Yolanda Renée—A GLAMOROUS LIFE

I asked Sia what topic she wanted for this post and this is what she suggested:  

"Remember they don’t see us in our ratty jammies, torn jeans, growling and cursing at everything, or with no makeup, and our hair looking like a herd of horses ran through it. Thank God for that, right? They see you as your author pic shows you and the online personality you've developed.
 "To your readers you’re a glamorous author. Okay, quit laughing," she wrote. 

I was laughing, because glamorous means exciting and desirable and my life is anything but exciting or desirable.

A framed picture from
Sia's office

I live in an old house in constant need of repair, go barefoot in the summer, and wear socks, sometimes several pairs, all winter. And yes, I write in my nightgown. Sometimes I'm so caught up in the process, it's afternoon when a knock at the door reminds me I'm half naked, still have bed head, and have forgotten to eat! Almost daily, I pick up socks from the living room floor, a discarded pair of jeans from a kitchen chair, and underwear from the most curious of places. My hubby has a habit of shedding clothes as soon as he walks in the door, and since I love him, I don't nag, at least not any more. He has to deal with my writing moods, and that's an even exchange for sure.

Just recently, I helped my son take an air conditioner out of his window and capture stinkbugs by the dozens as they sought the warmth of our house for shelter and hibernation. The word yuck, doesn't describe the chasing down of the little buggers or the smell if you accidentally touch them, and don't even consider smashing them. Their odor is almost worse than a skunks. We captured them in empty plastic bottles, where they suffocate in their own bouquet. Getting rid of stinkbugs is a horrid job and one that gives me the heebie-jeebies, simply because bugs are just so, so gross!

Does any of that sound exciting or desirable? Yet many folks see it all another way. I did too, once, after all authors are revered, not as much a rock stars or some movie stars (if you measure it by screaming hordes of fans) but they do appear as guests on television talk shows, act as consultants on movie shoots,  and the more successful ones have bank accounts in the millions. The pinnacle of success, money in the bank, and while it's a dream we all share, it's a vision few of us will achieve.

I'll bet the life of most writers is not far from mine. Therefore, while the life of a few of the most successful authors may be glamorous, most of us are just regular folk.

Although occasionally, something cool does happen, and it touches the ego, right where a writers ego needs to be touched. Just this week I handed a very nice lady my business card and a bookmark for my most recent release. I asked to speak to the manager, and told her about my book, and that I wanted to arrange a book signing. She gushed, and I do mean gush.

"Oh my gosh, you're an author. Really! It's so exciting to meet an author."

And I'm like, "It's so nice to meet someone who thinks so." I laughed, but it was.

At our favorite restaurant the other night, the cashier says to me. "Are you that book lady?"

So for me, in between scrubbing toilets, dusting, vacuuming, and laundry, I keep trying to convince folks that I've written a book they can't live without, therefore, while glamour would be nice, it's certainly not reality!

I'll know I've arrived the day I can hire someone else to do the mundane for me! I know, keep dreaming, but if all I get from my glamorous writing life is to be known as that book lady, I'll take it!

Well folks, that pretty much describes the glamorous life of this writer, what about you, what glamorous tale of success, or ego boost, can you share?


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

BUY:  AMAZON, B&N, KOBO

MEMORIES OF MURDER

Decades ago, the seeds were planted...

Today, dark, fathomless eyes rake the image before him. One final task and the transformation is complete. Steady fingers screw intricately carved horns on each side of a stiff brow, and a gargoyle suitable for Notre Dame scowls from the smoky mirror in satisfaction. A jagged smile rips through his smooth, hairless face, and inked, reptilian scales caress his naked body. A laugh of hideous resonance emanates from his gut as the demons of hell welcome Lucifer into their fold. 

In a dungeon-like chamber, his Lilith awaits. The kidnapped daughter of a nun, groomed to fit the final piece in the complex puzzle for world domination. Will Lucifer marry his bride, on the summer solstice?

