Thanks to all of you who sent me ideas for this blog.  I now have a lot to think about and, no doubt, will be writing about quite soon. This week I’m writing another reminiscence at the request of my son. Next week while I’m on vacation, my wonderful great-niece, Grace Cheney, has agreed to fill in for me. I’m sure you’ll love it!

I was once a beatnik. For a very short time, perhaps, but a beatnik none the less. Who remembers beatniks? The 1950’s non-conformist generation of men and women who wore sunglasses, dressed in black, often topping their ensembles with berets. They played the bongo drums and smoked a lot. The men had little goatees and the women didn’t tease their hair and wore it long. They read blank verse and listened to strange music in subterranean coffee houses.

At least that’s the picture I remember. The Beat generation was about twelve years before my own teenage angst. I fell somewhere between beatniks and hippies and flower children. But, quite honestly, I was really just preppy – or as preppy as I could afford to be.

Part of this dress style (the not-a-beatnik part) was due to the fact that my mother disapproved of black and made me wear make-up. Her feeling was that since other people had to look at me it was the least I could do. The other part (not-a-flower-child part) was that I never felt comfortable in long flowing skirts. They are not attractive on ladies with Clover Butt Syndrome which afflicted me and my sisters. I did a few years later have a pair of bell-bottom jeans to which I attached a colorful trim at the hem when they shrunk, but that’s about as radical as I got.

So in my dress, if not my politics, I was very conservative. Linda, my best friend, and I must have looked like fraternal twins much of the time. Pageboy haircuts (me, blond; Linda, black), Villager shirt-waist dresses, Bass Weejun loafers. We sometimes mixed things up a bit and wore A-line skirts with matching sweaters and knee socks. In no way could anyone have considered us ‘out there’ just by catching a glimpse.

This brings us to an afternoon at the Circle Theatre. The Circle was a wonderful movie theater. Located at 21st Street and Pennsylvania Avenue it ran old movies for the unbelievable price of $1 for a matinee and $2 for an evening show. Linda and I were frequent patrons. We loved old movies. They were great and uncensored. I mean to tell you I saw full frontal nudity for the first time when Hedy Lamarr ran through a forest in Ecstasy.

We loved the great Greta Garbo. We saw her in Grand Hotel and Mata Hari. On the afternoon in question (a strange phrase since absolutely no one has questioned me about it) Linda and I went to see Camille.

Now, remember, we were very young and not always the brightest bulbs in the chandelier. The theater was almost empty, a few people down front and one older lady sitting a couple of rows behind us. We watched the entire movie with rapt attention. As it neared the end there was silence in the auditorium except for the sniffles of the lady behind us. Greta lay dying of consumption with Robert Taylor at her side. It was dramatic. It was tragic. Then Robert spoke her name, ‘Marguerite’.

Perhaps our attention was not as rapt as we thought because Linda and I were stunned. We looked at each other and said in unison and quite loudly, “Marguerite? I thought her name was Camille!” At which the poor old lady behind us hissed equally loudly, “Shhhh! Beatniks!” So there you have it, my Jack Kerouac moment.

I never did become a Beatnik, but I have become an older lady who loudly shushes chatty people in movie theaters, but I never call them Beatniks.

Thanks to all of you who sent me ideas for this blog.  I now have a lot to think about and, no doubt, will be writing about quite soon. This week I’m writing another reminiscence at the request of my son. Next week while I’m on vacation, my wonderful great-niece, Grace Cheney, has agreed to fill in for me. I’m sure you’ll love it! 

I was once a beatnik. For a very short time, perhaps, but a beatnik none the less. Who remembers beatniks? The 1950’s non-conformist generation of men and women who wore sunglasses, dressed in black, often topping their ensembles with berets. They played the bongo drums and smoked a lot. The men had little goatees and the women didn’t tease their hair and wore it long. They read blank verse and listened to strange music in subterranean coffee houses.

At least that’s the picture I remember. The Beat generation was about twelve years before my own teenage angst. I fell somewhere between beatniks and hippies and flower children. But, quite honestly, I was really just preppy – or as preppy as I could afford to be.

Part of this dress style (the not-a-beatnik part) was due to the fact that my mother disapproved of black and made me wear make-up. Her feeling was that since other people had to look at me it was the least I could do. The other part (not-a-flower-child part) was that I never felt comfortable in long flowing skirts. They are not attractive on ladies with Clover Butt Syndrome which afflicted me and my sisters. I did a few years later have a pair of bell-bottom jeans to which I attached a colorful trim at the hem when they shrunk, but that’s about as radical as I got.

So in my dress, if not my politics, I was very conservative. Linda, my best friend, and I must have looked like fraternal twins much of the time. Pageboy haircuts (me, blond; Linda, black), Villager shirt-waist dresses, Bass Weejun loafers. We sometimes mixed things up a bit and wore A-line skirts with matching sweaters and knee socks. In no way could anyone have considered us ‘out there’ just by catching a glimpse.

