Tuesday, October 21, 2014

The School Excerpt

Chapter One

“It’s in there. I swear.”
Josh Meier shot his friend Gertie a scowl, then glanced back at the abandoned school. Shadows from the building stretched along the ground as if reaching for them. And although Josh knew his fear was kind of dumb, especially for a third grader, he shifted his foot on the pedal of his bike, ready to take off at any second. “How do you know?”
“Saw it.”
“Last night.”
“Last night?” He tore his attention from the school and stared at Gertie. “What… in your dreams?”
Her big, brown eyes darted to the ground, her black hair swinging forward to hide her face. “My dreams are true sometimes. You know it.”
Josh wanted to say she was crazy, lying even, but he kept his lips from moving. Hadn’t she told him two years ago tomorrow that his dad wouldn’t be coming home? Hadn’t she told him she’d seen his dad falling in her dream?
Josh remembered the heavy ache in the bottom of his stomach when his mom had awakened him that night and hugged him harder than ever. When she’d told him Daddy’d had an accident. That he’d slipped on the rocks at Devil’s Lake.
Josh had been mad at Gertie for a long time after that, even though he knew it wasn’t her fault. She’d just told him what she saw.
He stared at the school, not moving. “Ian went in, and he can’t talk anymore. He just stares at something no one else can see.”
“If you don’t want to go, don’t go.”
“Not saying that. But I can’t get in. Doors are locked.”
Gertie shook her head. “This one isn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Just do.”
Josh tried to swallow but his throat was sticky. He wished he had a piece of gum. “Didn’t they take the books out of the library when they closed the place down?”
“Nope. The school died. The books died.” Fat teardrops filled Gertie’s eyes and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. “But you can save them. That’s what I saw.”
“Why me?”
“Why not you?”
“Dunno. But I think it’s because of the special book. Your dad’s book.”
The special book. Gertie didn’t have to say which one. They both knew. The one dad used to read to him. The one with the stories and the drawings. The one that made his mom smile even through her tears the day his daddy was taken away in a box and lowered into the ground.
The one that might make her smile again.
“Okay. I’ll go.”
“You sure?” For the first time this whole afternoon, Gertie actually looked scared.
“What do you mean, you sure? You’ve been trying to talk me into it.”
“Have not. I just told you my dream.”
Josh gave her a look. Gertie didn’t play weird games like this. She was usually pretty cool, for a girl. “What gives, Gertie?”
She shook her head hard, the force almost knocking her skinny little body off her feet. “Nothing. In my dream, you saved the books. I just got a feeling. I… I don’t know.”
“That I’m going to end up like Ian?”
“It’s just a feeling.”
Now Josh felt more scared than before. But thinking of the book, thinking of his mom, he knew he had to do this anyway. “That book was my dad’s. We only borrowed it to the school. And then they closed the school down.”
Her shake turned to a nod.
“They should’ve given it back.”
Another nod.
“It’s been two years, you know. Two years tomorrow.”
He wasn’t talking about the book now, or the school, and Gertie nodded like she understood. She was good at understanding. “You miss him,” she said.
Now he was going to cry. He gripped his handle bars super hard and made the tears go back. “If it’s there, I need to get it.”
“Yes,” Gertie said, but she still looked worried.
No, not worried. Afraid. Sad. And when she lurched forward and gave Josh a big hug, her long hair tickling his nose, he couldn’t help thinking of the way his mom had hugged him when his dad died.