Only two things stand in his way. His greed... ...and Detective Steven Quaid.  
EXCERPT

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

Yolanda Renée really wanted to be a drummer, or a racecar driver. Obviously she's neither, but they are on her bucket list, that, and owning her very own fire breathing dragon!

Renée claims to have always loved books, and that it was through books that she escaped and experienced all the things she'd only been able to dream about. Through the stories, the characters, and the places created by talented authors, such as Caroline Keene, Margaret Mitchell, and Stephen King. She now reads K J Larsen , Jennifer Hillier, Joanie McDonell, J D Robb, and well, pretty much everyone and anyone who gets their words in front of her! SHE LOVES BOOKS!

Renée says she's always been a writer, and that making things up gets her through the day - a crazy imagination is a good thing - right?

An adventurous spirit took Yolanda Renée to Alaska where she hiked the Brooks Range, traveled from Prudhoe Bay to Valdez, and learned to sleep under the midnight sun.

She claims her vivid imagination as a blessing, a habit, a hobby, a calling and sometimes a curse.

Renée now resides in Central Pennsylvania with her husband, two sons, and Boston terrier, Patches.

You can find Yolanda:

~ Defending The Pen ~ Facebook ~ Twitter ~ Pinterest ~ 

MEET QUINCY MAC--A MAID IN LA

My guest is Holly Jacobs who has written a fun story in new series she has decided to self-publish. Holly tells some heartwarming stories and usually employing a good sense of humor. I haven’t read one of her stories I haven’t enjoyed. This one, though, with a reoccurring central character who finds all sorts of trouble and mysteries to solve, well, I’m really going to enjoy reading this series.

I have written for a lot of publisher and a lot of lines, but all my books have had one commonality...they were romances. Some were comedies, some just humorous, and some very serious. But they all centered on two characters meeting, falling in love and overcoming obstacles in order to be together.

For me, things changed when I met Quincy Mac.  She is a divorced, thirty-eight year old mother of three teens.  She moved from Erie, PA (come on, if you've read my books, you knew I had to tie Erie into it) to LA, hoping to become the next big star.  Instead…she became a maid.

It might not be what she expected, but Quincy's built a wonderful life.    Until... (come on, you know there had to be an until!) the day she accidentally cleans a murder scene and a particularly hunky cop questions her.  Now, most people, even if they accidentally cleaned not only the murder scene, but also the murder weapon, would sit back and let the cops figure out who the real murderer is.  But not Quincy Mac. You see, she has an uncle who was wrongly accused of a crime and spent two years in jail before the cops figured out he was innocent.  Quincy can't go to jail.  She has three boys to raise. She's going to be maid-of-honor in her best friend's wedding. And she's absolutely sure she's not someone who's meant to have a tattoo.    So, she sets out to find the real killer.  As she does, she finds a potential romance with the cop who’s trying to send her to death row…talk about obstacles that need to be overcome!

Right now, Quincy’s story only available for Kindle.  (I hope to have it on other platforms sometime in the future.  And there are two more Maid in LA Mysteries…Dusted, which should be out this fall.  (This time Quincy’s not solving a mystery to keep herself out of jail, but to save her business’s reputation!) and Spruced Up (a Christmas novella—Quincy heads home to Erie, PA for Christmas and finds another mystery to solve!). 

 PS. Here are a few unbiased reviews:

“Hey, at least it’s not a romance.” ~Holly’s son.  

 
“Dear God, not another cop character.  Any police procedural inaccuracies are all Holly’s.  They are not the fault of her personal police models.  Of course, the fact that she portrays cops as hunks is totally accurate.” ~Holly’s husband and two brothers (aka...the cops)  

 *“Holly is a fantastic writing talent…not that I’m biased.”   ~Holly’s favorite daughter* 

 *“Holly Jacobs is an auto-buy for me.  Not that I buy her books…she gives them to me.”  ~Holly’s favorite daughter* 

 *“Holly makes me laugh…so do her books.”  ~Holly’s favorite daughter*  

 *DISCLAIMER: Holly has three daughters…she has no favorites.