This brings us to an afternoon at the Circle Theatre. The Circle was a wonderful movie theater. Located at 21st Street and Pennsylvania Avenue it ran old movies for the unbelievable price of $1 for a matinee and $2 for an evening show. Linda and I were frequent patrons. We loved old movies. They were great and uncensored. I mean to tell you I saw full frontal nudity for the first time when Hedy Lamarr ran through a forest in Ecstasy.

We loved the great Greta Garbo. We saw her in Grand Hotel and Mata Hari. On the afternoon in question (a strange phrase since absolutely no one has questioned me about it) Linda and I went to see Camille.

Now, remember, we were very young and not always the brightest bulbs in the chandelier. The theater was almost empty, a few people down front and one older lady sitting a couple of rows behind us. We watched the entire movie with rapt attention. As it neared the end there was silence in the auditorium except for the sniffles of the lady behind us. Greta lay dying of consumption with Robert Taylor at her side. It was dramatic. It was tragic. Then Robert spoke her name, ‘Marguerite’.

Perhaps our attention was not as rapt as we thought because Linda and I were stunned. We looked at each other and said in unison and quite loudly, “Marguerite? I thought her name was Camille!” At which the poor old lady behind us hissed equally loudly, “Shhhh! Beatniks!” So there you have it, my Jack Kerouac moment.

I never did become a Beatnik, but I have become an older lady who loudly shushes chatty people in movie theaters, but I never call them Beatniks.

Well, here it is Thursday morning and I’ve got no idea at all what to write about. I’ve checked all my groups on LinkedIn looking for ideas. I’ve asked my sister and my husband. I’m getting a bit panicky. Apparently I have a small, but loyal cadre of followers who look forward to my little musings on a Friday morning. Who’d have thunk it?

So here’s the deal. I’ve decided that a blog about writing needs to encompass a bit more than writing about writing. There is only so much I can think of to say about the actual process. As my book gets nearer to publication I will wax poetic, as they say, on the thrill of being an author. Until then, I think I’ve covered most of the nuts and bolts of ‘finding the time to write’.

I believe that I need to enlarge my – what do you call it? – my purview. Remembering this word took me ten minutes. This is why writing takes me so very long. I cannot remember nouns. I call it noun aphasia. I take comfort in the fact that I am one of many in my family afflicted with this dread disease.

A school girl once more

But back to business. My purview (this is a great word, isn’t it?) shall encompass not only talking about the writing process, but also actual exercises in writing. This weekly endeavor is wonderful discipline for me much like a school assignment. Actually, it’s exactly like a school assignment. I have a specific time constraint and I’m more or less graded on the content. As long as the stress doesn’t get to me and I become a Valium addicted zombie, I should be able to improve my writing skills.

However, I do apologize today. I’m afraid that this particular blog is not one of the exercises that show any meaningful improvement in my writing, but I’m sure it will come if you’ll stick with me.

In the meantime, I welcome any assignments or ideas for discussion, any grades B+ or above, and, most importantly, any delicious summer cocktail recipes, in lieu of Valium.

E. C. Stilson, a Goodreads friend, is hosting a Random Acts of Kindness Blogfest this week. Due to my impressive lack of time management skills, I was too late with my RSVP to participate in the event. But I really like the idea, so this week I’m writing about a Random Act of Kindness that was done for me once upon a time when I was just a slip of a girl.

The author and her little red car

When I was sixteen, I was the proud possessor of a really lovely red VW Beetle convertible. When I say really lovely, I mean it was mine and it ran quite frequently. It was a great car with a unique smell, sort of like creosote or, as some thought, L’air Du Dead Body.

My best friend, Linda, and I spent the summer of 1966 cruising around Washington DC to the sounds the Beatles and the Stones.  But Motown was our favorite that year. We sang along with Kim Westin’s Take Me in Your Arms and J.J. Jackson’s It’s All Right as we drove past the houses of various boys and ate at the Hot Shoppe’s drive-in. They were great days. 

As all interesting people do, the Bug had a few little eccentricities. The passenger door didn’t close completely, so people passing us were always waving, shouting, and pointing. This is not the Random Act of K. I am writing about, but it certainly was kind of all those people not to want my best friend to fall out of the car. She and I always smiled and waved in return and pointed out the rope that we had tied through the window and around the door frame to keep it closed.

And the convertible top was not user friendly in any way at all, so when it rained we usually just put up an umbrella.

The car kept running by some miracle and time moved on. By eighteen we were legal to drink beer and wine in Washington, so we did. We’d drive my little convertible to Georgetown, buy some incredibly cheap champagne and sit outside the Little Tavern (where we had gotten cups) and sip away. We’d sing Hey, Jude and think deep thoughts about how best to get the car to start again.

Cautionary note: If you are a passenger in a little red car and are holding a bottle of champagne, do not fiddle with the top. It might come off and ricochet around the interior hitting you in the head and the driver in the leg and making you both think you’ve been shot by passing motorcyclists.

In the fall Linda went to school and I went to work. I got my first real full time job at the Thomas H. Ryan Management Company located around 12th and New York Avenue downtown, a block from the Greyhound Bus terminal. I was a receptionist. I couldn’t type and wasn’t too hot at math, but I managed to answer the phones and write receipts for rents when tenants dropped them off. I excelled at being pleasant. This was entirely due to my mother who taught me to be polite at all times.