Holding on as if he was the only thing she had left in the world, and she was afraid she’d lose him, too.
Josh swung off his bike and let it drop to the ground. He didn’t look at Gertie, not even a glance. If she knew how shaky his legs felt, she might hug him again, or tell him not to go, or say something that would make him cry. Scooping in a deep breath of fall air, he forced his feet to move in the direction of the school.
Ten feet from the door, he was trembling so bad, he was afraid he wouldn’t make it.
Five feet, and he almost turned around.
Then his fingers were on the handle, hot from the afternoon sun.
He pulled the door, and it opened, just like it had every day last year when he used to come here for school. He willed himself to step inside and let the thick glass close behind him.
The school looked empty, lonely even, and sounded quiet as anything Josh had ever heard. Not that he could hear much with his heart thumping so hard. He stepped forward into the darkness, his shoes scuffing and squeaking a little on the floor. The air felt super still and smelled like a wet basement and dust and… cookies.
He sniffed again, this time long and slow. It was cookies, all right. Chocolate chip. His favorite.
He took another step, then another. No one was in the school. The smell of cookies didn’t belong here.
He kept moving, even though every step felt so shaky he thought he might lose his balance.
He’d always liked his last year teacher who used to work in this school, Mrs. Edwards. She was a little weird, just like him, and wore funny t-shirts on Fridays. And sometimes when she laughed real hard, she made a funny, snorting sound.
Maybe Mrs. Edwards was the one baking.
He wasn’t sure that made sense, but he liked the idea. It made him feel less like turning around and running home.
Mrs. Edwards could be here, couldn’t she? She’d given him a homemade cookie once, when he’d forgotten to bring money for the library bake sale.
He kept his feet walking forward, concentrating on the memory.
The cookie she’d given him had been the best ever. It really had. And if it was her, she’d probably give him one now. Maybe even let him lick the beaters.
The deeper he went inside the school, the darker it got. Shadows cupped the wooden shelves stretching along the halls where all the kids had hung their coats. A tiny scratching sound came from his old classroom, and he jumped.
“Mrs. Edwards?” Josh called out, a little ashamed at the quaver in his voice.
No one answered. Nothing but the cookie smell, growing stronger.
By the time he reached the lunch room, he was more nervous than hungry. He peaked inside anyway, hoping to see Mrs. Edwards or even the lunch lady’s friendly face, even though he knew they probably weren’t there. But the room was as dark as the rest of the school, and as he got closer to the kitchen, the cookie smell went away.
The book. He needed to get the book and get out of here. Forget the cookies and stick to the plan.
But as he left the lunch room and walked back into the hall, the cookie smell came back. Except for the kindergarten classrooms, all that was left this way was the gym… and the library. Was that where the cookies were? Cookies and books, his favorite things of all.
Or would he find whatever it was that made Ian Buchner stare? That made him not able to talk?
He passed by the gym and reached the library’s big double door. Bracing himself, he leaned against one side and gave it a giant push. The door opened, and light streamed out.
Not just light.
Light, the mouth-watering smell of cookies, and a deep laugh. And then Josh saw who was there waiting. Not Mrs. Edwards or the lunch lady, but someone he thought he’d never see again.
Josh wasn’t even ashamed when the tears started streaming down his face.