                                                                                                                                                                                        

BUY; AMAZON

STEAMED-A Maid in LA Mystery

Cleaning is Murder on the Manicure

Quincy Mac went to Hollywood with stars in her eyes.  Twenty years later, she's not a star, but she's built a good life.  She's got friends, three boys she loves and a thriving cleaning business. That's right, she's a co-owner of Mac'Cleaners, LA's premiere maid service.

Her ex and his newest wife take the boys on summer vacation and Quincy's imagining a quiet night with ice cream and a chick flick.  She just has one last cleaning job to finish first.  But there's a problem...a dead body in the bedroom.

Turns out, she's steamed and cleaned a murder scene.  Quincy's a suspect.  She sets out to find the real killer before she ends up in prison for a murder she didn't commit. Excerpt 

                                                                                                                                            

BACK IN THE USSR

My guest is mystery/suspense author, Joyce Yarrow. Joyce shares a bit about the background of the latest book in her Jo Epstein Mystery Series, The Last Matryoshka, and the travel she did to give it an authentic feel. 

I had reached a crossroads in my story – actually Jo Epstein’s story. Her Russian émigré stepfather was being pursued by demons from his past that he refused to unmask. Jo’s job was to prove his innocence— the only acceptable outcome given the vulnerable state her mother was in—but Nikolai had made this nigh impossible. His irascible nature and reluctance to share even the most basic information – for example, that he had a sister still living in Moscow—was driving her mad. And just when she finds some clues that might exonerate him, Nikolai foils her once again by fleeing the country.

It was a given that she would follow him – after all, I’m the writer and had planned this all along. But nonetheless, I was not as ready for this transition as I might have been. With shelves crammed with books about everything Russian, and in particular the class of criminals known as the vory, I was as confident of accurately writing the scenes set in Russia as a first-time skier who has mistaken Mt. Everest for the bunny slope.

So I went ahead and bought tickets for my then 16-year-old son and myself from Dublin to Moscow.  We would take our family vacation in the United Kingdom and Ireland, and then my husband would fly back to the States, leaving Ian and me to embark on our adventure.

This was not the first time I had traveled “in Jo’s shoes.” Although I grew up in New York, I live in Seattle and it seems that while I wasn’t looking, someone turned Manhattan into a foreign country. Which was why--during the writing of the first Jo Epstein mystery, Ask the Dead—I took so many trips back home to update myself I would have used up all the visa pages had my passport been required.

Oh yeah – I was talking about Russia. Every place that Ian and I explored in and around Moscow—from the Mayakovsky Metro Station (I loved the Moscow Subway!) to the Suzdal Monastery and the Matryoshka factory in Sergiev Posad—every nook and cranny in the Soviet-style apartment we stayed in near the University—made its way into the book. We were even treated to dinner in a Georgian restaurant by a Commander in the Russian Criminal Police. He blessed the plot I had devised—yes, sometimes we writers do our research and get it right—and then gave me his cell number just in case I had further questions. How lucky was that? And it was fascinating to hear him talk about the days when the vory battled the police in a fair fight and everyone followed the code. No so today!

My son was very tolerant—although he did panic a little when the doors of Vladimir Central Prison clanged shut behind us—the first Americans ever to tour this fearsome place. His paranoia rubbed off on me and Jo ended up spending some unexpected time incarcerated there.

I could have finished The Last Matryoshka using Google Earth and without ever leaving home – after all, Robert Louis Stevenson wrote Treasure Island while he was confined to his bed. But being a neophyte in Moscow alongside Jo was too good a chance to pass up. How else could I have learned that to avoid being recognized as an American in Moscow all one has to do is carry a plastic bag instead of a backpack? Or that certain underground monastery cells were once used to imprison heretics? Where else could I have experienced the chaos of airports where queuing up is for sissies only? And how else could I have met the model for Nikolai’s mysterious sister, Olga, who he wrongly believed had betrayed his parents to the KGB?