I often took the bus to work, but some days I would drive. The next summer a friend who also worked downtown was carpooling with me. He worked at an office building near Connecticut Avenue and 18th Street. I may be getting the exact location wrong – it was a long time ago – but you get the gist: a whole lot of rush hour traffic.

Now, my little car had one other interesting feature in addition to the aroma, the door, the convertible top, and by this point the iffy clutch and a reluctance to move in reverse. It had no gas gauge. Instead of a gauge those inventive little Germans added a really fun feature – an emergency gas tank. It had a lever on the floor just in front of the gear shift. Whenever I felt the car coughing to a stop when I wasn’t putting on the brake, I just flipped the switch and was good to go for another ten miles or so.

Now being one of a daring few who find it a challenge to wait until I can smell the fumes before I think about putting gas into my car, I used this feature fairly often. Problems arose, however, when helpful passengers would flip the switch for me and I would forget that I needed to get gas. Which brings us to a Random Act of Kindness. I think you can probably guess what’s coming.

Yes, one afternoon at about 5:30 my car came to a complete stop in the middle of the intersection at 18th and Connecticut. I remember freaking out when I went to turn on the emergency tank and found that someone else already had. I started laughing somewhat hysterically as cars began honking and traffic backed up. Then, of course, I burst into tears. I had no idea what to do. 

Suddenly a nicely dressed businessman appeared at my window and asked what was wrong. I told him. I must have looked so pitiful he didn’t even bother to tell me what an idiot I was. I think he must have had a daughter of his own. At any rate, he just smiled and told me to calm down. If I could just steer my old pitiful excuse for a car, he would push it with his really nice new one. I assumed he was just going to push me out of the way as a R. Act of K. to all the poor saps who were stuck behind me. But this total stranger with his really nice car actually pushed me for three blocks until we found a gas station. Then he waved and went on his merry way.

Of course, the little red car is no more. I now drive a super safe Camry with about fifty air bags and a dinger that lets you know if your door’s ajar. It has no smell. The Little Tavern is gone, but Linda is still my best friend. And I still remember a really, really nice stranger who took pity on a rather goofy girl when he didn’t have to and committed a much appreciated Random Act of Kindness.

E. C. Stilson, a Goodreads friend, is hosting a Random Acts of Kindness Blogfest this week. Due to my impressive lack of time management skills, I was too late with my RSVP to participate in the event. But I really like the idea, so this week I’m writing about a Random Act of Kindness that was done for me once upon a time when I was just a slip of a girl.

When I was sixteen, I was the proud possessor of a really lovely red VW Beetle convertible. When I say really lovely, I mean it was mine and it ran quite frequently. It was a great car with a unique smell, sort of like creosote or, as some thought, L’air Du Dead Body.

My best friend, Linda, and I spent the summer of 1966 cruising around Washington DC to the sounds the Beatles and the Stones.  But Motown was our favorite that year. We sang along with Kim Westin’s Take Me in Your Arms and J.J. Jackson’s It’s All Right as we drove past the houses of various boys and ate at the Hot Shoppe’s drive-in. They were great days.

As all interesting people do, the Bug had a few little eccentricities. The passenger door didn’t close completely, so people passing us were always waving, shouting, and pointing. This is not the Random Act of K. I am writing about, but it certainly was kind of all those people not to want my best friend to fall out of the car. She and I always smiled and waved in return and pointed out the rope that we had tied through the window and around the door frame to keep it closed.

And the convertible top was not user friendly in any way at all, so when it rained we usually just put up an umbrella.

The car kept running by some miracle and time moved on. By eighteen we were legal to drink beer and wine in Washington, so we did. We’d drive my little convertible to Georgetown, buy some incredibly cheap champagne and sit outside the Little Tavern (where we had gotten cups) and sip away. We’d sing Hey, Jude and think deep thoughts about how best to get the car to start again.

Cautionary note: If you are a passenger in a little red car and are holding a bottle of champagne, do not fiddle with the top. It might come off and ricochet around the interior hitting you in the head and the driver in the leg and making you both think you’ve been shot by passing motorcyclists.

In the fall Linda went to school and I went to work. I got my first real full time job at the Thomas H. Ryan Management Company located around 12th and New York Avenue downtown, a block from the Greyhound Bus terminal. I was a receptionist. I couldn’t type and wasn’t too hot at math, but I managed to answer the phones and write receipts for rents when tenants dropped them off. I excelled at being pleasant. This was entirely due to my mother who taught me to be polite at all times.

I often took the bus to work, but some days I would drive. The next summer a friend who also worked downtown was carpooling with me. He worked at an office building near Connecticut Avenue and 18th Street. I may be getting the exact location wrong – it was a long time ago – but you get the gist: a whole lot of rush hour traffic.