“I’m so glad you made it, Josh,” his dad said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The School is part of the Twelve Shades of Midnight anthology. Buy it here on Amazon.

Burned Too Hot Excerpt


Chapter One

No oxygen.
David Lund's gut clenched. No matter how long he'd been a firefighter, gasping for air in a vacuum always brought the same, visceral, thoughtless panic—then a whoosh from the SCBA filled the void. His breathing settled into a rhythm.
Whoosh in.
Whoosh out.
Vision limited by face mask and helmet, Lund turned to Kyle Blaski. "Ready?"
Still adjusting his air flow, the young firefighter nodded.
In this middle-of-the-night house fire where victims were likely inside, Lund would prefer to go in with a veteran like Dempsey. But thanks to an accident at one of the rash of small arson-set fires in recent weeks, Dempsey was limited to duties he could perform with a sprained wing.
 At least what the young guy lacked in experience, he made up for in enthusiasm, showing up to every one of the recent fire calls, usually arriving before everyone but Bix Johnson. And it didn't hurt that the kid was strong as a mule.
A second truck screamed up the street and then a third. Soon the place would be swarming with firefighters, but there was no time to wait. Not when a fire doubled in size every fifteen to thirty seconds.
The clock was ticking.
He and Blaski headed for the house, the teams covering the basement and first floor following behind. Adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream, and the little tremor that said his body knew this was life or death hummed through his body. Too relaxed and he wasn't taking the situation seriously. Too tense and his hands shook , his reactions turned sluggish, mind dull. Over the years, he'd learned to handle the stress, compartmentalizing emotions, balancing himself, striking just the right note between fear and calm.
On the other hand, Blaski seemed nervous.
"We got this, man. Trust your training."
"Damn straight." Blaski said, nodding like a bobble head.
Lund looked back in time to see a car jolt to a stop behind the security tape strung across the driveway. A woman jumped out and raced for the house, until she was intercepted by Dempsey. Light brown hair, pretty, she thrashed against the grizzled firefighter's chest, tears streaking her face.
There was someone inside all right. At least she thought so. Time to get them out.
Lund pulled open the door.
Smoke and heat swept out in a wave. Coats lined the right side of the small landing. Straight ahead, concrete stairs stretched into the basement. On the left, two steps led up to the main floor and into smoke, thick and black.
 Movies and television depict structure fires with dramatic shots of flame. Although flame was there, running up the walls and spreading along the ceiling, in real life smoke was the devil a firefighter most often had to face down.
The devil that most often killed.
Lund took the two steps and dropped to the floor, ceramic tile hard under his knees. One hand tracing the wall, he moved at a crawl. Blaski fell in behind, his right hand keeping contact with Lund's boot and his left leg sweeping out into the room, feeling for what couldn't be seen.
Lund felt his way along the side of a refrigerator and a row of kitchen cabinets before reaching a corner, the hard tile under his knees suddenly replaced with pile carpet. A barely discernable glow of flame cut through the smoke at the back of the house. Lund noted the location and direction it was moving then followed around the corner to the right, his gloved fingers skimming built in bookshelves and steps leading to the second floor.
"Stairs," he called to Blaski.
Wasting no time, he started up, the kid on his heels. A child gate spanned the top of the staircase, and Lund ran his hand over its top rail until he located the latch.
Opening it, he moved through, then Blaski took position behind him, and they searched the landing. The smoke was thicker up here, leaving them to grope in the sweltering dark, even the bright lights firefighters had set up outside choked to a dim shimmer. Lund pushed a loveseat out of the way, groping behind it and underneath.
Satisfied the landing was clear, they headed down the hall to the bedrooms. With no furniture to contend with, they moved quickly through the narrow space, blind and on their hands and knees. Seconds and Lund reached the first room. "Door," he called out.
Following the wall around the jamb, they crawled inside.
"Is anyone in here?" he yelled. Holding his breath, he listened for an answer.
His respirator resuming its whoosh, he moved on, right hand tracing the wall, left sweeping the darkness. A chest of drawers, the leg of a piece of furniture, the drop gate of a crib. Lund pulled himself to his feet and swiped a hand over the mattress.
Nothing but a blanket.
In Lund's experience, frightened children often hid from the smoke and darkness in a place where they felt safe. If the little one wasn't in his bed, he was curled up somewhere else. They had to find where. Fast.
 He dropped to the floor, checked under the crib, then moved on to the rest of the room. A diaper pail. A changing table. A bookshelf filled with books. Another filled with bins of big Legos and wooden blocks. He announced the closed and unbroken window to Blaski then encountered what was likely a closet.
He opened it and followed the perimeter of the tiny space. Except for a collection of stuffed animals and a jumble of plastic cars, it was empty.
Where was the kid?
Lund continued the search. Methodical. Thorough.
Stick to the wall.
Follow procedure.
Every hall. Every nook. Every closet.
Any place a frightened child might hide.
