Pens Fatales

Meditative Parts of Speech

2010-03-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

I used to diagram sentences for fun. I did it for hours. From the age of ten to thirteen, it was something that pleased my brain in a way that little else ever did. That adolescent time is so awful, so awkward and ungainly, but sentences: they always made sense. Even the longest ones could be stripped down to their most essential parts, identified, categorized, labeled, and pinned like parts of a butterfly.

I filled whole notebooks with diagrammed sentences. While other girls drew horses or scribbled their first names next to various boys' last names, I separated subjects from predicates, adverbs from adjectives, hanging them from precarious-looking lines and rewrote them entirely if I ran out of room on the page.

It made me pretty popular, I can tell you that. Between the knitting, the glasses, the braces, the acne, and the tendency to obsess over parts of speech, I was a preteen CATCH. And now, looking back, I don't think I even possess the skill anymore. I'd have to brush up on the rules before I broke out the old diagramming pen. Much like my mad spirograph skillz, my diagramming abilities are rusty.

But just thinking of those notebooks, filled with words (it didn't matter what kind of words -- I was home schooled during part of those years, and I remember diagramming Latin sentences, too), calms my heart rate. It was a meditation of sorts, and I didn't know it.

I just did it because I loved it.

(Photo source)

Now That's HOT

2010-03-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Sophie

GRAMMAR

I probably shouldn't admit this but I think tattoos are kind of, a little bit...hot.

But NOT this one:

'Cause you know what's even hotter? Grammatical mastery.

Yeah, give me a guy who can use all the elements of language properly, who can create complex sentences that still parse correctly, who can toss in a ten-dollar word offhandedly, and I'm smitten.

Oh, and you know what's really hot? A guy who knows all the rules...and then breaks them intentionally. Nothing so sweet as a run-on or fragment when it's a straight shot from heart to page...

Maybe tattoo parlors should all be required to have a Strunk'n'White and a dictionary on site...

Pens In Action!

2010-03-06T22:39:00.001-08:00

Today Julie, Rachael and Sophie attended a signing sponsored by the Black Diamond RWA in Brentwood, CA. We met some really fun and funny readers, we mostly behaved, we sold all our books, and we want to thank our host, author Virna DePaul!

Pens Celebrating the Release of How To Knit A Love Song!

2010-03-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

As promised, here are more pics of our celebration/book hunt. :) Sadly, Sophie, Martha and Adrienne couldn't make it....

Cheers

Rachael's first sighting of her book in a bookstore (Books, Inc)!!

On to the next store! At Borders our party almost cleaned out the store and Rachael ran into a blog fan snapping up a copy!

Ending the night at the Lucky 13 for a post-bookhunt celebration!

Best Served In Fiction

2010-03-05T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today our guest is Dan Krokos, and we couldn't be more pleased. With characteristic modesty, Dan describes himself thus: "I’m a twenty-three-year-old gas station attendant/student who writes crime fiction. I can usually be found leaning against poles with various satellite equipment lingering in the background."

We met Dan at Bouchercon and can report with confidence that he is one of the good guys - friendly, charming, interested in everyone around him, and enthusiastic about the genre. Oh, and the guy is a damn good writer. We foresee an incredible publishing future for Dan, who already has one of our very favorite agents on his team.

I went to a bar one time. Had a fruity beer with my fruity friend. The drive was long, and I had work the next morning, so I cut out early. Thirty minutes, tops. Walked to the parking lot and saw my car was gone.

My car was gone.

I checked off a few possibilities: wrong parking lot, wrong space, I am dreaming, someone stole it. Then I saw the sign twenty feet down, tangled in a miniature forest of bushes. Private parking for a dentist. First I screamed at the building (I wasn’t drunk, I normally scream at inanimate objects), then I open-hand slapped the sign. Someone reported gunshots, but that’s a story for another time.

My story is this: I felt cheated. I felt scammed. I experienced rage.
I didn’t know it was a tow away zone, and now I had to pay out one hundred and fourteen dollars to some smelly tow truck drivers who prowl the streets for lots they have contracts with. I wanted to kill them. I wanted to go Travis Chase on their asses and roll a car through the storefront, then walk through the shattered mess with a gun in each hand. Maybe say something like: “I’m going to tow away your life.”

I didn’t do any of that. I paid my fine and moved on.

Revenge in fiction is not revenge in real life. My book features a pile of vengeance. My character is wronged and he does something about it, consequences be damned. It feels good. It feels brutal, too. It feels wrong at the same time.
Because aren’t we supposed to forgive? Has vengeance ever made anyone feel better? While writing my book, I constantly wanted to pull my character back. I wanted to tell him his actions weren’t going to lead to a rebalancing of the universe.

Morality aside, the logistics of vengeance seem impossible in most cases. Say tomorrow you come home and a loved one has been murdered in the kitchen. Maybe they were in the middle of making your birthday cake, and flour is mixed in with the blood. How dramatic. The police have no leads, no witnesses. You want justice, you want revenge. How would you go about it? In a book, you call up the guy who knows things and maybe he heard something and maybe you check it out and find out something else and soon you’re on the trail of the killer and you suddenly know how to fight with a pipe and ride a motorcycle.

You don’t do any of that, because you’re not Slevin Kelevra. Or the Punisher. Or Kevin Bacon in that one movie.

You sit at home and wallow and eventually heal. You do like Sophie and send red-hot mental poxes. You pay your fine and shake your fist at the tow truck driver when he’s not looking.
You read a story and revel in a character’s emotions as he or she does the things you cannot.

That’s why we read books.

"Om" Part Two

2010-03-04T00:01:00.000-08:00

I got nothin'.

I tried to think. Revenge is an interesting topic, so surely I could come up with something to say about it. Turns out, not so much.

I've never had the desire for revenge. The most I've ever thought about it is to think that if someone has done wrong, their Karma will catch up with them.

Now, I realize this is a strange stance for someone who writes mystery fiction, where characters must routinely kill each other.

It dawned on me: To date, I've never used revenge as a motive in something I've written. (Um, once one of my books comes out, you should probably forget you read that. Just to keep you guessing a little more.)

