!

http://www.shirleydamsgaard.com/

Julia London |The Price of My So-Called Fame

Ah, this business! You plug along for years, putting out book after book, hoping that your small group of readers will grow into a group large enough that you might actually pay the mortgage. You plod along at a steady pace, building slowly, while other authors evolve at lightning speed. Nothing happens for years, and then suddenly, out of the blue, your books start to sell well. Print runs go up. Your publisher tells you that they are going to do more to promote your books. Your agent pumps you up and tells you you're becoming a Big Deal, and you get all excited, even though you know she says that to all her clients. They approach you about doing a tie-in novel to a soap opera. A what? you cry, but you do it, because you're no fool.

And then one day it happens. You're in a bookstore, talking with the bookseller whom you've known for years. When another customer approaches, you walk away to peruse the stacks, and you hear that customer say, "That's Julia London? Ohmigod! Ohmigod!"

You are so glad you put on some make up and changed out of godawful linen pants you've worn all summer and fall. You quickly swipe your fingers under your eyes just in case there are any make up smudges, because it's been that long since you wore make-up, and you turn.

The bookseller presents a beaming--beaming--customer. The customer says--no, squeals-- "Ohmigod, you cannot believe what an honor it is to meet you!"

You give her demure smile. "Thank you. It's a pleasure to meet you, too..."

"Mary!" she cries, still beaming. "Wow! You don't look anything like your picture!" You are determined not to take that in the wrong way. Your hair is a different color after all. She continues, "I absolutely loved your last book! I've read it five times."

You smile and nod, like this happens to you all the time, like you are being the saint of patience with this adoring fan who read your last book five times. Who wouldn't want to read it at least once or twice? It was, you'll admit, among your best.

"I loved the heroine. What was her name? Miranda?"

"Ava," you kindly correct her.

Mary's smile fades a bit. "Ava?" she repeats slowly, obviously thinking. "I am sure it was Miranda."

Ah, the fans! They read so many romance novels they lose track of names! But she surely remembered the writing!

"It was her diary, remember?" Mary says, looking at you curiously now. "Her secret diary?"

Your heart does a funny little flip at the same time the bookseller noticeably pales. You say--or rather, stammer-- "Ah...hm...I'm sorry, but you're thinking of Julia Quinn. I'm Julia London."

Mary's smile fades altogether. "Ooh," she says, clearly disappointed. "Is Julia Quinn here?"

You wish Julia Quinn was there. You wish you could crawl into the stack of books and hide behind all those lonely Julia London novels. You go home with a stack of books and grudgingly start the process of trying to get the word out: You have a new book. And as you write this blog, you hope that readers and fans will remember that said new book, THE DANGERS OF DECEIVING A VISOUNT, which happens to be the third book in the Desperate Debutantes trilogy, is written by Julia London, and not Julia Quinn. London. London. London. Not Quinn.

I have something new and fun in my bag of tricks to form an identity separate from Julia Quinn: A bulletin board! It's designed to be a place where friends and fans can hang out, talk about books or whatever they want, and win free stuff. Who doesn't love free stuff? As a kick off, we are hosting a contest for aspiring writers. The winner gets to put her material in front of my agent. The details are all at the new board. I hope you will stop by and join in the fun at Julia's Bulletin Board!

Julia London

Carla Neggers | Travel Tales: Writing on the Fly

I'm on the road. I just arrived in beautiful Salt Lake City on not such a beautiful day, but what incredible scenery. It's my second time out west this year. In June, I was in Denver, Phoenix and Las Vegas touring for ABANDON, my most recent book, with side trips to Sedona and the Grand Canyon. In between these two trips west, I've scooted off to Dallas, New York, Maine and Toronto. Fortunately, I can write pretty much anytime, anywhere. I spent the first three hours of the flight to Salt Lake working on THE ANGEL, which is due out in hardcover in late April. I love this story, so it was easy to drag out my laptop, put on my iPod and dive in.

Not everyone can or likes to write on the road, but for me it can be fun and energizing. Some writers I know like to hole up in a hotel for the last week or two they're working on a book. Total immersion. No distractions. It's something I've never done, but I can understand the appeal—especially if it's a nice hotel! I wrote part of THE WIDOW, which is due out in paperback in a few weeks, at the Hermitage in Nashville, one of my all-time favorite hotels.

I've learned the hard way to be very clear about what's trash and what's not trash. I left a print-out of BREAKWATER in our hotel room in Reno two years ago. I'd made about eight-hours worth of handwritten changes—no computer backup. We were on the tail-end of another trip west—we drove up the Pacific Coast Highway from San Diego to San Francisco, then on to Reno and, finally, Lake Tahoe. After so many days on the road, the flimsy gray cardboard box that held my manuscript was very beat up…and out it went with the trash, never to be seen again. Live and learn…

Of course, I take trips when I don't write at all. I like to give my mind a chance to roam. Last summer, we stayed in a cottage on a sheep farm on the southwest coast of Ireland—what an experience. I wasn't doing research or even thinking about an Ireland-related book, but the moment we stepped into the ruin of the coastal stone cottage where my son-in-law's great-grandfather was born…I knew a story had grabbed hold of me. I didn't know what it was or when I'd write it, but, looking back, I realize I started writing THE ANGEL that day.

We're off to Beverly Hills after Salt Lake City. I'll be finished with THE ANGEL and look forward to giving my mind another chance to roam. Who knows what'll happen—maybe I'll just people-watch—but it'll be an adventure.

Take care, and happy reading!

Carla

http://www.carlaneggers.com/