Lund crawled back down the hall, Blaski's hand still on his boot. He reached another door, bathroom this time, tiny. Sink, toilet, tub, closet, and they were back in the hall, on to the next room.
"Door." Lund turned into a bedroom. Hard wood floors. Bigger this time. He combed a walk-in closet filled with shoes and clothing, a woman's and a man's. Resuming his trek around the perimeter, he examined around, under, and on top of everything.
"I have a stuffed animal here," Blaski shouted. "Center of the room."
Lund continued forward, his hand hitting the side of a platform bed. No space to hide underneath. He rose to his knees and ran a hand over the sheets, touching pillow, touching flesh. The hair was short, and he could feel the rasp of a beard against his gloves. Under the blankets, the man's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
Still alive.
"Adult male. Unconscious." Lund said, both to Blaski and into his radio. He reached over the guy, rifling the rumpled sheets, expecting to find a little body.
"There's a child, too. A boy, two years old." The chief's voice sounded over Lund's radio.
"Still looking." Based on the house's exterior and his knowledge of floor plans for homes built around the same time, Lund would bet there was a master bath left.
"The kid's not here," Blaski shouted. "We looked."
"Not everywhere."
"Lund, we got to—"
"Give me a second."
"We don't have time."
Lund had thought Blaski could hold it together. He'd been wrong. "Give him oxygen and pull up the edges of this sheet. We'll use it to get him to the stairs. I'll be right back."
"Pull up the sheet, Blaski."
"Yeah. Okay. Sorry."
Lund scrambled away from the bed, skimming the wall and swiping the empty space with his foot. The stuffed toy in the middle of the master bedroom was telling. The boy had to be here, had to have found a hiding place in his parents' room.
Didn't he?
Lund swept the darkness, praying his boot or hand would run into a little body. Reaching the master bathroom door, he continued inside.
Vanity, toilet, whirlpool tub, shower.
No boy.
Shit, shit, shit.
Lund returned to the bed, rechecking areas he'd already searched. They were running out of options. All they had left was a trip back down the hall. Unless there was a cubby hole or closet along the way, the child was not upstairs.
Or they had already passed over his hiding place.
Blaski had thrown the comforter off the man and pulled up the sheet. The guy was big, easily two-hundred-forty pounds, not going to be easy to move. Lund took a hold of the top corners and gathered them tight above the man's head. He could sense Blaski moving at the foot, although all he could see was darkness.
"Ready," the young firefighter called.
"All right. Lift."
They hoisted the man in his 600-thread-count sling and set him on the hardwood floor. Then Lund started moving for the door, dragging his burden behind. He stopped to clear a shallow closet in the hall, one last possible hiding place.
"The kid must be downstairs," Blaski yelled.
Lund wanted to think that, wanted to believe it was possible, that Johnson and Sandoval already had him safely outside. But when he reached the gate at the top of the stairs, he knew he was fooling himself.
He must have missed something. A nook, a cranny, a small space. The little boy had to be here somewhere. Lund would get this guy out and come back.
 They started down, moving slowly, the man half slung, half dragged between them. Sweat dripped from Lund's forehead, trickling down his cheeks and stinging his eyes. Glass shattered at the far end of the living room, and Lund could hear the crackle of fire over the whoosh of his own breathing. At the base of the stairs, he abandoned the blanket, instead grabbing the victim under the armpits, his hands meeting across the man's chest. Walking backwards, he relied on Blaski to guide him through the kitchen and along the wall of cabinets.
By the time they reached the entry hall, a cramp seized low in Lund's back, the awkward posture taking its toll. He made it around the corner and down the two shallow steps then stumbled backward out the door.
He hadn't even made it down the porch steps before other firefighters were taking the victim, carrying him to the EMTs. Lund detached his regulator, turned off his air, and bent at the waist, bracing his hands on his knees, stretching out the muscles in his back.
The scene outside had changed since he and Blaski had gone in, the yard fast becoming an icy mud hole. Two crews directed hoses on the far end of the house. More trucks had arrived, an ambulance parked on the front lawn, and county sheriff's department cars positioned on the hill below, blocking the street. Red lights pulsed off leafless tree limbs overhead, making the lantern-style lights lining Walnut Street dim in comparison. At the bottom of the drive, a familiar unmarked Ford Taurus pulled past the deputies.
Lund paused—needing to see the police chief emerge, blond hair pulled back like she meant business, eyes sharp and shoulders squared—just a glimpse before he plunged back into the fire, a quick exchange of glances, something.
The driver's door didn't open.
Behind Lund, Blaski took off his helmet and hood and let his mask dangle around his neck, his acne-pocked skin shining with perspiration, his breath fogging in the cold, March air. "Think he'll make it?"
"Hope so." Lund had done all he could for the man. Now he could only focus on the child. There had to be something he missed, a place he hadn't thought to search. He crossed the soggy earth to the command center, mud and brown blades of grass clinging to his boots.
Fire Chief Fruehauf glanced up from his radio. "Good work, Lund. Get hydrated."