So, instead of making up some nonsense about revenge that I know nothing about (being too calm for my own good and all that), I'm going to share my exciting news of the week:

I finished a draft of my first young adult mystery!

What's it about?

A family curse. A town built on a damnable act of greed. And an evil legacy that continues deep in the heart of California Gold Rush country.

See, I've got greed and desperation in there, but no revenge.

--Gigi

Martha's Revenge Standards

2010-03-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

I don't have a lot of personal experience with revenge, but I think I'd be awesome at it.

I'm selfish, quick to violence and ruthlessly efficient. In addition to making me a shoo-in to survive the impending zombie apocalypse, those traits would make me some kind of revenge master.

I think when you're naturally talented at something, you should help others exceed. Just call me your personal revenge sensei.

1. Revenge is a solo act. Ocean's 13 was a fun watch, but how are you supposed to hang onto seething self-righteous anger while syncing your Blackberry schedules?

2. Revenge gets served within 24 hours. Revenge is only a dish best served cold for losers who can't get their shit together sooner. Any decent revenge seeker should have the motivation and anger to envision, implement and execute revenge in less than day. Any less than that, and you're just screwing around.

3. Revenge is not proportional. No Hammurabic "eye for an eye" code here. If someone takes your eye, you take their face. Got it?

4. Revenge is permanent. Anything less is a frat-boy prank. Replacing water with pee/switching shampoo with Nair/spitting on a burger = prank. Burning down a house = a prank - people are insured these days. Infecting someone with a raging drug-resistant strain of gonorrhea? That's better. Infecting them via their spouse? Now you're talking.

5. Revenge should not affect the person dishing it out. Give yourself a week post-revenge to revel in the act. Then forget about it. If it bothers you, if you can even be bothered to remember it, it's not revenge.

I really hope this weeds out any pansy revenge seekers and encourages the rest of you to take your revenge seeking to a whole 'nother level. Excellence in everything, my friends!

How To Knit A Love Song Release Day!!!!

2010-03-02T22:40:00.000-08:00

More pics on the weekend but right now a quick shout out "CONGRATULATIONS!" to Rachael for the release of How To Knit a Love Song.

Lynn, Juliet, Lisa, Rachael, Gigi and the BOOK! :)

Revenge or Karma?

2010-03-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

According to Dictionary.com
Revenge:
1. to exact punishment or expiation for a wrong on behalf of, esp. in a resentful or vindictive spirit
2.to take vengeance for; inflict punishment for; avenge
–verb (used without object)

Revenge makes great fiction...the burning desire to right a wrong, the character forsaking their wordly possessions, their comfortable life, and even their values in pursuit of that elusive balancing of the scales.

This is so not me. That isn't to say I don't occasionally have a moment (a tiny moment which I squash quickly 'cause I really don't want karma to come back to me!) where I wish something bad to happen to someone who done me wrong, but the truth is...I'm a Karma girl. I believe if you do bad things, mean things, even little minutia of snarky things...one day, your bad karma is going to come back and bite you in the ass.

And while I won't outwardly cheer, I'll take a moment of gleeful 'I knew it!' before returning to my regularly even-tempered life. It's my belief that Karma is far more dangerous than revenge.

Karma:
Hinduism, Buddhism. action, seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad, either in this life or in a reincarnation: in Hinduism one of the means of reaching Brahman.

The philosophy of karma appeals to me.

To live your life and act with others as you wish to be treated. To live as authentic a life as possible. To be your best. It's very easy to get caught up in the 'but she did this to me' frenzy. But the truth is, maybe she's just having a bad day. Or maybe all her days are bad and her anger and her meanness stem from her own feelings of inadequacy.

At the end of the day I believe that lurking in that mean soul is an extremely miserable person, who if they could only develop their own feelings of self-confidence and self-acceptance would be much nicer to the people around them.

So I pity them. Because when karma comes calling they won't have anyone to lean on and that is the best revenge of all.

Lisa

Nothing to See Here

2010-03-01T00:25:00.000-08:00

L.G.C. Smith

I don't do revenge. It has a certain dramatic appeal, but when you get right down to it revenge done properly usually requires more time and energy than it's worth. Beyond high school (where all bets are off) or when someone very, very seriously harms your child, practical concerns dictate that most folks are too lazy for revenge.

When wronged, I stew a bit, then move on. There may be a fantasy or two where the offending party undergoes a humiliating public revelation of their true (dastardly) character. I may have, a few times only, pretended I was a powerful witch able to hurl bad karma acceleration curses at the odd malicious soul I've run across. Then...onward. Sometimes forgiveness is required. Fairly often a little perspective does the trick.

Fictional characters, however, have carte blanche to indulge revenge impulses of towering magnificence. This is one of the joys of fiction. As in romance where manly men readily learn to deal with emotion in ways satisfying to women, so can wronged characters fritter their lives away in service to revenge without wearying of the ass-backwardness of it all. Currently, I'm writing a couple of characters based on real people for whom revenge was as mother's milk. These guys were seventh-century Anglo-Saxon kings.

Early Germanic societies seem to have put a high premium on revenge. I comment as a novelist here, not an expert, but the legal systems in use in the early Anglo-Saxon period (450-700 AD) had a lot to say about blood feuds and compensation for crimes against persons and property. Everybody had a price, from the kings and their kin down to the slaves who cleaned up after the pigs. Families, especially those worth a lot, generally seemed to have a right to revenge. Or, possibly it would be more accurate to say that they had a duty to revenge.

My characters are based on the very real Northumbrian kings and rivals, Æthelfrith of Bernicia and Edwin of Deira. Bernicia encompassed much of what's now the county of Northumberland, while Deira was centered on York and the surrounding area. This picture is taken on the beach just south of Bamburgh, which was the main fortified settlement in early seventh century Bernicia.

Æthelfrith took over Deira to form the basis of what would become the kingdom of Northumbria. He killed Edwin's father and assorted family members, married Edwin's sister, and forced Edwin into exile.

It's not hard to understand why Edwin was impelled toward revenge on Æthelfrith, and he did achieve it ten or fifteen years down the line. Thus when Æthelfrith was killed in battle by Edwin's allies, Edwin took over a combined Northumbria and became perhaps the most powerful ruler of his time.