Now, my little car had one other interesting feature in addition to the aroma, the door, the convertible top, and by this point the iffy clutch and a reluctance to move in reverse. It had no gas gauge. Instead of a gauge those inventive little Germans added a really fun feature – an emergency gas tank. It had a lever on the floor just in front of the gear shift. Whenever I felt the car coughing to a stop when I wasn’t putting on the brake, I just flipped the switch and was good to go for another ten miles or so.

Now being one of a daring few who find it a challenge to wait until I can smell the fumes before I think about putting gas into my car, I used this feature fairly often. Problems arose, however, when helpful passengers would flip the switch for me and I would forget that I needed to get gas. Which brings us to a Random Act of Kindness. I think you can probably guess what’s coming.

Yes, one afternoon at about 5:30 my car came to a complete stop in the middle of the intersection at 18th and Connecticut. I remember freaking out when I went to turn on the emergency tank and found that someone else already had. I started laughing somewhat hysterically as cars began honking and traffic backed up. Then, of course, I burst into tears. I had no idea what to do.

Suddenly a nicely dressed businessman appeared at my window and asked what was wrong. I told him. I must have looked so pitiful he didn’t even bother to tell me what an idiot I was. I think he must have had a daughter of his own. At any rate, he just smiled and told me to calm down. If I could just steer my old pitiful excuse for a car, he would push it with his really nice new one. I assumed he was just going to push me out of the way as a R. Act of K. to all the poor saps who were stuck behind me. But this total stranger with his really nice car actually pushed me for three blocks until we found a gas station. Then he waved and went on his merry way.

Of course, the little red car is no more. I now drive a super safe Camry with about fifty air bags and a dinger that lets you know if your door’s ajar. It has no smell. The Little Tavern is gone, but Linda is still my best friend. And I still remember a really, really nice stranger who took pity on a rather goofy girl when he didn’t have to and committed a much appreciated Random Act of Kindness.

My sister, Chris, and me-Vacation 1960

Summertime! Every child’s favorite season. The season of picnics, lightening bugs, sparklers, Popsicles and staying up late. I remember well the family trips in a hot car to the beach or the mountains and the constant refrain of “She’s touching me” and “Are we there yet?” I remember also the constant counter refrain of “Stop touching your sister” and “You are all getting a spanking when we get home.” Though the threat was often repeated, I can remember only one time that we actually got a spanking when we got home and we really did deserve it.

An interesting highlight of these trips was stopping on the side of the road for ‘pee’ breaks. You boys

had it made, but this is no easy feat for girls. Someone’s shoes always got wet.

We didn’t have a radio, so we sang in the car. As my mother was the only person who could carry a tune, I can only think that this was cringe-inducing to anyone in earshot, but we loved it.

And the best part of the ride was laying in the well of the rear window where we could stretch out a little. We took turns. I can hear a lot of you shouting, “You did WHAT?”, but remember these were the days when safety meant the brakes were working. We didn’t have seat belts, no one had heard about car seats, and there really weren’t many cars on the road.

So what does all this have to do with writing? Well, summertime vacations are the essence of a special little story that my sister, Chris, and I had been collaborating on, but that somehow got put on hold while we got a lot of other things done. But now that Roses and Daisies is finished (or will be by close of business Friday) and she and I have a bit of free time, it’s definitely time for Christopher’s Vacation Wish to see the light of day. So for the next few weeks that’s what I’ll be working on.

Today I’m featuring some of my sister’s illustrations for three short stories that I have published on-line and a lovely little counting book, Counting My World (available by contacting me directly at www.pennypetersen.com). I hope you enjoy them. (Please forgive the formatting. This program and I are just not getting along!)

On Tuesday I visited a writing group at a maximum security prison. A group of young men who are in there for serious crimes are trying to make sense of their lives, trying to find a better path. We sat together and discussed writing. I was awed by the interest, the thoughtfulness of their comments and questions, and the courage of these men.

Think of it. They’re in prison and they’re taking part in an activity that even in grade school could get you laughed at. It must take an enormous amount of courage to come to this writer’s group, to try something new, to open themselves up and to put their own thoughts on paper for someone else to read.

They were so interested in all aspects of writing – the process, character development, discipline, outlining, something as seemingly simple as knowing when to quit for the day – it made me realize the value of sharing thoughts as I hadn’t before. I also learned, once again, not to judge a book by its cover (pun intended). Interesting ideas can come from anyone, from any background, in any circumstance.

I was absolutely humbled by the warmth of the reception I got and the fact that they actually listened to me as if I were a ‘real’ writer. And as I sat there I realized that I am a real writer and that I’d better respect that.

I wish these men so much success. Their lives may be limited by walls and guards, but not by lack of imagination or the ability to learn.

On Tuesday I visited a writing group at a maximum security prison. A group of young men who are in there for serious crimes are trying to make sense of their lives, trying to find a better path. We sat together and discussed writing. I was awed by the interest, the thoughtfulness of their comments and questions, and the courage of these men.

Think of it. They’re in prison and they’re taking part in an activity that even in grade school could get you laughed at. It must take an enormous amount of courage to come to this writer’s group, to try something new, to open themselves up and to put their own thoughts on paper for someone else to read.

