I would like to take a minute to say thank you to all of you who have been so encouraging to me this year. Your kind words, from my nearest and dearest to complete strangers, have meant so much.

And I’d like to say a special thank you to my sister, Chris, and my sister-in-law, Lynda, who have been my sounding boards, task masters, and truly good friends.

Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My will be officially released on Monday! I’m looking forward to seeing many of you at the launch on December 7th. If you’re in the neighborhood, please drop by.
(Dec. 7th, 2 to 4, Old Bowie Town Grille)

Here’s a little snippet from the book. The ladies and their guests have just finished a Thanksgiving feast and romance is in the air, as well as something a little more sinister.

     Rose lit a fire and they sat sipping B&B and enjoying family chitchat.
     “Mother, you’re going to stay over, aren’t you?” asked Rose.
     “Oh yes. It’s been a long day.”
     Around ten o’clock Marc said, “Well, this has been a real pleasure. I can’t remember the last time I had a family Thanksgiving. Thank you for including me. But I’ve got to go. We all need to rest up for the Christmas onslaught.”
     Daisy and Malcolm walked Marc down to his car. Marc thanked her again. Then he bent down and gently kissed her lips. “Don’t forget to lock up. There’s a killer out there and you’re pretty isolated at this end of the street.”
     “Not to worry. We’re fine. Malcolm’s here and we have the alarm. I’m glad you came today. I liked spending Thanksgiving with you.”
     “Me, too. Much as I enjoy your family, I was thinking that it would be great if we had a night to ourselves. You know, a regular date. Dinner and a movie?”
     “I’d like that. Wednesday next week?”
     “Wednesday, it is.” He turned to go, then turned back and took her in his arms and kissed her again. “Good night, Daisy,” he whispered. “Don’t forget to lock up!”
     “I won’t. Drive carefully,” she called to him as he got into his car. She smiled as she watched him drive away.
     She was almost at the door when Malcolm started growling. Then he trotted back to the sidewalk and let a sharp little bark. Daisy picked him up. “What is it, boy?”
     She looked around at the quiet street. Then she thought she saw a shadow move in the trees in back of the Tavern. “Come on Malcolm. Let’s get inside!”

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Oh my, these next few weeks will be busy ones. Thanksgiving dinner for eighteen. My book launch on December 7th. A Christmas Bazaar on December 8th. And then of course Christmas!

I’ve got lists and notes everywhere. I’ve got little notes reminding me to make lists. I’ve got these lists and notes because I simply cannot remember anything anymore. I cannot remember a six letter word for ‘remembrance’. I pace the aisles in Target trying to recall the name of the shampoo I’ve used for the last ten years. I hurriedly rush to the phone, pick it up ready to dial only to go completely blank as to whom I had to call so urgently.

Like most of the people I know who are my age I live in fear that one day in the not too distant future I will drop in on a neighbor for tea wearing only a sunhat and Reeboks, having forgotten the rest of my clothes. I understand this can be a common side effect once you’ve entered your ‘second childhood’.

And here I wonder as a passing thought if people who prefer nakedness in their dotage are the same people who preferred it in their toddlerhood. Is there a correlation? Because if there is I may be in big trouble. I was one of those toddlers.

My very first memory was of running out the front door of our house on 20th Street, NW just off Dupont Circle, going down the steps, running to the end of the block and boarding a bus completely sans clothing. Kind of cute in a two year old. Not so much now!

At any rate, though things are a bit hectic, I’m looking forward to a great month – fully dressed, thank you very much.

Don’t forget the Christmas Bazaar, 12/8/2013 from 10 to 2 at the Columbian Center, Severna Park, MD. I’d love to have you stop by and bring the flyer.

Also, for my Facebook friends, please LIKE my author page which is up and running thanks to my wonderful daughter, Rachel Anne. www.facebook.com/p.c.petersen.author

I consider myself so lucky that I have found not one, but three, authors whose words I find so compelling that I read them almost yearly. Books that I can pick up anytime, turn to any page, and, like a dear old friend who visits every few years, continue the conversation as though it were yesterday. These books are the stories of P. G. Wodehouse, Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird.

In the fall, I turn to Harper Lee. As soon as ‘sweater weather’ begins and the leaves start to turn, I find myself walking home in the dark with Scout in her ham costume, Jem’s hand carefully guiding her, or smiling at Scout’s complete bemusement of Aunt Alexandra and her campaign to make a lady of her.

Each beautiful scene, so clear, so elegantly written – Calpurnia and the children, washed and starched to a shocking degree, at her church waving fans and passing the plate, Jem reading to Mrs. DuBose in that dark, sad room, the hermaphrodite snowman, or Miss Maudie’s house going up in flames – that I feel as if I am remembering things from my own youth, not Scout’s. I would give much to be able to write so well.