Then Æthelfrith's sons who were children sent into exile when Edwin took over, came roaring back another fifteen years later and killed Edwin. In succession, they they ruled Northumbria as perhaps the most powerful kings of their time. And so it went. Lather, rinse, repeat.

For men like Æthelfrith and Edwin revenge was a defining aspect of everyday life. It's not precisely fair, but one can describe the history of Britain in the seventh century as a series of revenge-driven raids by warlords who were heavily intermarried with all the other warlord kings. It was the original family feud.

Against this backdrop of constant squabbling --deadly squabbling in a population that could ill afford to lose too many farmers, blacksmiths, or cheesemakers -- I can see why the Anglo-Saxon kings, like Edwin, accepted conversion to Christianity. It offered them a way out of the endless cycles of revenge. God took over retribution duties, and paying penances to the Church reduced the toll in dead farmers and pillaged fields when the warlords couldn't contain their violence.

Times have changed when it comes to the role of revenge in our lives. We now trust many aspects of revenge to governments and call it the justice system. Flawed, yes. Very. Better than warlords? Most definitely. Ethically, we have several millennia of religious history urging us to let evildoers take their chances with the the higher powers and karma so the rest of us can worry about getting three kids to four different sports activities in three cities in two hours.

In the meantime, my time-traveling Anglo-Saxon kings are finding themselves in a world that doesn't give a rip about their mandates for revenge. What's more, they now find that the person they most seek to annihilate is the only person alive who shares their past. That's way more interesting than any revenge scenarios that may have come up in my real life.

Good Hair Is the Best Revenge

2010-02-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

When I heard that the theme this week at Pens Fatales was “revenge,” I immediately ducked my head, hunched my shoulders, and let out a low roll of evil laughter. Finally, a topic I could sink my teeth into! One of the things I love about writing – and in particular, about writing mysteries – is that I can let my characters do all the crazy things that I would never dare to do in real life. Oh no. In real life, I’m all tight smiles when someone does me wrong.

But in fiction, oh boy. No holds barred!

There’s a fabulous scene in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes that captures perfectly what I mean. Some young bimbo steals Kathy Bates’s parking spot. In real life, we’d continue circling the parking lot, muttering under our breath. But in the movie, Kathy did what we all want to do – she deliberately crashed her car into that bimbo’s car. And then she did it again. What a moment!

Writers get to live that joy every day, by having our characters behave in ways that make us gasp and giggle and cheer. So I started thinking, who in my real life deserves revenge? Not my husband. He’s a doll. (An anatomically correct doll, too, thank goodness!) Not my editor. She’s fabulous. She helped me shape If Books Could Kill into a book that I’m proud to present to the world. It’s been pure pleasure working with her.

No, if I were to seek revenge against anyone in my life, it would have to be my hairdresser. Actually, every hairdresser who ever promised me she could turn my mop into something presentable but instead forced me to face the public looking like… well, like this, for example.

Okay, so revenge against Bitsy, a composite of every hairdresser who has failed me. And believe me, there have been major fails!

So who is Bitsy? She’s in her early 20s, and she chews gum so much that her jaw muscles rival Clint Eastwood’s. She asks me questions and then talks loudly to her colleague at the next mirror while I answer. Her fingernails are approaching Guinness Book of World Records length, and when she runs them through my hair, strands get caught and yank painfully at my scalp. Worst of all, when she’s done, she tells me I look fabulous and convinces me that it’s true. When I step outside the salon, people point and laugh. A four-year-old shrieks and hides behind her mother.

Do you recognize Bitsy?

Do you want to help me kill her?

How does Bitsy die? What does her in? Not a gun. That’s too mundane. Revenge is personal, especially in good fiction. Maybe her own shears buried between her shoulder blades? But no. She wouldn’t have seen what was coming, and Bitsy needs to admit her sins before her big death scene. Help me out here. Let’s brainstorm together. How should Bitsy die? What should her last words be? And while we’re at it, share your own hair horror stories!

Bestselling author Kate Carlisle spent over twenty years working in television production as an Associate Director for game and variety shows, including The Midnight Special, Solid Gold and The Gong Show. She traveled the world as a Dating Game chaperone and performed strange acts of silliness on The Gong Show. She also studied acting and singing, toiled in vineyards, collected books, joined a commune, sold fried chicken, modeled spring fashions and worked for a cruise ship line, but it was the year she spent in law school that finally drove her to begin writing fiction. It seemed the safest way to kill off her professors. Those professors are breathing easier now that Kate spends most of her time writing near the beach in Southern California where she lives with her perfect husband.

Visit Kate online at http://www.katecarlisle.com/ or www.Facebook.com/KateCarlisleBooks

Everything I Ever Needed To Know About Revenge I Learned From Ricardo Montalban

2010-02-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

--Adrienne Miller

I’m not a vengeful person by nature. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a saint. I can hold one hell of a grudge (yeah, I’m looking at you, blonde girl who tripped me in 8th grade art class). But that’s sort of the problem, all I ever do is hold on to my righteous indignation and seethe. And seethe. And seethe. I never get around to the whole “taking revenge” part of the anger cycle. While this has no doubt saved me some jail time, it hasn’t been very satisfying. I’m also worried that I might be working myself up to one hell of an aneurysm.

I figure what I need is beginner course, so I’m going straight to the source. The one film that I’m certain we can all agree is the master work on the subject of revenge - Star Trek II : The Wrath of Khan. And I’ve decided to bring you all along for the ride. Lucky you.

So, **starting up dvd** let’s see what the recipe for real revenge is.

*Marooning a group of genetically engineered super warriors on a desert planet is bound to piss them off, but that’s nothing compared to what’s going to go down when they find out that the guy that put them there has been promoted.

*People will be even more intimidated if show off your awesome pecs.

*Mutant earwigs are wicked effective as phase one of your revenge.

*A good revenge plan isn’t really in full swing until you give a clenched fist monologue explaining your resolve in seeing it through.

*Some part of your battle plan needs to include killing off as many obscure relatives of secondary characters as possible. This packs surprising emotional punch.