They were so interested in all aspects of writing – the process, character development, discipline, outlining, something as seemingly simple as knowing when to quit for the day – it made me realize the value of sharing thoughts as I hadn’t before. I also learned, once again, not to judge a book by its cover (pun intended). Interesting ideas can come from anyone, from any background, in any circumstance.

I was absolutely humbled by the warmth of the reception I got and the fact that they actually listened to me as if I were a ‘real’ writer. And as I sat there I realized that I am a real writer and that I’d better respect that.

I wish these men so much success. Their lives may be limited by walls and guards, but not by lack of imagination or the ability to learn.

Well, I’m finally beginning to feel like I might be about to have a book published! The final edits and proof-reading are done and my publisher is asking me for things like a bio for the back of the book. (Who knew writing a short biography could cause so much angst?)

I say the final edits are done. Well, they are. I keep telling myself that. It’s a done deal. The book is finished. Really. Of course, I finally had to stop re-reading and just send the damned thing in, as my husband kept telling me to do. I probably could have rewritten most of the book and still found things I think I could have worded better.

On the upside of this task is the fact that computers make editing way easy. Thank God for computers. For those of us who remember manual typewriters, Ko-Rec-Type, Wite-out, and carbon paper computers are a true space-age miracle. I think everyone under the age of forty or so should have the privilege of typing a ten-page term paper and finding a paragraph left out in the middle of page one at three in the morning. I defy them not to go into hysterics and throw the typewriter across the room!

And think about those poor unfortunates of previous eras. I mean, just imagine some innocent sap in the fourteenth century slaving away at an illuminated page of the Bible for hours on end in a cold, damp monastery and realizing he left out a rather important not, as in thou shalt commit adultery. While a good time might be had by some who would love to adhere to this version, I pretty sure said monk’s boss wouldn’t find it amusing. Talk about hysterics.

But there is a down side – computers make editing way easy! No problem slipping that paragraph back in place or adding the all important not. However, I wonder how many times I would have rewritten the same sentence over and over, changed word placement that no one but I will ever notice, or find just the right adjective to mean the exact sort of ‘pretty’ I intended, if I had to hand write or re-type whole pages. And then I wonder if all of this tinkering actually made my writing any better. Maybe it made it worse. Sort of like changing your first answer on a test.

At any rate for better or worse – I’m going with better since there’s not much I can do about it now – Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My! is on its way to becoming a reality. And that’s pretty exciting. Come December you can be the judge of whether or not all the tinkering worked as well as I hope it did.

In the meantime I’m wiping my brow and saying “Phew, glad that’s done.” Edits finished, short story written, deadlines met – now back to my next book, Roses Are Dead, My Love before I forget just what I did with the Mickey Mantle autographed rookie card that’s causing so much murder and mayhem in Old Towne.

I can’t speak for other writers, of course, but when I write my brain seems to have a mind of its own. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? What I think I mean to say is that while one side of my brain has a definite idea in mind, the other side tends to roam all over the place. Case in point, a little ghost story for campers. Nothing too scary, no Carrie here. More Ichabod Crane. So…

It was a dark and stormy night and all the kids were sitting around the campfire. Someone said, “Come John, tell us a story,” so John began. Yes, good beginning. Sets up a nice scene, gives an inkling that some sort of horror could be lurking.

Too trite? Too obvious – dark night, thunder in the offing? Maybe I should go another way. A more normal kind of day, but still add a little something ominous. Okay.

It was a sunny afternoon and they were all sitting around the campfire. But where was John? All right, but if it’s a sunny day, they wouldn’t be sitting around a campfire, would they? They would be hiking or fishing or skinny dipping.

Hmm, how about it was a sunny afternoon and they were all sitting down to lunch. That would get them all together. Oh come on, no one wants to hear a story about lunch.

What would work? Rain. Rain is always mysterious. It was a rainy morning and they were all – what? what were they all doing? Obviously not sitting around a campfire. Rainy morning, stuck in their tents. Do they all pile into one tent, so John can tell a story? That wouldn’t be much fun. It would be crowded and would smell like wet gym socks.

How about changing it up a bit? It was a starlit evening with a soft breeze coming over the hill. John and friends were walking along the water’s edge? That’s nice. It’s soothing, idyllic, peaceful. John could tell a story about camping under the stars when he was a kid.

Or better yet, it’s just John and Mabel walking under the stars, holding hands, a nightingale’s singing in the distance. She looks into his eyes, immediately they know, he leans down and gently kisses her. Wonderful! Good start. I like it.

But will my audience like it? Sure. Who doesn’t like a nice love story? So this is it. John and Mabel falling in love on a balmy evening in springtime.

Wait a minute! What the heck have I done? John and Mabel? Love? Springtime? This is a ghost story – for campers! Delete, delete, delete!!!!! (The problem with computers is that you don’t have the dubious satisfaction of yanking the paper out of the typewriter, crushing it into a tight ball, and making a three pointer into the trash can.)