Springtime brings me back to hobbits, elves and wizards. And P. G. Wodehouse seems to fit the summer so well. What a gift these writers have given me. Do you have a favorite book? A book that you read again and again, whose words draw you into another world that you’ve become so familiar with it’s like home? I’d love to hear which books have become your old friends.

Don’t forget my book launch, December 7th from 2 to 4. (Check www.pennypetersen.com for info). If you’re planning on coming, be sure to let me know. I’d hate to run short on snacks and such.

The excitement is on! My novel, Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My, is being released December 1st  and I’m getting ready for an actual launch party.

Quite honestly, having a book in print is something I never even thought about. I never imagined being a writer. I wrote a little here and there – a short story or a poem – but I was pretty content being domestic. I actually liked cooking. I enjoyed sewing. I liked being the team mom and the room mother. For a child of the 60’s this was hard to swallow sometimes, but true feminism means I get to choose what makes me happy, and that was what made me happy.

And then my husband and I retired. I needed something to fill the time. Cooking, except on holidays, had lost its appeal. Forty plus years of dinner takes some of the glamour out of the task. Sewing, too, lost its charm. Small print, bi-focals, and an achy back took their toll. And being a team mom/room mother pretty much requires a kid on the team or in the room.

So I tried my hand at writing a mystery. It was just supposed to be a hobby. But surprise! Here I am, an author, getting ready to enter the world of promotion and sales. Wish me luck and come by the party and say hi. I’d love to see you. 

Launch of  Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My
Saturday, December 7th
2 to 4 in the afternoon
Old Bowie Town Grille
Bowie, Maryland
If you’re interested in coming, just let me know at pennypetersen@rocketmail.com

As Fall is creeping in and the days are getting shorter and chillier, I am overcome with the memory of a Saturday in our little house in College Park. My mother in the kitchen listening to the radio. The strains of Maryland University’s marching band in the distance. And my Father announcing that, I’m paraphrasing here, ‘the damned leaves were not going to rake themselves’.

It was a day in late October. Dad got his workforce in place. I know I was forced labor. I think my brother and sister were probably volunteers. We raked up the quarter acre’s worth of leaves that had fallen. It took all day. We made a lot of piles to jump in. We had swordfights with the rakes. We had to take a lot of breaks, of course. The work was backbreaking!

But finally, we would rake the leaves into one huge pile in the driveway. We’d stand around it and shiver as the day grew cold. And then Dad would light the dry, crackling leaves and we would watch the flames flicker for a moment and then suddenly whoosh into a beautiful bonfire. And then we could smell the burning leaves! 

It like to think it was a simpler time. It wasn’t really. Lots of things were going on in the world, many of them bad, but I didn’t know what was coming. I couldn’t foresee future tragedy or celebration. For me on that afternoon it was just the leaves. And that was enough.

Shameless Plug – I am being interviewed on the internet Sunday evening at 6 p.m. by Cyrus Webb. I would love to have you tune in at www.blogtalkradio.com/conversationslive.

I must apologize to any of you who look for this little effort each week. Last week I was just plain out of ideas and it was Tom’s birthday – not all week of course, just one day of it – but these things throw me off, so I didn’t write my blog. However, I’m back on track this week with a little story of true love and how we met.

Years ago, somewhere around year fifteen in our marriage, I was asked by a niece how Tom and I met. Well, I started to tell her, but Tom said, “She doesn’t remember.”

Well, of course I remembered. I mean, twenty-some years ago I was a young thing with a pretty good memory. I rarely forgot to wear matching shoes and I could almost always remember where I put my kids. So I was pretty sure I did indeed remember how we met.

It was the night before Thanksgiving 1967. All of my friends who had gone away to college were home for the holiday. We went out and celebrated. After all, this was their first time back in almost three months and we were all now legal to drink beer in DC.

We went to Ben’s Hideaway in Northeast Washington just over the state line. Ben’s was not a preppy bar. It was not even a nice bar. Truth to tell, it was a bit of a dive. But an awful lot of us ended up there that evening – including Tom and his group of friends who were also home for the holiday.

He and my best friend knew each other well, they had gone to grade school together, and so we were introduced. On my part, it was like at first sight. And, up until the day I was going to tell this story, I thought it was his first sight too. We made a date for that Friday night and the rest is history.

Well, here comes the peculiar part of our little love story. That night was not the first time we’d met. About two years before that he sat in my own living room on Saturday afternoon and I didn’t remember.