*“Revenge is a dish best served cold. *creepy breath* It is very cold in space.” Go ahead, say it. It’s amazingly cathartic.

*When in doubt, overact the hell out of it.

*For a threat to be truly effective, you need to say it twice. Once in a normal-ish voice, then in a whisper/growl.

*Just cause you’re a Starfleet admiral doesn’t mean you can’t rock that popped collar.

*Apparently you have a son you’ve never met, because with all the scientific and technical advances of the 23rd century the one thing they can’t figure out is effective contraception. (And he’s kind of a wussie that likes to wear sweater-capes. Sorry about that.)

*Whatever you do don’t battle face to face, or even in the same room, for heavens sake. Just keep repeating threats and dramatic monologues over intercoms and space age wrist watches.

*Go on. Cheat. Then just tell everyone that you “Don’t believe in a no-win scenario”.

*Somebody needs to go flying over the rail. I don’t care who it is, make them do it.

*Get a flashing COMMIT sign installed somewhere in your revenge lair. It’s going to look so cool when you’re rolling around quoting Herman Melville and dying.

*Don’t feel too bad when your best friend sacrifices his own life to save yours. You can always bring him back in the next installment.

Now that you know how to do it right, go forth and avenge! I know I will. That’s right, Blondie. You better hide.

Is There a Time to Kill? by Juliet

2010-02-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

I would have no trouble shooting a child-molester, point blank, if he harmed my child.

I know this about myself. At least I think I do – I thank whatever gods that be that I’ve never been tested. But I’m pretty certain, deep down in my primal, mama-tigress bones, that it’s true.

I would think about it…. Plan for it…. Lay in wait…. See it through. My actions would pretty much qualify me for Murder One, any way you look at it.

I might even be moved to torture the fiend, just a little, before dispatching him to the Great Beyond. And in that knowledge, that acceptance that there are some things we just can’t bear without lashing out in violence, I find a certain understanding of the motivation behind the seemingly undoable: Murder of a fellow human being.

I think crime writers are attracted to the field because it’s about people being driven to that unspeakable moment: The moment in time when taking someone out makes sense. The instant our wrath defies our judgment, our primal nature surges from within the civilized veneer.

Personally, I’m not interested in stories about serial killers and assassins, because to me those types have made their peace with causing death long before the story begins. No, I’m fascinated by the person who wouldn’t normally kill, but who makes an exception in the case at hand –because of blind fury, or terror …or revenge.

Recently a man named Aaron Vargas went to the home of a man named Darrell McNeill, an upstanding fellow in the community who had, for years, been a Boy Scout leader and Big Brother.

Vargas shot McNeill in his doorway. Point blank. In front of McNeill’s wife. Vargas then stayed with McNeill for half an hour while he died. He has never denied that he murdered the man.

(to the right: Aaron Vargas not long before falling prey to Darrell McNeill)

Even McNeill’s wife (now widow), eyewitness to the crime, herself has pleaded leniency for Vargas, saying she has “no reason not to believe Aaron.”

It seems McNeill's stepson, his friends, other boy scouts, and scores of vulnerable boys in Fort Bragg had been raped and preyed upon, repeatedly, by Darrell McNeill over the years.

The town has rallied to Vargas’s defense, saying that there is revenge, and then there is justice, and that this shooting was the latter: A way of seeking justice, putting things aright.

Now, I know that giving Aaron Vargas a pass on ridding the world of the monster named Darrell McNeill is tantamount to endorsing vigilante justice, and believe me, I don’t believe in the populace taking justice and retribution into their own hands. And I don’t envy the police and prosecutors in Fort Bragg – no one wants to make those kinds of gut-wrenching decisions.

I’m just saying. Sometimes revenge looks pretty sweet. Like justice, in fact.

And the knowledge that I could go there, just that fast -- just like Aaron Vargas did--does inform my writing...especially the really hard stuff. Like justice, vengeance, and revenge.

The Wrath of Rachael

2010-02-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

I'm terrible at revenge. Given a good night's sleep and a sunny morning, I'll forgive most people most things. I stubbornly refuse to see the worst in people, even when they're displaying their ugliness for all the world to view. Even when they're pointing at it, showing it to me, saying, "Look here, I'm a terrible, awful person, and I hate you, you're ugly, and your mama's ugly, too," I'm the one saying soothingly, "Oh, no, you don't mean that, it's just been a long day and you're tired. Just have a rest and a sandwich. You'll feel better tomorrow."

So when people are actually mean, I don't understand it and I can only think that they're sad and scared. When people are actually angry, I can only think that they're hurt. I'm not sure that mean or angry really exist, except as mile markers, signposts for sad and hurt. (Don't say that to an angry person, though. They won't buy it, and you might get clobbered.)

But revenge, in writing, is so interesting. As is anger. And meanness. And pain. I always need to UP those things in my writing. I can't run around to all my characters soothing them (although I try), making every little hurt better. What I'd like to do is let them all sit around chatting, engaging in funny banter. Then, ideally, someone would stand up and say something mildly rude. Then my characters would spend the next hundred pages engaging in friendly therapeutic encouraging dialogue, and then everyone would sing a rousing kumbaya around a pretty campfire and turn in for an early night.

However, my editor won't let me do that (DAMN IT). Something about "emotional depth" and "real conflict." Whatever. Books with plot. Ahem. (I jest, of course. I want to read books with depth. They're just slightly harder to write than books without.)

So revenge. I need to dwell on the possibilities, even if I can't seem to act on them.

(The urge to insert a smiley face is almost physically unbearable. So...)

:)

Seriously - Don't Mess With Me

2010-02-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Sophie

REVENGE

Everyone thinks I'm such a nice person.

Oh, in many ways, I suppose I am. I try to do more good than harm, give my all to being a worthy parent, and attempt to encourage and appreciate the people around me. I was raised to be polite, including the old-fashioned values of modesty and deferring to others. I believe in the value of social conventions like pleasant greetings and good conversation and the currency of favors.

But I do not care to be crossed.

If someone deliberately threatens, harms, or betrays me or mine, my rage is immeasurable. And I can hold a grudge nearly forever.