Okay. Back to the drawing board. Spooky camping story. Needs a good beginning. Something that sets the tone. A little eerie, with a hint of some nameless horror to come. Let’s see, I’ve got it! I think this will work. It was a dark and stormy night and all the kids were sitting around the campfire. Someone said, “Come John, tell us a story,” so John began. And so the process goes.

I can’t speak for other writers, of course, but when I write my brain seems to have a mind of its own. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? What I think I mean to say is that while one side of my brain has a definite idea in mind, the other side tends to roam all over the place. Case in point, a little ghost story for campers. Nothing too scary, no Carrie here. More Ichabod Crane. So…

It was a dark and stormy night and all the kids were sitting around the campfire. Someone said, “Come John, tell us a story,” so John began. Yes, good beginning. Sets up a nice scene, gives an inkling that some sort of horror could be lurking.

Too trite? Too obvious – dark night, thunder in the offing? Maybe I should go another way. A more normal kind of day, but still add a little something ominous. Okay.

It was a sunny afternoon and they were all sitting around the campfire. But where was John? All right, but if it’s a sunny day, they wouldn’t be sitting around a campfire, would they? They would be hiking or fishing or skinny dipping.

Hmm, how about it was a sunny afternoon and they were all sitting down to lunch. That would get them all together. Oh come on, no one wants to hear a story about lunch.

What would work? Rain. Rain is always mysterious. It was a rainy morning and they were all – what? what were they all doing? Obviously not sitting around a campfire. Rainy morning, stuck in their tents. Do they all pile into one tent, so John can tell a story? That wouldn’t be much fun. It would be crowded and would smell like wet gym socks.

How about changing it up a bit? It was a starlit evening with a soft breeze coming over the hill. John and friends were walking along the water’s edge? That’s nice. It’s soothing, idyllic, peaceful. John could tell a story about camping under the stars when he was a kid.

Or better yet, it’s just John and Mabel walking under the stars, holding hands, a nightingale’s singing in the distance. She looks into his eyes, immediately they know, he leans down and gently kisses her. Wonderful! Good start. I like it.

But will my audience like it? Sure. Who doesn’t like a nice love story? So this is it. John and Mabel falling in love on a balmy evening in springtime.

Wait a minute! What the heck have I done? John and Mabel? Love? Springtime? This is a ghost story – for campers! Delete, delete, delete!!!!! (The problem with computers is that you don’t have the dubious satisfaction of yanking the paper out of the typewriter, crushing it into a tight ball, and making a three pointer into the trash can.)

Okay. Back to the drawing board. Spooky camping story. Needs a good beginning. Something that sets the tone. A little eerie, with a hint of some nameless horror to come. Let’s see, I’ve got it! I think this will work. It was a dark and stormy night and all the kids were sitting around the campfire. Someone said, “Come John, tell us a story,” so John began.

And so the process goes.

I totally identify with that email that goes around now and then about the woman who goes to the kitchen in the morning, pours milk on her cereal, sees her car keys, remembers the bag of fruit she left in the car, dashes outside to get it, notices the dog’s paws are muddy, turns on the hose to rinse the dog, but sees that the petunias are drooping, turns to water them, glances at her watch and realizes how late she is. With car keys in hand she hops into the car and leaves for work. On her way home she smells something very odd the whole drive. She remembers the bag of fruit – really hot bananas. Upon arriving at her little castle she finds the front door open, the hose still running, the petunias washed away, the dog rolling in the mud, and a bowl of disgusting mush sitting on her counter attracting flies.

That’s me. Although I have no dog and the cats wouldn’t let me near them with a hose. Just a minute…Sorry. I’m back. Had to put in a load of laundry. Trying to find the time to write, even just a Friday blog, is quite a challenge for me. I hear the mailman… No very large check from the Maryland Lottery. Perhaps tomorrow.

Today I’ve been pretty focused. I managed breakfast and a trip to the salon for a haircut uninterrupted…I’ve got to get my iced tea. Where was I? Today. Yes, I started a craft project, a cute little cigar box jewelry box, but got sidetracked looking for feet and ate lunch instead. I read a book with lunch and realized I really need to be writing something. So I started a short story for Intrigue Publishing’s September conference. However, while I was at the computer I stopped to check something on my health insurance’s website. Which reminded me to call my daughter regarding my own website which is in need of an update.

Meanwhile, ever present in my mind is that four letter word – Dinner! Yes, I can count, but anyone who has made dinner most every night for going on forty-two years knows what I mean. It’s always there, lurking in my head. But dinner or not I have left my character, Angela Delphinium Forrest, standing on a street corner in Annapolis with her dog, Percy, and it’s really chilly! And she’s just getting over the flu. I need to get them home.

But the short story isn’t due for while, and I’ve promised myself I’d blog every week. So I’ll work on the blog. Excuse me, if I don’t make the bed now, I’ll forget and my husband will just fall asleep on the mattress cover.

I’m back. Now, iron will! I will get Angela and Percy off that corner before they are arrested for vagrancy or worse! I have absolute certainty that they will be well on their way home by five o’clock this afternoon. But first, just let me put the sheets in the drier and give my son a call. He’s not feeling well.  Okay. Back to work. Right after I trim this hangnail that’s bugging me silly.