I had been dating a boy who was really very nice, but – how do I put this gently – not someone I cared to continue dating. So I turned down a few invitations. Unfortunately, he didn’t take the hint. He and a ‘friend’ came by one afternoon and hung out for way too long.

I am ashamed to say that I was absolutely rude to him. There is no other way to put it. I was behaving so badly that another B word comes to mind. But at this point I couldn’t figure out any other way to get the message across. Finally, success. I was so unpleasant that the nice boy did stop asking me out.

And during this weird afternoon, his ‘friend’, my Tom, sat in the corner and watched all of this wretched behavior and didn’t say a word. All I remembered was a boy with glasses that I didn’t know. And, of course, my behavior being what it was that day, I still can’t believe that when we re-met two years later he asked me out. I guess in spite of it all it was like at first sight for him too.

The fact that he waited until we had been married for a fair amount of time to mention this little bit of theatre is a bit odd. You’d think he’d have brought it up at some point in four years of dating and fifteen years of marriage. But there you go, the secret to a good marriage is keeping the mystery alive. It works – forty-two years and counting.

I’ve been awake since four o’clock puzzling over what scintillating anecdote to relate today. My sister tells me it had better be funny because she needs a laugh. But at four in the morning I don’t know how amusing I can manage to be.

However, in an effort to make Chris laugh, I will relate the story of my Dad and the goldfish.

My Dad was a wonderful man. He was very British; stiff upper lip, duty and honor in all things. He was raised by a widow who was just a bit nuts. When she was seventeen she ran off to Canada with the black sheep of the Clover family. (Here my sister, Heather, who has finished our family history will tell me I’ve got the timing all wrong, and I probably do, but you get the gist – young woman elopes with older man who can’t get his act together.)

After my grandfather died when Daddy was very little, they moved around a lot. I believe Dad told me he had been to something like twenty schools in twelve years. He had one older brother, Bob, who was by all accounts an absolute terror. Dad himself was always the reliable one, the boy who got good grades, worked hard, and took things seriously.

He could be quite strict and unbending. I remember some royal battles he had with my brother over hair length and with me over skirt length. We had to eat everything on our plates or we sat at the table until we did. If we misbehaved at dinner, we were sent to the kitchen to finish. He had some pretty strict standards we were supposed to live up to.

But at heart my dad was a gentle pushover. He loved his wife, he loved his kids. He loved his pets.

We had many pets over the years. A lot of cats, a number of dogs, a rabbit named Eugene, a wild mockingbird who seemed to adopt us for a summer. And we had a goldfish. It was an ordinary fish, gold in color, kept in a bowl just like a million other goldfish. I don’t remember it having a name.

For some reason Dad took care of the dumb thing. He would put the fish bowl in the kitchen sink and dribble cool water into it instead of just dumping the water and adding new. Sadly, the sink had an old single handle faucet with a mind of its own.

One Saturday, he did this maneuver in the usual way and left the bowl filling while he busied himself elsewhere. Unfortunately, this was the day the faucet took it into its head to slowly shift to HOT. I noticed too late. The little fish was a goner, boiled in his own bowl.

I told my mother who immediately said, “We can’t tell your father.” This was a constant refrain during my teenage years. He had an ulcer that might act up. But, really, I think my mother just didn’t want to hear it. So she and I decided that I should run out to the store and get a new fish. We’d replace it and he’d never know he had whacked the little fishy.

I brought home the only goldfish I could find – a white one! We put it in the bowl and hoped he just wouldn’t notice. But he did. And he was amazed. He excitedly called my mother and me into the kitchen to see this fish who had changed color! “Have you ever seen such a thing!” and “I can’t believe it. This is amazing!”

My mother and I had to lock ourselves in the bathroom because we were laughing so hard. We never told him about the switch. And to this day I have no idea if my father really believed that fish had changed color. I like to think he did. I like to think he witnessed a miracle.

My mind is a bit blank today. This is, unfortunately, not a novel occurrence, but it is decidedly unhelpful when I’m trying to write my blog. Inspiration, where art thou?

Ah, just a minute, the Coldwater Creek catalog seems to be calling my name. This may be just what I need.

Nope. Other than causing me to ponder whether I would like to get the mini-bootcut or the classic straight leg jeans with my $25 off any purchase coupon, I’m no closer to finding a topic for today.

Perhaps just a few random thoughts. There is always the chance an idea will sprout.

Saturday went well. The Writers’ Conference was a success. I learned a lot about the business. I’m still rubbish at mingling, but I did manage to meet some lovely people and make a new friend or two.