"Johnson and Sandoval find the little boy?" He glanced around, scanning the fray for Bix Johnson's distinctive carrot top, usually bright enough to rival the emergency lights.
"No. They didn't find a trace of him. Neither did the third team."
Lund swore under his breath. "I need to go back in."
"Fire's too hot. Structure's getting unstable."
Lund shook his head. "Just ten minutes, Chief."
"Too risky."
"I can't let a kid die." He spun around and started for the house, initiating his air flow and locking his regulator back into his mask.
"Lund. Damn it."
A crack sounded loud enough for Lund to hear it over the initial whoosh of his own breath. The far end of the structure's roof sagged.
"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!" came over the radio.
Lund kept going. His list of those to save had just grown longer.
Police Chief Val Ryker slammed the car door closed behind her, pulse jumping. She'd heard the mayday call, saw the firefighters respond, the reflective bands on their uniforms flashing like those plastic glow sticks kids wore on Halloween. A man was down, hurt, and her only thought was finding David Lund.
When Val reached the command center at the top of the hill, the Fire Chief held up a hand.
"Okay, gotcha, gotcha," he said over the radio. "I have Reedsburg EMS standing by."
Val’s stomach hitched. First responders faced injury or death every day. It was part of the job. As police chief of the tiny town of Lake Loyal, Wisconsin, Val understood that more than most. But she and Lund had been close, and although the relationship had been fleeting, Val cared about him. More than she should.
She didn't know how she'd react if he was one of the firefighters injured.
"The wife was at work. Got here right before the husband was pulled from the house unconscious. He's with EMS."
Val tried to focus on Chief Fruehauf's words and the real reason she'd broken every speed limit to get here. "The Tiedemann's have a child… around two years old. How is he?"
"You know the family?"
She nodded, not wanting to get into exactly how.
"Then, I'm sorry. The boy… he wasn't found."
Val stared at the house; the crumpled roof, billowing smoke, and flame still feeding on the siding of the west-facing wall.
The boy… he wasn't…
Her stomach hollowed out.
The past fifteen months had been tense in Lake Loyal, the town holding its breath. The trial of Dixon Hess had stretched on for weeks. But finally—just as the winter chill had started to lift—the jury had come back with the prayed for guilty verdict.
The whole town had let out a sigh of relief. And now in the bleak wind of March, they waited for Hess to be sentenced and shipped off to one of the maximum security prisons in much the same way as watching for crocus blooms to nudge above the soil and spring's first glimpse of a robin.
The last thing Lake Loyal needed was another tragedy, especially something like this. Val wished more than anything that she could have prevented it.
"Where's Carla Tiedemann?" Val asked the fire chief.
"On the way to the hospital with her husband. Had to be sedated."
Val didn't have children of her own, but if her niece was in a burning house, she would have to be sedated, too. Hell, she would probably have to be put down.
"That shrink went with her."
"The one who runs those first responder support groups. JoAnn Pender. Guess the Tiedemanns are patients of hers."
At least Carla had someone to lean on, and a psychologist wasn't a bad choice. Val would send an officer to the hospital as well.
"Hot damn," Fruehauf said. "Here they come."
Val spun back to the house just in time to see the door open and two firefighters emerge, assisting a third. Holding her breath, she watched them make their way to the Reedsburg EMS. The names emblazoned across the backs of their turnout coats caught the light, reflective like the stripes on arms, legs, and torsos.
She focused on one name.
The firefighters handed off their injured colleague and shed helmets and facemasks. Lund's eyes found Val. Red lights pulsed off his face. Sweat dampened his dark hair and trickled down one side of his forehead. He looked depleted, raw, and Val had to look away to keep from going to him.
"David Lund was on one of the search teams?" she asked the fire chief.
"Second floor. He pulled Tiedemann out."
Saved the father but not the son. No wonder she could see his pain from here.
When Lund reached them, his first words were for Fruehauf. "Chief, I've got to go back in."
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Fruehauf thrust out his barrel chest. "You saw what just happened. The whole roof is coming down. You rush back in, and you're forcing the rest of us to save you."
Another crash sounded from the house.
Lund stared at the structure, arms limp at his sides.
Val sucked in a breath of smoky air, her chest tight. "Is there a chance the toddler got out on his own?"
Lund shook his head. "The child gate was latched."
"Child gate?"
"At the top of the stairs. No way a kid that small could open it himself."
"We'll search the forest anyway," Val managed to say. "And canvass the neighborhood."
Val wanted to touch him, to hold him, to give him some kind of comfort, not that it would do any good. After all, she knew Lund, knew how failing to save his ex-wife haunted him, knew how responsible he felt, and knew how much pride he took in serving the citizens of his town, many of them life-long friends. And now he'd failed to rescue a child from a burning house…
But it could be worse.
Because Lund didn't know who that little boy really was. And eventually Val would have to tell him.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