I totally identify with that email that goes around now and then about the woman who goes to the kitchen in the morning, pours milk on her cereal, sees her car keys, remembers the bag of fruit she left in the car, dashes outside to get it, notices the dog’s paws are muddy, turns on the hose to rinse the dog, but sees that the petunias are drooping, turns to water them, glances at her watch and realizes how late she is. With car keys in hand she hops into the car and leaves for work. On her way home she smells something very odd the whole drive. She remembers the bag of fruit – really hot bananas. Upon arriving at her little castle she finds the front door open, the hose still running, the petunias washed away, the dog rolling in the mud, and a bowl of disgusting mush sitting on her counter attracting flies.

That’s me. Although I have no dog and the cats wouldn’t let me near them with a hose. Just a minute…Sorry. I’m back. Had to put in a load of laundry. Trying to find the time to write, even just a Friday blog, is quite a challenge for me. I hear the mailman… No very large check from the Maryland Lottery. Perhaps tomorrow.

Today I’ve been pretty focused. I managed breakfast and a trip to the salon for a haircut uninterrupted…I’ve got to get my iced tea. Where was I? Today. Yes, I started a craft project, a cute little cigar box jewelry box, but got sidetracked looking for feet and ate lunch instead. I read a book with lunch and realized I really need to be writing something. So I started a short story for Intrigue Publishing’s September conference. However, while I was at the computer I stopped to check something on my health insurance’s website. Which reminded me to call my daughter regarding my own website which is in need of an update.

Meanwhile, ever present in my mind is that four letter word – Dinner! Yes, I can count, but anyone who has made dinner most every night for going on forty-two years knows what I mean. It’s always there, lurking in my head. But dinner or not I have left my character, Angela Delphinium Forrest, standing on a street corner in Annapolis with her dog, Percy, and it’s really chilly! And she’s just getting over the flu. I need to get them home.

But the short story isn’t due for while, and I’ve promised myself I’d blog every week. So I’ll work on the blog. Excuse me, if I don’t make the bed now, I’ll forget and my husband will just fall asleep on the mattress cover.

I’m back. Now, iron will! I will get Angela and Percy off that corner before they are arrested for vagrancy or worse! I have absolute certainty that they will be well on their way home by five o’clock this afternoon. But first, just let me put the sheets in the drier and give my son a call. He’s not feeling well.  Okay. Back to work. Right after I trim this hangnail that’s bugging me silly.

Let’s talk about SEX. Specifically, if I write a mystery and add a little sex to it, can it still be a cozy? What, you thought I was going to talk about my sex life? Not so much. We’ll talk about Agatha Christie’s sex life.

No, I’ve been trying to figure out which genre my novel, Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My!, falls into. I consider it a Cozy Mystery. But would Agatha Christie agree? She was the master of the cozy. She set the standard – a nice little murder mystery with no on-screen (as it were) violence, no off-color language, and no sex.

Her sleuths seemed quite naive, but were actually pretty worldly and astute. The likes of Jane Marple and Hercule Poirot were never shocked for they were all too aware of the evil people were capable of. But it was all very civilized. They solved crimes with the use of ‘little grey cells’ and a deep knowledge of human nature. They never resorted to fisticuffs, car chases, or firefights.

Her books were filled with a lots of evil people who thought nothing of knocking off victims both innocent and not so innocent. Murder, often an alarming number of murders in any given book, was perfectly acceptable, but not in front of the reader!

Her stories contained no bad language, though they did have an awful lot of French, which I found annoying.

And, of course, no one was bed hopping. There were no steamy scenes. An Agatha Christie novel was suitable for anyone ten years old and up. Let’s face it, Agatha Christie knew what she was doing. She was writing for an age that liked to pretend that sex didn’t exist.

Fast forward to 2013. As a writer of cozy mysteries today, I have to ask myself if strict adherence to that template will work for me. I mean, we live in a time when sex is everywhere and really deplorable language has become part of everyday vocabulary, not that that’s a particularly good thing. It just is.

So how much sex and/or language can be inserted into a nice little mystery and it still be considered a cozy? In Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My! the sex is pretty much limited to a small dog who has no sense of appropriate behavior.

The woman who edited my manuscript found his behavior offensive and inappropriate in a cozy. Luckily, my publisher (Intrigue Publishing) agreed with me that Malcolm is just plain amusing. Yes, humping is not strictly Christie-kosher, but I think it works.

As to language, there is some in my book that you would never hear from a Christie character. It isn’t gratuitous. I didn’t add it for shock value. I think it all fits in with the characters. When people are angry, scared or stressed they sometimes say things they wouldn’t in other circumstances. But, again, according to my editor, not in keeping with the cozy model.

So I think what I’ve got is, perhaps, a Modern Cozy. There is still no on-screen violence. I personally think that is the most important aspect of the cozy mystery. I don’t think you can cross this line and still have a cozy.

But there is some amusing ‘sex’. And there are some references to adult relationships, but nothing at all overt. And there is a bit of language. But really, a ten year old can read Roses and Daisies and not be scarred for life. Actually a ten year old probably knows a lot more ‘language’ than I do and, I’m afraid, they might know more about sex.