I also stayed in a hotel room alone for the first time in my life. Years ago, when my husband traveled for work he would tell me he just hated going back to his lonely hotel room. At that time with two kids, cats, dinner to fix and laundry to do I thought he was crazy. An evening alone after someone else served me dinner sounded a lot like heaven.

And years ago, it probably would have been heavenly. But now it was just a little lonely. Not only that, as soon as I got into the big, comfy bed and switched on the remote, my legs started cramping. And they continued cramping throughout the night. I may have to give up heels for good. Anyway, I finally gave up about 6 a.m. and just went home.

Monday, I went to see my great-nieces play an away volleyball game at the school where my son teaches. Hearing the little freshman girls say, “Hi Mr. Petersen,” is a hoot. And I was totally impressed that he knew all of their names.

I now know more about volleyball than I did previously. Which is to say that I now know something about volleyball. First, high school gyms are incredibly loud! Second, double-tapping the ball is a big no-no. But how the official (I now know that’s what the term for the official is) determines that the ball has been double-tapped, I could not figure out. Supposedly, he can hear it. But in that gym I don’t know how.

On the way home I stopped at K-Mart in search of peanut brittle for my husband. I was walking through the parking lot when a woman who was backing out, saw me, stopped, and waved me on. For a fleeting moment as I trotted past her car I suddenly wondered if this was a set up. Was she going to hit the gas, mow me down and laugh hysterically? Of course she did no such thing. She just waited until I was safely out of the way, the proceeded to back out just like a normal person. Does anyone else in the world think of these weird scenarios or is this just the mystery writer in me?

Speaking of mystery writing, I’d really better knock off the random thoughts and get to work. Amazingly an idea has sprouted.  I think my next scene may well be a woman, driven to insanity by the sound of incessant double-tapping, laughing hysterically alone in her hotel room shortly after she’s mowed down her daughter’s teacher outside the gymnasium. Or maybe should that be K-Mart?

I will be attending my very first Writers Conference this weekend. I am excited and really looking forward to it.

At the same time I am a bit nervous. I am hoping that I will not do or say something incredibly stupid. I would very much like to appear confident, poised, and professional. And though I’m hoping, I am not particularly hopeful.

You see, I have never been, or at least have never felt, confident or poised. I tend to trip over my own feet. When someone runs into me, I apologize. I am hopeless at small talk and have absolutely no idea how to go about promoting myself or my book.

And, much as I hate to admit it, getting older has just made things worse. My memory which was never great is now abysmal. My ‘noun aphasia’ is getting out of hand. For instance, I’m a docent at the beautiful Riversdale Mansion. Much too often lately I have found myself standing in a room, the salon perhaps, staring blankly at my little group of visitors, having totally forgotten the term for the cornice I am pointing at. You can only claim senior moments so many times before they want their money back.

My memory for simple nouns has gotten so bad that my husband feels like he is playing an interminable game of charades. This afternoon I was attempting to draw his attention to the cooler. The best I could do was keep repeating, “you know – the red thing” and making a rectangle in the air with my hands. I am sorry to say he is not amused by this.

Another thing that is getting worse by the minute is my sight. I had Lasik surgery about fifteen years ago and for quite a while my vision was wonderful. Not so much now. I smile and wave at old friends, only to find out that they are actually total strangers. I squint a lot. I see things that aren’t there. I wear my cheaters on a chain around my neck, a thing I swore I’d NEVER do. I’ve become Mr. Magoo’s twin sister!

It’s very sad, really. The other day I sharpened an eyebrow pencil. The sharpener wasn’t working and upon investigation I discovered that my ‘pencil’ was not actually a wooden pencil. It was plastic. When I bought it I could have sworn it was a wooden pencil. It certainly looked like one. Of course, this one may not be a vision problem, so much as simple idiocy.

Whichever, I really am looking forward to the Saturday. Lord willing, I will remember my name and, possibly, even the name of my book. I will smile at strangers because they may or may not be old friends. When I trip I will just laugh endearingly. When I meet Jeffrey Deaver, I intend to be sophisticated and interesting right up to the minute I spill my drink on him. All in all, it should be a grand experience. Perhaps I will see you there – whether you attend or not!

I continually make the mistake of reading the entire newspaper. And it’s just depressing. Why I don’t stick to the comics and the Style section I really don’t understand.

But every morning I get up, turn on the electric kettle (best invention in the world), feed the cats, make my tea, then sit down and read the Washington Post. I guess I’m hoping for something good to happen. It seems it rarely does.

I don’t count sports. Although I enjoy a baseball game, I don’t follow baseball. And not being a football fan, the exploits of the Redskins on the front page simply irritates me. I do not rejoice with the team.