My Son the Cover Model

Is this just about the cutest cover you've ever seen? I think so. But then, I might be biased. Not only did I write this book (in stores everywhere right now), but the photo below is a picture of my oldest son. Is it no wonder I let out a squee when I saw the cover for Priceless Newborn Prince?

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

New Beginnings

Today as our country transfers power to a new president, I’m thinking about beginnings. The beginning of the Obama administration. The beginning of a new era where our presidents no long have to physically resemble our founding fathers, but can still carry forth the ideals on which the country was built. And the beginning of my work-in-progress.

Sure the last one isn’t as important and sweeping as the first two. But for me, right this minute, as I’m replotting and rewriting the mess that is my current book, it’s the one that occupies my mind the most. You see, this book is not working...yet. It’s not even close. And all of my problems start with the beginning.

There are many different ways to begin a book, but for me, there’s one way I like best. Fast. Intense. Urgent from page one. I’ve kicked off books in different ways, but the thriller-style beginning is my favorite to read and to write. My problem is that this story doesn’t lend itself to that kind of start. It has a little bit more of a cat-and-mouse plot. The tension is there, but it needs to linger, build, then explode, instead of exploding on page one.

So while I’m trying to get a feel for this story so I can finish it, I have a question for all of you. What kind of beginnings do you love in a story? Do you like your breathtaking romantic suspense to start with a bang? Or do you like it to begin with the time bomb ticking under the table and the characters unsure from where the danger might come? What are some of your favorite beginnings in the books you’ve read?

Friday, January 02, 2009

The Secret of Imagination

I love action figures. It probably stems from my love of making up stories. From the time I could remember, I loved inventing my own stories, and action figures were the perfect way to act those stories out.

When I was a kid, female action figures didn’t exist. My brother had G.I. Joes. You know, the good twelve-inch-tall G.I. Joes with Kung-Foo grip and life-like hair. His were peace-loving former soldiers who belonged to the Adventure Team (since Vietnam had made military toys no longer politically correct at that time). G.I. Joes could do a lot of fun things. For me, the biggies were shooting guns and riding horses. Barbie could do neither of those things. Her hands couldn’t hold a gun, and she couldn’t sit astride one of my many model horses. Those deficiencies in Barbie left me playing with G.I. Joes and wishing for a day when female dolls could do everything the male dolls could.

Flash ahead a few years–
Before I sold my first novel, I was a professional window washer. Kind of an odd choice for a job, I’ll grant you. But I was a creative writing major in college and needed to make a living. There were many dirty windows in the world in need of washing, so my brother and I started a business to answer the demand. One of our regular clients was a former NFL quarterback, and he had a collection of memorabilia in his office that included an action figure of himself in uniform. Well, I thought that was just about the coolest thing ever. Just think of it! An action figure of yourself! What could be more bizarre and fun than that?

Flash ahead a few years–
I am a published novelist writing stories for a living. But I still haven’t gotten over my love for action figures. Only now there are female action figures in stores. I can collect my favorite strong, female fictional characters and use them to decorate my office. Super heroines like Batgirl, Hawkgirl, The Huntress, Wonder Woman and The Invisible Woman. Villains like and Harley Quinn (because I write for Harlequin, don’t you know). And my favorite movie characters - so far I have Eowyn from Lord of the Rings, Elizabeth Swan from the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, Princess Leia from Star Wars and Marion Ravenwood from Indiana Jones.