In the past few years, a number of people have earned my wrath. As my friends can attest, I do not forget. I add it to the simmering brew in my soul, a sort of sourdough starter for vengeance.

I do not react quickly. Usually, I do not react at all, at least in perceptible ways. I don't key people's cars or hack their facebook pages or even undermine them subtly in conversation.

No, what I do is even worse: I wait.

I wait with the unshakeable conviction that my self-justified rage is enough to tip the balance of the universe, in the long run, in ways that will restore balance. By not getting on their level and fighting back, I don't risk damaging my own karma; I sleep fine at night. But I do send red-hot mental poxes their way with the expectation that misfortune will follow. And you know what - freakily, frighteningly, it often does.

I will tell you only the tiniest historic example rather than risk upsetting the delicate balance of the Soph-iverse by revealing any situations still in play:

Many years ago I belonged to a different RWA chapter in another state. 99.9% of the members were lovely. One was not. In fact, she was rude, condescending, and mean. She had several books out, and I had only enthusiasm, ideas, and a lame first manuscript. She took many opportunities to remind me that I was lesser: unwelcome to hang out with the "real" writers, unqualified to give my opinion, uninitiated into the inner circle of publishing. Every snub hurt, though I tried not to show it at the time.

Fast forward many, many years. I still see her, every year, at the national conference. She doesn't remember me. I don't acknowledge her. But I outlasted her. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say that she isn't at the top of any bestseller lists.

Never in a million years will I tell her name. First of all, it feels kind of...mean. Now that she's the one who's struggling, I don't want to be the person who gloats or takes any success I've had for granted. And second, it's just possible that I was wr...that I was wr-wr-wr...that I was (someone smack me on the back and fast) wr-WRONG! Okay, okay, it's possible that I was wrong. That she truly is a lovely gal who just didn't care for me. It happens. *

Just for balance, I'll tell you one author who was much, much nicer to me than she ever had to be, and encouraged me to keep writing: Martha Powers. Just in case you find this through google alerts or something Martha - BIG THANKS! You rock!

* for anyone who doubts that it happens - that there are people who don't care for me for no good reason - i give you exhibit A, our regular waitress at the venue where my RWA chapter has its monthly meetings. "She don't care for me," I observed one recent Saturday when she'd scowled and sighed and smirked her way through our lunch. This surprised me mostly because I usually have great waitress rapport, having been one for a zillion years - we sorta stick together, the sisterhood. Anyway the next month when the gal snapped and spat and did everything but pour tea in my lap, my friend says to me "She sure doesn't like you." See? It wasn't in my head! This one, however, requires no revenge; I figure a monthly encounter with two dozen rowdy RWA members is punishment enough...

The Mystery of Romance

2010-02-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today's guest --with the last word on romance-- is, appropriately enough, Penny Warner, author of the newly published HOW TO HOST A KILLER PARTY.

I was forced to offer Penny a guest spot on Pensfatales in exchange for a highly coveted invitation to her release party at the Peasant and the Pear in Danville...and a suitably killer party it was, too. Live music, an auction, tips on party planning, chocolate roses, more cool homemade party schwag than you could shake your free wine at...this woman's got it all.

Oh, she's also an incredibly accomplished writer of both fiction and non-fiction, as well as being wicked funny. Thanks, Penny, for agreeing to post!

P.S. I was kidding about having to buy my way into her party -- it was open to all, and jam-packed with her rabid fans, friends, and family! Nonetheless, I managed to score three chocolate roses...;-)

Thanks, Julie and the Pens Fatales, for letting me share some space on your wonderful blog! I love the current topic—romance! And while I write primarily murder mysteries, I always include a love interest in my stories. All murder and no sex makes mysteries a dull read, don’t you think?

As for me, I prefer “sexual tension” to on-the-page sex, mainly because I find the “game of love” a more compelling page-turner than reading about a comfortable relationship between a couple. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s what I’ve had with my husband of 40 years.

Still, fantasy romance is fun. In my first series, my deaf protagonist, Connor Westphal, meets attractive Dan Smith in DEAD BODY LANGUAGE. Connor publishes her own weekly newspaper in the town of Flat Skunk, located in the California Gold country. Her office neighbor is a mysterious guy, newly arrived in town, looking for his private investigator brother. When bro turns up dead after following a case, Dan takes over his job, using his former police officer background to help Connor solve the mystery.

But it’s their first meeting that was the most fun to write.

“Who the hell are you?” asks Connor when she discovers the man with arms of steel in the office next door. When he tries to flirt with her by saying, “With that accent, you don’t sound like you’re from around here. Where’d you get it?” But the attempt falls flat when Connor responds, “Meningitis.”

Right off the bat, the reader knows this will be a cat-and-mouse game of love between the two very different personalities. Through the series Connor takes the romance slowly, having been burned by an old boyfriend who cheated on her. But by book three, Connor finds herself in bed with Dan. Instead of writing the details of their “body language,” I turn the sex into sex play—and have fun with it.

For example, when Dan is awakened in Connor’s bed by fairly violent shaking, he fears it’s an earthquake—common in the area—and jumps up, stark naked, to brace himself under a door jamb. Meanwhile, Connor enjoys the view of Dan’s naked body, then pushes a button on the side of her bed. There’s been no earthquake. Connor, being deaf and unable to use a standard alarm clock, has a “Shake-Awake” alarm attached to her bed, which causes it to tremble in the morning, waking her for the day ahead. Mortified, Dan returns to bed, but his embarrassment quickly disappears when he realizes Connor’s bed has other uses in the romance department….

So you see, I like to have fun with it. That way if my mother reads it, she may blush but she won’t die of a heart attack.

Now that I’m starting a new series, HOW TO HOST A KILLER PARTY, I’ve got a new protagonist, Presley Parker, event planner who lives and works on Treasure Island in the San Francisco Bay Area. She meets Brad Matthews, an attractive Crime Scene Cleaner, who joins her in her pursuit of truth, justice, and the solving of mysteries. When they first meet, Presley calls Brad a “lunatic,” and he tries to check her breath for alcohol. Not an auspicious beginning—but just the kind I like. And between murders, the two characters enjoy some back-and-forth repartee, often laced with sexual innuendoes.