I read the obituaries. My mother always read them and I like to keep tradition going. Of course, it is heartening not to be among the chosen few, so I guess that’s a good thing. On the other hand, many of those chosen few are my age or younger and that’s fairly demoralizing.

World news veers from tragic to horrifying to terrifying. Pictures of dead bodies lined up in a row, articles about chemical weapons, riots, uprisings, drones, earthquakes and tsunamis, the economy, and, for comic relief, the ever-present political shenanigans that Washington thrives on. I mean you’ve got to ask yourself, when Anthony Weiner’s wiener is front page news have we strayed just a bit too far from the path of sanity.

Local news is a series of fatal car crashes, plane crashes, the trial of the month, inappropriate teacher/student interaction (euphemisms are wonderful, aren’t they?), inappropriate pastor/child interaction, inappropriate politician/big donor interaction. There is a lot of interaction going on and none of it’s good!

The health and science section isn’t too bad, a lot of interesting facts. I now know that there is a fish that walks on land. The main disease story is usually sort of an upper where some poor sap finally finds a cure. Of course, it comes after years of needless suffering, but it is a cure.

So why don’t I stick to who George Clooney is dating, where Michelle Obama had dinner, and what advice Carolyn Hax has for Anonymous in Maryland? I wish I knew. It’s a mystery. Perhaps I’ll find the answer in tomorrow’s Post.

What makes ‘the best day’? A few weeks ago we had family over to share crabs, beer, and burgers. My granddaughter, Sophie, who is five was the only child there. She seemed to enjoy herself, played nicely, ate crabs and lots of corn, found her Twizzler in her dessert drawer (where I keep candy just for her), put up no fuss when it was time to leave, waved and said “Bye everybody” (after a bit of coaxing – she’s very shy), and hopped in the car.

On the way home Sophie kept saying to my daughter, “That was the best day, wasn’t it, Mom?” and “Wasn’t that the best day?” and “I had the best day!” for the whole hour ride.

So, what made it ‘the best day’ for her? Who knows? What makes any day that good? It’s kind of impossible to pin down, isn’t it?

I have found that special days are rarely ‘the best days’. My wedding day, for example, was not a ‘best’ day. It was a good day and marrying Tom was the best thing I’ve ever done, but the day went by in a whirl. We were tired and nervous and it was over in the wink of an eye.

But there was an evening when Tom and I sat at the Lincoln Memorial and talked for the longest time. Just the two of us. I can’t remember why we were there or much of what we talked about, but it was a lovely night and the feeling of that night has never gone away.

Another memory that always makes me smile is driving home from Baltimore with my brother back in the summer 1965. I remember it vividly, the sun roof open, Beatles on the radio, a tree lined portion of Route 1. We were happy and singing and having fun and it was the best . 

I have so many ‘best’ moments with my sisters, my best friend, Tom and the kids. Unfortunately, these tend to get overshadowed by the rest of life, the hard parts, the sadness, the day to day routine. So my new resolution is to try and think about a ‘best’ time, a memory that will make me smile, every time ‘real life’ chooses to smack me on the head. Maybe it will help. maybe not. But I think it’s worth a try.

Fall is in the air a bit early and the dog days of August seem to be skipping us this year. Windows are open. My husband is wearing a sweatshirt which seems a bit excessive, but he finds anything under 90 degrees to be a tad cool. And I have got the writing bug back.

It tends to desert me in mid-spring and return in the fall. I have no idea why. I’m retired and have no fixed schedule to follow. But my muse or whatever little irritant that goads me on seems to run on a school schedule. A hangover from my youth when summer was for play? I have no idea. I just know that suddenly I have an urge to write something.

So, I’ve begun to map out my next Daisy&Rose mystery. I am not good at this process. I tend to invent as I write, but I do need a basic outline. First and foremost, I need to know who did what to whom and why. I also like to have a good idea about a little sideshow, so to speak – the hormonally exuberant Malcolm or a jogger who keeps showing up revealing a little more of himself than anyone would like to see.

There are other questions I need to think about. Is romance in the air? Probably not. Who needs romance when you’ve got dead bodies. What outlandish things will Angela be up to? Any more pets to be added to the menagerie? But really, I just need the basic plot. The rest will come, like Shoeless Joe Jackson in the movie.

Occasionally, someone will ask me where I get my ideas. And I usually have to say that most of the time I have no idea. They just arrive. I sit down to write, the flow is good, words get put on the page and there it is. A paragraph or a page or a chapter.