I have a few odds and ends, too. The head Ringwraith is here so Eowyn can kill him (no man can kill him, after all). And I have a Cairo bad guy for Marion to hit over the head with a frying pan (above). And there’s my newest addition that my brother gave me for Christmas, the Barack Obama action figure (“an action figure we can believe in,” it says on the box). He also bid on a John McCain, in the interest of bipartisanship, but wasn’t able to win him on Ebay.

Although I’ve realized my childhood dream of gender equality in plastic action figure form, I cannot forget the yen for an action figure of myself. What would she do? Slay a bad guy with a pen? Bash a villain over the head with a laptop? Or would she be sucked into the world of her books, having to duke it out on the page with serial killers while being mistakenly chased by the law and falling in love with a cowboy?

Well, I may not ever have a little plastic me to play with, but inspired by a November interview I did at the Writers At Play blog, I discovered something close. An animated me! And so here I am, dressed in something I might wear to a winter writer’s conference.

I’m a little wacked, I know. I suppose when you make up stuff for a living, some wackiness is bound to rub off. Or maybe I’ve just always been this way. But I’ll tell you a secret. It’s a boat load of fun. And if you haven't figured it out, that is what I believe is the secret of imagination. Fun. Play. So why not let your imagination loose to celebrate the new year? What were your favorite toys as a kid? And do you still get the urge to play with them now?

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Pretty hot cover, huh? Do me a favor and look for it in a store near you.

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Having a blast at the Harlequin Party!

I spent the past week in San Francisco at RWA's national conference. One of the things I look forward to at the conference is the crazy dancing free-for-all that is the Harlequin Party. To testify here's a picture taken at the party this year. From left: Mary Biebel, Laura Iding in the background, Judith Lyons, Pam Ford, Lori Handleland and me, Ann Voss Peterson. We might not be exactly homicidal in this photo, but we sure are hot. ;) I love to dance. Especially at this stage of my life, because I have finally figured out what dancing is all about.

My father is a musician. Specifically, he plays tuba in a polka band (how deliciously Wisconsin is that?). So I learned to dance polkas, waltzes and schottisches by the time I was three years old. Dancing was pure fun for me back then. The opportunity to jump around and express my joy.

In highschool, dancing is all about posing and being seen. Looking cool and sexy is the whole point of going out on the floor, even though my friends and I had a very spotty understanding of what sexy actually was. I was a pom-pon girl for a year, too. But that didn’t have as much to do with dancing as with back-biting highschool girl politics. When the basketball season ended, I was relieved and vowed never to subject myself to anything remotely cheerlead-y again.

In college and in my twenties, dancing was about attracting guys. Of course, this method always left a lot to be desired. Most notably that one can’t control the type of male who was attracted.

After I got married, I didn’t dance nearly as often. You see, my husband hates dancing. Even watching others dance sends him back to the time his mother forced him to take tap lessons when he was about ten. He still shudders each time he sees the photo of himself on stage dressed as a tap-dancing playing card. To him, dancing means humiliation.

And that brings me to the Harlequin Party. A ballroom filled with authors, all gussied up and dancing ourselves into breathless pools of sweat. Goofy dance moves (I used some great ones this year, the lawn mower, the sprinkler, the batusi, hee hee!). Kicked off shoes. A room filled with smiles. The Harlequin Party is all about dancing for the pure joy of it. It reminds me of a room full of gleeful three-year-olds doing the polka. The optimism and energy is truly fabulous. I wish I could bottle it and post it on the blog for all of you to enjoy. But since I haven’t figured out how to do that, I’ll include a video that conveys that same jubilant, coming together feeling, except on a much larger scale.

And that leads me to my question: Wanna dance? And if not, why not?

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Hot and Homicidal

I'm busy finishing up a book before officially launching this blog. Once the book is in, we'll see what kind of interesting stuff we can cook up.