Brad reached over to accept Pandora’s box. As he did, his shirt rose, revealing a glimpse of his tan, tight waist. That wasn’t all. There was a definite bulge in his pants. As flattering as it would have been, Brad Matthews wasn’t necessarily happy to see me.

That was a gun in his pocket.

So while I’m not quite ready to write a full-on sex scene for the page, I’m looking forward to doing a lot more research on the topic….:0

Penny Warner has published over 50 books, both fiction and non-fiction, for adults and children, including over a dozen party books. Her latest book, HOW TO HOST A KILLER PARTY, is the first in a new mystery series. Her books have won national awards, garnered excellent reviews, and have been printed in 14 countries. Her first mystery, DEAD BODY LANGUAGE, in her Connor Westphal series featuring a deaf reporter in the California Gold Country, won a Macavity Award for Best First Mystery and was nominated for an Agatha Award. Her non-fiction book, THE OFFICIAL NANCY DREW HANDBOOK, was nominated for an Agatha Award. Warner writes for party sites such as OrientalTradingCompany.com, BirthdaysRUs.com, iParty.com, and BalloonTime.com, and with her husband Tom creates interactive murder mystery fundraisers for libraries across the country. She can be reached at http://www.pennywarner.com.

A Tough Act To Follow

2010-02-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

They met in graduate school in the 1960s.

They were immediately inseparable, and continued to be so--until the plane crash.

It was a small plane. During the flight, one of the engines caught on fire. It wasn't like in the movies, where everyone runs around screaming. Passengers were silent and contemplative. They knew they were going to die.

Only they didn't. The pilot manage to land safely. But that experience left its mark.

They had a baby in the 1970s. Whenever they had to fly somewhere without their child, they bought tickets for flights one after the other--they wouldn't get on the same flight, for fear that they would orphan their beloved child.

It didn't matter how old the child got. I graduated from high school; they flew separately. I graduated from college; still, they wouldn't get on the same plane if it was just the two of them without me.

This didn't change until I was 26 years old and met the love of my life. It wasn't long after I met him, and they must have known it, too. I got a call that they were flying somewhere together.

I now had someone in my life who loved me as much as they loved each other, and as much as they loved me. Whatever happened out there in the crazy world, it would be all right.

--Gigi

Martha's First Love Story

2010-02-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

Caveat: this post makes me seem like a total douchebag, especially in light of everyone else's lovely posts.

My first love story went like this.

I was eight when my family moved to a duplex in the Tokyo burbs. My neighbor, Paul, was a few years older with shaggy blond hair, blue eyes and amazing cheekbones. I was obsessed with him and timed my commute to school so we had to walk together.

One day, the neighborhood boys invited me to their snowball fight.

I wasn't fast, and I couldn't throw very far. I solved this by packing my snowballs with sand from the local park to give them extra weight - and I nailed Paul right in the face.

(As an adult, I know this is sucky, but I was eight - gimme a break.)

Paul clutched his cheek and ran from the park. A few minutes later, the neighborhood boys scattered as his mom approached. I remember this moment with crystal clarity. She strode over in brown leather equestrian boots and a puffy marooon coat, hands stuffed in pockets.

She proceeded to lecture me.

I had hurt Paul.
I should be more careful.
She knew I "wasn't a bad person, per se," but was obviously misguided.

I listened. I nodded. Five minutes went by. Then ten. It occurred to me this wouldn't end until I apologized. So I did, and lemme tell ya, it was disingenuous as hell.

Because on the inside...

On the inside I was thinking, "Are you kidding me?"

(8 yrs old and future love cynic)

The next time I saw Paul, his hair was not so shiny and his cheekbones were rather dull. He was just such a dweeb (total 80's insult).

How could I have been in love with someone who couldn't take a rigged snowball to the face? I had endured worse (we're talking metal-nunchucks-to-the-head worse) and I was younger and a girl.

Paul and I lived next door to each other for five years. He got taller and better looking. But it didn't matter. Even as he sparked the interest of my friends, he never again sparked mine.

I never found him hot, funny, clever, or cool again.

So maybe his mom had it wrong. Maybe I'm not merely misguided. Maybe I am a bad person. But at least I'm not a weak-ass narc.

Ah, first love. Ain't it grand?

love's romance

2010-02-16T00:29:00.000-08:00

how do i define this topic? how do i transcend the beautiful relationships that have already been depicted at pens fatales? I can't. Frankly, I'm not crazy about Valentine's Day. It annoys me that one day a year, men and women are supposed to honor something that should take precedence all year long.

i believe in romance. i believe in the power of love to transcend other boundaries.

but, you may be cynical. you may nay say. and that is your right. however, i believe that if you believe in the power of love, your life will be better, richer, and happier.

all i can do is offer my own examples and hope that you are open to my interpretation of romance:

romance is not giving a dozen roses on february 14th, it's impromptu delivery when life has thrown a curve ball, and you are down in the dumps.

romance is traveling thru a blizzard to buy a torchiere (that while beautiful was outside of a budget) to be waiting in the living room when you get home from a business trip!

love is refusing to let others take care of your spouse when she is beyond reasoning and really cannot function without care.

romance is picking up take out when life has totally kicked you in the butt and/or cooking dinner, even deciding what to cook for dinner, is beyond your capability.

love is spending four hours at the mall when all you want is to sit in front of the t.v.

love is taking out the garbage when you are tired but your loved one is exhausted.

i know that there are many other examples that i should be defining, but my husband is sick and all i can do is worry and plan how i can make his life easier. because ....
love is defined in all the little things. Anyone can be thoughtful one day a year, but for me, the true definition of love is a partner who cares for you, who tends to your needs and who looks out for you all year long....

Love as a Practice of Freedom

2010-02-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

L.G.C. Smith

At fourteen, my reaction to reading "Romeo and Juliet" was "Really? Did they try talking to each other?" Too stupid to live was invented for that pair.

My approach hasn't changed much over the years. Faced with the power of love in a public forum (that isn't fiction), I intellectualize it. In that spirit, I offer a bit from the conclusion of my my doctoral dissertation, an ethnographic study of romance writers completed a very long time ago (1997). I still stand by it.