There are times that I’ve read something I’ve written a day or so later and think, “Wow. That’s not bad. I like it. I don’t remember writing it and I wonder where it came from.”

Then there are times when I know the moment an idea came to me. This week it happened twice, both between four and five in the morning, my usual hour of insomnia.

The first was Saturday night. I was doing my version of counting sheep – going through the alphabet and listing items (flowers in this case) that begin with each letter – and it wasn’t working. I suddenly remembered the meteor shower and decided to see what the heavens had to offer. Tom and I watched for a while (he, too, often has 4 a.m. insomnia). When I got back in bed, I had an image of Daisy and fog and knew just how I wanted to begin the book. Wonderful. Then I fell fast asleep.

The second time was the night before last. Again 4 a.m. and the alphabet thing not working. I just tossed and turned a lot thinking about all those little things that drive you crazy at four in the morning.

One of those things was the new book. I had a basic plot and the first sentence, but I was stuck. I couldn’t grab what I call ‘the hook’, the hinge I hang the story on. After about forty-five minutes of checking the clock and making no progress with sleep or storyline, I gave up trying. I needed to talk to someone.

But Tom was actually sleeping for a change and I felt it unfair to wake him. So I had a little chat with my mother. A tad one-sided seeing as how she passed on to a better place quite a while ago, but I know she can still hear me. 

My mother loved mysteries. She turned me onto Miss Marple, Peter Wimsey and tons of other wonderful detectives when I was about twelve. So I told her about the new book and how I would love to be able to pick her brain because I was a bit stuck at the moment and it was frustrating. Then I said good night, closed my eyes, snuggled down, and there it was! I had the hook. A ghost who walks at four in the morning. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Thanks, Mom.

I have questions. Lots of them. Most will never be answered, but I like to ask them anyway.

For instance, why does the spider on my bathroom sink just sit there? Why doesn’t he move away from the faucet. His little web just gets pulled apart each time I wash my hands. He then rebuilds and sits there doing nothing, apparently waiting for me to turn on the faucet so he can rebuild once more.

Yes, I have a spider. I don’t kill spiders. I think they do good work. And I’m fine as long as I know where they are. And as long as they are not actually on me. If they bother me, I simply put them outside. (Glass over spider, cardboard slid under glass, someone to open the door for you. Easy-peasy.)

I remember a particular spider that lived on the windshield of my little red VW. He was a little white spider and had been there for a few weeks, just walking back and forth. I don’t know what he lived on. I didn’t have food in the car. Well, I probably did – old fries or chips, but nothing on the windshield or dashboard.

Anyway, one day my sister got in the car and said, “Oh, a spider!” and smooshed the poor thing.

She no longer kills spiders. Perhaps it was my response when I yelled, “Why the hell did you do that?”, but I think it more likely that she matured in her thinking just as I did learning that spiders are good people, too.

This spider inquiry seems to have nothing to do with writing, except that recently – this entire summer – I feel very much like my little spider. I sit and I wait and something interrupts me and I sit and wait again. Not much is getting done in the way of editing or outlining another book. Not much is getting done at all.

So the question remains, why does the spider on my bathroom sink just sit there? More to the point, of course, is why do I? I’ll let you know as soon as I find out. I’m sure you’ll be waiting with baited breath. Relax, I may be a while.

In the meantime, a question about hummingbirds. I know, you think I’m going to ask why they hum. But I already know that. (For anyone who has managed to live a life without hearing this oldie, but goodie, it’s because they don’t know the words.)

No, no. I have read that they like clean feeders. And I have watched them feast on my little feeder for two days, but the next they just fly by without even a sip. How do they know it’s time for a wash? It’s a mystery.

Today’s blog was going to be on the suspension of disbelief – a thing my very literal husband has a great deal of trouble with. You fiction writers know it, that magical reader’s mindset that allows you to do all sorts of things that would never happen in real life.

For instance, it amazing how many times people on TV who have never held a gun before manage to kill someone with one shot. Bam, he’s a goner! I have the feeling that not only would that be highly unlikely, but the shooter would very possibly be knocked backward and be lucky not to blast his foot off.

Another is the hero who is beaten to a within an inch of his life, but gets right up and back into the fray. Let’s face it, most of us sit out the rest of the day if we knock ourselves on the head with the trunk lid. But, we as readers, usually love it. We are suckers for indomitable heroes. Even so, this device is one I personally do not employ in my books. When my hero, Daisy Forrest, gets conked on the head, her first instinct on waking up is to reach for an ice pack and the vodka, the hell with chasing the bad guy.