So, what do you think? I’d love to hear from other writers and readers.

Let’s talk about SEX. Specifically, if I write a mystery and add a little sex to it, can it still be a cozy? What, you thought I was going to talk about my sex life? Not so much. We’ll talk about Agatha Christie’s sex life.

No, I’ve been trying to figure out which genre my novel, Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My!, falls into. I consider it a Cozy Mystery. But would Agatha Christie agree? She was the master of the cozy. She set the standard – a nice little murder mystery with no on-screen (as it were) violence, no off-color language, and no sex.

Her sleuths seemed quite naive, but were actually pretty worldly and astute. The likes of Jane Marple and Hercule Poirot were never shocked for they were all too aware of the evil people were capable of. But it was all very civilized. They solved crimes with the use of ‘little grey cells’ and a deep knowledge of human nature. They never resorted to fisticuffs, car chases, or firefights.

Her books were filled with a lots of evil people who thought nothing of knocking off victims both innocent and not so innocent. Murder, often an alarming number of murders in any given book, was perfectly acceptable, but not in front of the reader! 

Her stories contained no bad language, though they did have an awful lot of French, which I found annoying.

And, of course, no one was bed hopping. There were no steamy scenes. An Agatha Christie novel was suitable for anyone ten years old and up. Let’s face it, Agatha Christie knew what she was doing. She was writing for an age that liked to pretend that sex didn’t exist.

Fast forward to 2013. As a writer of cozy mysteries today, I have to ask myself if strict adherence to that template will work for me. I mean, we live in a time when sex is everywhere and really deplorable language has become part of everyday vocabulary, not that that’s a particularly good thing. It just is.

So how much sex and/or language can be inserted into a nice little mystery and it still be considered a cozy? In Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My! the sex is pretty much limited to a small dog who has no sense of appropriate behavior.

The woman who edited my manuscript found his behavior offensive and inappropriate in a cozy. Luckily, my publisher (Intrigue Publishing) agreed with me that Malcolm is just plain amusing. Yes, humping is not strictly Christie-kosher, but I think it works.

As to language, there is some in my book that you would never hear from a Christie character. It isn’t gratuitous. I didn’t add it for shock value. I think it all fits in with the characters. When people are angry, scared or stressed they sometimes say things they wouldn’t in other circumstances. But, again, according to my editor, not in keeping with the cozy model.

So I think what I’ve got is, perhaps, a Modern Cozy. There is still no on-screen violence. I personally think that is the most important aspect of the cozy mystery. I don’t think you can cross this line and still have a cozy.

But there is some amusing ‘sex’. And there are some references to adult relationships, but nothing at all overt. And there is a bit of language. But really, a ten year old can read Roses and Daisies and not be scarred for life. Actually a ten year old probably knows a lot more ‘language’ than I do and, I’m afraid, they might know more about sex.

So, what do you think? I’d love to hear from other writers and readers.

My job description:
Wife, mom, grandmom, sister – these are the jobs that make my life a good one
Cook, go-fer, bookkeeper, general domestic – necessary, but not much fun
Acorn TV fanatic, certifiable nature starer, dedicated mystery reader – keep me going
Writer – I thought this was a hobby, but it’s become a job!
And now, just as I am realizing I have no time for anything else, I feel the need to become a blogger.

Let me start with saying that when my husband, Tom, retired I had dreams of travel and dining in exotic places. We managed Florida a couple of times and a lovely week in Ireland. The novelty of unlimited time wore off and we fell into a routine. We had grandchildren. Well, not so much had – we certainly didn’t do the heavy lifting – as were given two beautiful grandchildren; Storm, a wonderful boy who came to us ready-made with the marriage, and Sophia, a beautiful girl who was born in order to keep Ninnie and Pop young and wear us out at the same time.

Tom had his hobbies and I had family. I decided I needed another outlet. Tom dared me to write a book and I did. I wrote a cozy little mystery called Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My! which I self-published as an eBook. It was all very relaxed and decidedly non-professional.

And then Intrigue Publishing made me an offer. I signed with them in December and became an actual professional author. Thanks to immense help from my son, Matt, the new, improved, edited Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My! will be released in paperback and as an eBook December 1, 2013. Wow!

But now, of course, I need to work at promotion. At this, I am not good. I am not comfortable. And I sometimes feel that I’m just too damned old. But I’ll give it a go. Blogging was suggested. This is something I have yet to understand fully. I mean it took me about an hour to figure out what a URL address is (thank God for my very patient daughter, Rachel).

I want to thank another Intrigue author, D. B. Corey, for pointing me in the right direction. His blogs echo so closely what I’ve been feeling that I figure I might be able to make this work, too. So here is the first installment of a weekly blog in which I hope to explore just how I can manage birthday cakes, babysitting, mentoring, grocery shopping, staring out the window, playing Words with Friends, fixing dinner, hosting wonderful company, caring for our ward, paying the bills and keeping up with Nashville, while at the same time turning out the next Daisy&Rose mystery.