The romance genre is not devoted to providing erotica for women readers, even though sexuality and sex are important components in many books. It is not about simple stories for bored housewives who need to be reconciled to the indignities of patriarchy. It is not about changing gender relations, even though almost all of the writers I studied consciously addressed those issues.

Romance novels are about love. Not love as a syrupy excess of florid prose, flowing locks, and brandished sabers. Not love as the sweaty realism of hormonal need and available bodies. Not love granted as a reward to pretty girls by powerful men. Or to pretty men by powerful women.

Romance novels are about what hooks (1994) calls "love as a practice of freedom." They are about the kinds of love that are willing to explore differences when one human being spies a speck of humanity in another that they did not expect. Romance novels are about love as a border crossing. The borders lie between two individual, historical subjects. Often they involve the types of borders that confound us so much in our public and personal lives: race, ethnicity, class, gender. Some writers are more skilled than others, certainly, but the stories told in romance novels are inherently and necessarily about transformation.

As a society, we need to learn more about what it means to love as an act of will and choice, and this is the purview of romance novels. It may be fevered glances and glowing smiles that bring romance lovers together, but it is determined practice that keeps them there. The primary message in romance in that love is possible for everyone, the kind of love that is strong enough to build families and communities out of individuals with differences that might just as easily isolate them.

Read the novels, and this becomes apparent. Read Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Kathleen Eagle, Laura Kinsale, Barbara Samuel, Judith Ivory, Loretta Chase, Lynn Kerstan, Pamela Morsi, Connie Brockway, Nora Roberts, Jennifer Crusie, and so many, many more. hooks (1994) writes that the "moment we choose to love we begin to move towards freedom, to act in ways that liberate ourselves and others." The vast majority of evidence I found in romance writers lives demonstrates that they use literacy practices as part of liberatory life practices that understand love as the fundamental basis for action in the world.

hooks, bell. 1994. Outlaw Culture:Resisting Representations. New York: Routledge.

Opposites Attract: The Secret to a Successful Marriage

2010-02-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

Today's Pens Guest is Carla Buckley, whose debut novel, THE THINGS THAT KEEP US HERE, blew me away. It's truly one of the finest and most gripping novels to come down the pike lately. Think of a heartfelt women's fiction voice combined with the kind of nightmare future that could really happen right here in America - and globally - and you've got a thriller that's nearly impossible to put down. Plus, Carla's funny and fun, and there's definitely going to be some Pens In Action shots of her and a Pen or two this summer at Thrillerfest!

Carla's led an exciting life, with too many experiences to summarize so you'll just have to read about it at her web site. One of our favorite details is that Carla wrote a whole lot of books before selling. Here at PensFatales we are big fans of perseverence!

So we’re coming up to Valentine’s Day, and the gifted and talented authors at Pens Fatales (special shout out to Sophie!) have asked me to write up a little something on love and romance. While those who know me well choke on their coffee hearing that, let me defend myself by saying, I do know a little bit about the subject.

After all, I’ve been married for over twenty years. This fact sometimes amazes me. Other than explaining it by saying that we simply don’t have the energy to push each other under a train, it comes down to the fact that we’re completely different, which gives a certain edge to our relationship. We’re constantly on guard to see where the other one is headed.

My husband is tall, tan, and athletic. I’m…not. He can sleep anywhere, anytime. World War III can be playing on the Xbox five feet away and he’ll snore right through it. I need darkness so thick you can cut it with scissors, tomblike silence, and socks. My husband has no emotional relationship with food, which, let me tell you, puts a real strain on our marriage. I mean, who can live with someone like that? He can resist a bag of Kettle chips for weeks, while my food pyramid is solidly founded on potato products and chocolate. Then there’s the fact that he thinks before he speaks. What’s up with that?

All these differences are manageable. Annoying, yes, but nothing a super-sized order of French fries can’t fix. Really, it’s the fact that he’s generous and selfless that is a problem for me. Who can live with someone who always considers other people first? It leaves the mean stuff up to me, and because we have kids, there’s a big demand for that sort of thing around here.

When the media began talking about how the world was overdue for a deadly flu pandemic, I knew I was doomed. Not just because I was worried I’d get sick, but because I’d be fighting the great fight. My husband would be the one shoveling neighbors’ driveways, giving them our last bottle of ibuprofen, offering to drive them to the hospital. I’d be the one hiding our food so he couldn’t give it away, misplacing our car keys so he couldn’t loan out our car with the scant half-tank of gas, and spread-eagling myself across the doors so he couldn’t swing them wide open to ask passersby in for hot chocolate.

I channeled this anxiety into my debut novel, THE THINGS THAT KEEP US HERE, where a married couple battles not only a pandemic, but one another. Peter wants to save the world. Ann wants to save just one tiny piece of it--their children. Think War of the Roses meets Outbreak, and you pretty much have the level of tension in the Brooks’s household.

Writing THINGS was cathartic. Figuring out Peter helped me understand my husband better. Giving Ann a voice made me feel less driven to raise my own. In a sense, my novel might have saved my marriage. That, plus it gave me some really great ideas on where to hide the car keys.

What about you? Is your relationship founded on the notion of opposites attract, or misery loves company?

Why I Write Romance

2010-02-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

--Adrienne Miller

About five thousand years ago, this couple died. We probably won’t ever know much about them, not who they were, or the specifics of their lives. Chances are, we won’t even know how they died. But none of that matters, does it? Everything I could ever want to know about them, I already do.

Their bodies died. Their flesh fell away. But their love, the connection that bound them together, death couldn’t strip that away. Not even after five thousand years.

Sometimes people ask me why I write romance. Most ask out of honest curiosity, but some don’t. Some ask without bothering to conceal their derision. Now, I have about a dozen pet theories about why romance novels get a bad rap, but I find my rants about the fear female-centric sexuality usually go better when I’m a pint or two into the evening, so I’ll spare you those...for now. Besides, I think I’ll take Martha's advice. I’m done defending my genre. I’ve decided to celebrate it instead.