I was going to go on for quite a bit, but a very funny thing happened while writing this blog. I got the galley of my book! What a thrill! Tom, my husband and greatest fan, experienced a suspension of disbelief moment. He kept looking at the cover and saying, “Look at this. ‘Penny Clover Petersen’. This is something!”

I know how he feels. It hasn’t really sunk in yet. 238 pages of words written by me that someone thought good enough to publish. Wow! It’s humbling and exhilarating and, most of all, unbelievable! I just don’t feel like an author, yet. If asked what I do, I do not reply that I write books. My brother-in-law suggested that I start wearing large hats, lots of jewelry, and carrying a small dog wherever I go. I am not sure this would make anyone, including myself, believe I am an author. More likely they would simply believe that I’ve gone round the bend and I’m channeling Barbara Cartland.

At any rate, I did the final edits this week and the book is soon to go to the printer, review copies will be sent out, and come December will be on sale to any and all who might like a cozy little mystery for Christmas. So the next time someone asks what I do, I’m going to tell them, “I’m a mystery writer”. I may not believe it, but it happens to be true.

You know what’s not funny? I know it always gets a laugh in cartoons. Laurel and Hardy can make it seem hilarious. It even sounds funny in the telling, but is actually a royal pain in the old gluteus Maximus. Super-gluing your hand. Not amusing. I know. I did it. To myself.

I ponder two questions – Is it just me? Am I the only one who does these incredibly stupid things? And, assuming I am, why do I choose to do things that have no urgency whatsoever (as in, if they never got done at all, no one, and I do mean no one, would ever notice) when I am in the middle of packing for vacation and running out to the store for last minute necessities. I think I am beginning to see a connection.

My mother’s high school ring from St. Patrick’s Academy Class of 1932 has been in my possession for twenty-seven years now. The medallion on its face has been loose for all of those twenty-seven years. I’ve been meaning to fix this for exactly twenty-seven years. The Friday before last as I was ironing a linen shirt before packing it I felt an overwhelmingly urgent need to take care of this little ring problem.

Why, I ask myself? Why in the midst of running around like a chicken sans head did I need to fix this ring immediately? I had no intention of wearing the ring. I plan to pass it on to my granddaughter to keep in her jewelry box until she passes it on to her own granddaughter. And so on.

I think, perhaps, it’s because I had finally found a Super Glue that can be used more than once. This Loctite glue does not glue itself shut. I had used it about a year ago and then earlier that week I pulled it out to glue the handle back onto my sugar bowl. And it worked like a charm. One little drop eased out of the container, settled onto the broken bowl and in the blink of an eye, Voila! handle reattached! I was thrilled! (It strikes me here that I do seem to be easily amused. Hmm. Perhaps I should get out more.)

Now for whatever reason, I dropped the ironing, dug out the ring and the glue, sat at the desk right next to the keyboard, and began my little project which should have taken no more than thirty seconds.

I quickly realized that the sugar bowl had been a fluke.

You may notice the PROFESSIONAL CONTROL boldly written on the label. It really should say NOT TO BE USED BY IDIOTS NAMED PENNY.  I pressed the bottle and nothing came out. I pressed harder and – nothing. I put the bottle down and examined the nozzle. It seemed clear. I could have read the directions, but chose not to. I just picked it up again and squeezed really hard. This time, of course, I squeezed the little red thingys on the sides and discovered that this is how one is supposed to squeeze the stupid thing.

The glue came out just fine. Lots of it, all over my hand and the desk barely missing the keyboard (thank God, or I’d still be hearing about it), and I later noticed on the new slacks I was wearing. It was sheer luck that I didn’t actually attach myself to the desk.

Getting super glue off is certainly harder than getting it on. My recommendation should this ever happen to you: generous amounts of nail polish remover followed by Goo Gone, Dawn, and Krud Kutter. Then you can spend the entire afternoon peeling off little pieces until, by the next morning, it’s gone from you skin and the wood top of the desk. It will not be gone from your slacks.

On the plus side, I successfully glued the medallion back onto the ring and put it safely away to give to Sophie in another twenty-seven years.

You know what’s not funny? I know it always gets a laugh in cartoons. Laurel and Hardy can make it seem hilarious. It even sounds funny in the telling, but is actually a royal pain in the old gluteus Maximus. Super-gluing your hand. Not amusing. I know. I did it. To myself.

I ponder two questions – Is it just me? Am I the only one who does these incredibly stupid things? And, assuming I am, why do I choose to do things that have no urgency whatsoever (as in, if they never got done at all, no one, and I do mean no one, would ever notice) when I am in the middle of packing for vacation and running out to the store for last minute necessities. I think I am beginning to see a connection.

My mother’s high school ring from St. Patrick’s Academy Class of 1932 has been in my possession for twenty-seven years now. The medallion on its face has been loose for all of those twenty-seven years. I’ve been meaning to fix this for exactly twenty-seven years. The Friday before last as I was ironing a linen shirt before packing it I felt an overwhelmingly urgent need to take care of this little ring problem.

Why, I ask myself? Why in the midst of running around like a chicken sans head did I need to fix this ring immediately? I had no intention of wearing the ring. I plan to pass it on to my granddaughter to keep in her jewelry box until she passes it on to her own granddaughter. And so on.

I think, perhaps, it’s because I had finally found a Super Glue that can be used more than once. This Loctite glue does not glue itself shut. I had used it about a year ago and then earlier that week I pulled it out to glue the handle back onto my sugar bowl. And it worked like a charm. One little drop eased out of the container, settled onto the broken bowl and in the blink of an eye, Voila! handle reattached! I was thrilled! (It strikes me here that I do seem to be easily amused. Hmm. Perhaps I should get out more.)

Now for whatever reason, I dropped the ironing, dug out the ring and the glue, sat at the desk right next to the keyboard, and began my little project which should have taken no more than thirty seconds.

I quickly realized that the sugar bowl had been a fluke.

You may notice the PROFESSIONAL CONTROL boldly written on the label. It really should say NOT TO BE USED BY IDIOTS NAMED PENNY.  I pressed the bottle and nothing came out. I pressed harder and – nothing. I put the bottle down and examined the nozzle. It seemed clear. I could have read the directions, but chose not to. I just picked it up again and squeezed really hard. This time, of course, I squeezed the little red thingys on the sides and discovered that this is how one is supposed to squeeze the stupid thing.

The glue came out just fine. Lots of it, all over my hand and the desk barely missing the keyboard (thank God, or I’d still be hearing about it), and I later noticed on the new slacks I was wearing. It was sheer luck that I didn’t actually attach myself to the desk.

Getting super glue off is certainly harder than getting it on. My recommendation should this ever happen to you: generous amounts of nail polish remover followed by Goo Gone, Dawn, and Krud Kutter. Then you can spend the entire afternoon peeling off little pieces until, by the next morning, it’s gone from you skin and the wood top of the desk. It will not be gone from your slacks.

On the plus side, I successfully glued the medallion back onto the ring and put it safely away to give to Sophie in another twenty-seven years.

I’m in St. Paul visiting family, so for this week and the next I have the privilege to turn this blog over to my good friend and ace detective, Malcolm Boxer-Basset. He has graciously agreed to share his notes on one of his biggest cases. Malcolm is an interesting guy, if a little rough around the edges, and I think you’ll enjoy his rather unorthodox outlook on life.

Well, I’m back from a week at the beach with my family. I know I’m supposed to be well-rested and eager to get back to work. Truth to tell, it’s taken me all week to get over all the family fun.

We did have a great week. The weather could have been better, but we managed. We played corn-hole toss (which sounds really rude for some reason) and I beat my husband and son!!!!! We played a game called Smart-Ass which I highly recommend for an evening’s very silly entertainment. We had a crab feast with many Margaritas. My granddaughter, Sophie (5), rolled in the sand, and grandson, Storm (16), smiled bravely and didn’t let on that he was bored stiff. There was a lot of reading and sleeping, eating and laughing.

Of course the best part of all was that Tom and I had both of our children and their families with us for the entire week. It doesn’t happen often enough and the older I get, the more precious I find these times.

While I was there I got a nice surprise. I got the first draft of my book cover. We have some work to do to get it just right, but seeing it was a bit of a thrill. It’s dawning on me that I will have a book in print by the end of the year. Something I never thought would happen.

Speaking of which, I would like to do a bit of advertising here. My publisher, Intrigue Publishing, is hosting a wonderful conference in mid-September. Among the many aspiring writers attending (moi, for instance) will be best selling authors Jeffrey Deaver, John Gilstrap, Trice Hickman, and Christopher Golden.

This conference has a lot going on for authors and readers. If you can’t make it for the whole event, come for the day on Saturday, September 14th. Please check out the conference website for all the information you’ll need. http://creaturescrimesandcreativity.com. I hope to see you in September.

In the meantime in preparation for this conference I have to work on developing a half-minute book spiel and finding the nerve to deliver it to complete strangers. Promotion is so foreign to my nature that I find this the most daunting aspect of all. So I’m off now to talk into a mirror to try to sell myself on my own book. I’ll be so embarrassed if I turn myself down! I’ll let you know how it goes next week. Who knows, with any luck I’ll be able to say I knew me when.