There are a lot of reasons that I write romance, the most important seems to be that I can’t manage to come up with a plot that doesn’t turn into a love story somewhere along the way. Love stories are the ones that pull me in. Besides, I truly believe they are important. These are the stories that highlight the redemptive nature of our lives.

Love, romantic love in particular, is one of the few things that make us uniquely human. Everything dies. Everything suffers. Fear, rage, pain--these are our raw animal emotions. I’m not denying they are a huge part of all of us. But love makes them bearable. Love allows us focus as much on our god-like nature as on our animal. And that journey, with all its sacrifices, from self-centeredness to true connection, makes for some damn compelling reading as far as I’m concerned.

Maybe I am a true hopeless romantic. I’m cool with that. I just hope that the archeologists five thousand years from now find enough evidence to prove that our capacity to love each other was just as strong as our capacity to hate.

A Fine Romance (by Juliet)

2010-02-10T00:01:00.000-08:00

Mem and Rudy met in Houston sixty-six years ago, when he was a brash young 22-year-old Airforce pilot-in-training from Bull Hill, Oklahoma, and she was a 19-year-old Texas rose who used to sneak out of her mama's house to dance with the boys in uniform. He made her laugh; she had the prettiest eyes he'd ever seen. They danced, courted, and wed within weeks, just before he was sent to join the war effort in Europe.

Her full name was Meredith, but Rudy called her Mary Edith just to tease her. They had two fine, healthy boys, but their youngest, a daughter, was born with profound disabilities. Rather than drive them apart, her needs drew the family together. Her name was Joanie, but for some reason Rudy called her his Sweet Trudy. He had his own way of seeing the world.

Rudy flew in World War II and in Korea, earned a chestful of medals and moved steadily up the chain of command. He was stationed in Saigon during the Vietnamese War, and after a short period of time he came to believe that our involvement there was deeply wrong. He refused to fly; the military threatened a court martial. Rudy essentially told them to Bring It On...he carried the phone number for the New York Times in his wallet. After decades of combat service in the military, this old Okie guessed he knew a thing or two about right and wrong. He won that fight.

Nonetheless, Rudy was scarred by his time in Vietnam, as were so many others. He was exposed to Agent Orange and spent the rest of his life struggling to breathe. Still, he never stopped fixing cars (Studebakers were his favorites), never stopped making time for kids (he was everyone's favorite uncle/grandpa/great-grandpa), and he never stopped making Mem laugh.

And her blue eyes never stopped sparkling. Mem was one of the most accepting, non-judgmental people I've ever known, with a ready laugh and a sly wit. Though she had been raised by a southern mother to be a "lady", she told me that she didn't think those skills were very useful in Real Life. Indeed, when she realized her daughter Joanie was not getting access to the care she needed, Mem became a fierce tigress of an advocate, making herself known to, and feared by, congresspeople and health personnel alike. Though she never had much schooling --we used to tease her for reading the National Enquirer, a rag she insisted gave readers profound insights into unknown worlds-- she had a keen business sense, and managed to eke out enough savings from Rudy's military pay to start buying small pieces of land wherever they were transferred; in the end, they were quite comfortable.

And they never stopped laughing.

Toward the end, the pair moved into an assisting-living apartment with separate beds, the idea being that they could both get uninterrupted sleep. One night they called for help; Rudy had fallen while trying to get from his bed into Mem's. They had slept together for sixty-five years; he wasn't about to let a health problem or two get in the way of that. Apparently when the aides arrived Mem and Rudy were both rolling on the floor, giggling like naughty teenagers caught with straw in their hair.

Rudy passed away last June; six weeks later my aunt joined him. She was ready. Mem said Rudy would be waiting for her, ready to make her laugh.

Rings

2010-02-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

When Lala and I got married, we did it on the cheap, as we do most things. Our friends provided the food for the wedding, and people pooled their photos for our album. But a few weeks before the big day, we still hadn't come up with the funds for rings, and we were just going to go somewhere and buy cheap bands -- we weren't too concerned.

I was talking to my mother about this, and she protested, "Oh, no, I have a envelope of old family rings, I'll send it to you and you can choose two you like."

I was moved by this, as was Lala, and when we got the envelope, we tried on all the bands at our dining room table. Each was marked with a little flag of paper with a name. The one I loved the most was marked Wilson, and Lala's was labeled Ashcroft.

I couldn't quite work out who the rings had belonged to, so I called Mom. She laughed and said they'd both belonged to her mother. I'd chosen her mother's second wedding ring -- the one she'd worn when she'd married George, the man I'd always known as Grandpa. But Lala had chosen the ring Grandma had worn when she'd married my mother's father. The widow's ring.

Lala's first wife died of cancer. Lala is a widow.

So now we both wear the same woman's rings, rings of love, rings that symbolized happy marriages. And Lala wears the widow's ring.

One Perfect Moment

2010-02-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Sophie

Love & Romance

To my great astonishment and horror, blogger ate my post.

This has never happened to me before in what must be hundreds of posts by now. I had written a long and rather didactic essay on injecting interest into your fictional romantic relationships with the ol' inversion trick, playing off the unexpected, exploring attraction based on complex and layered experiences and emotions and not just the obvious.

Oh, blah, blah, blah, I bored myself so it's no wonder blogger too was bored and obliterated the thing as punishment.

Instead of trying to recreate that lumbering mess, I'm instead going to share a single romantic moment from my own past, one small interlude that occurred over two decades ago.

Chicago. Freezing, blowing snow. First year out on my own, first time I'd ever shared a place with a man. Christmas approaching; everything new and tentative and a little scary and a little silly. A tree for our apartment: sixty dollars we couldn't afford from a lot in Lincoln Park, much more Charlie Brown than Hallmark. A string of lights from Walgreens, Christmas cards signed - giddily! - with both our names.

Going shopping. holding mittened hands - it's hard to do; it was zero degrees and my mittens were bulky, his leather gloves were thick. What gift to get for his brothers, my mom? Taking our time exploring the little boutiques on Oak street; everything out of our price range, and then spending all our money not on gifts but on one perfect handmade frame in an art studio, for a photo of the two of us, which I will never ever throw away, though the hairstyle and the dress have long since faded from fashion and the day itself is lost to memory.