• Have you ever traveled someplace you never dreamed of in order to follow your dream?

• What's your favorite "travel tip" for blending in with the natives?

***

Available in hardcover and ebook 

The Last Matryoshka by Joyce Yarrow


A poetry-writing private investigator tries to save her Russian stepfather....

Full-time private investigator/part-time poet Jo Epstein travels to New York and eventually to Russia to help clear her emigre stepfather—who is framing him for murder and who is sending him threatening messages in Russian nesting dolls (matryoshkas). Her investigation takes her on a journey into her stepfather’s past and into the honor-bound code of the “vory,” a Russian criminal syndicate. Excerpt Book trailer

"Intricately layered like the Russian nested doll of the title..." Library Journal

Buy: Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Istoria Books

***

Joyce Yarrow was born in the SE Bronx, escaped to Manhattan as a teenager and now lives in Seattle with her husband and son. Along the way to becoming a full-time author, Joyce has worked as a screenwriter, singer-songwriter, multimedia performance artist and most recently, a member of the world music vocal ensemble, Abráce.

Joyce is a Pushcart nominee, whose stories and poems have been widely published. Her first book, Ask the Dead (Martin Brown 2005), was selected by The Poisoned Pen as a Recommended First Novel and hailed as “Bronx noir”. Her latest book, The Last Matryoshka, takes place in Brooklyn and Moscow. It was published in hardcover by Five Star/Cengage and is now available for Kindle through Istoria Books. (www.IstoriaBooks.com)

Joyce considers the setting of her books to be characters in their own right and teaches workshops on "The Place of Place in Mystery Writing."


You can find Joyce on Facebook and at her Website.

You can read more about Joyce Yarrow’s writing journey, her P.I. brother, her childhood in the Bronx, her use of place as character in her books: http://istoriabooks.blogspot.com/2012/02/joyce-yarrow-from-crime-ridden-bronx-to.html

***

Look at other Istoria Books offerings here: http://www.istoriabooks.com

Istoria Books: eBooks You Want to Read at Prices You Want to Pay

HOLIDAY STORIES: SECRETS OF CHRISTMAS

Wednesday:  I will be interviewing JESSICA BELL. Interesting interview from an interesting woman. Be sure to stop by what she has to say about growing up as a daughter of Rock musicians, her furry baby, Holly, and what she's working on next.


TODAY:  I have another holiday story for you to enjoy. Crime doesn't take a holiday and neither does tragedy but the moments of joy still prevails in this world and that's a good thing.


Carol Kilgore contributed this Christmas suspense story. Carol hails from San Antonio, Texas and writes a fun blog, Under The Tiki Hut. She writes mysteries and suspense novels with a nice dollop of romance.


Enjoy the story, I sure did! 

The occupants of the dark house had gone out for an evening of fun at Syntagma Square--the place to be in Athens the week before Christmas. Greek Christmases were nothing like what Katia Marengo had grown up with on the South Texas coast, and she loved the excitement. The air frosted her breath. Her coat and cloche hat offered a little disguise, and the chill allowed her to wear close-fitting leather gloves. All were perfect for breaking and entering.

The small house was home to a minor Turkish diplomat and his family. Kat had become friends with the diplomat's wife, the chatty and careless Yagmur. The test came now. Kat inserted the key she'd made from an impression. She'd aced that class during training, but each time she used an impressioned key in the field, she experienced a moment of panic. The key turned. Yes!

The aroma of mint greeted her. She pressed on the tiny LED lights fitted into the brim of her hat. As long as no one had changed the alarm code she was home free--7, 6--crap. The edge of her glove hit the 3. Clear. Once again, this time more controlled--7,6,9,1. Green light. Thank you, Yagmur.

Yagmur had said Ediz had two safes. He thought the first was too obvious. She didn't say where they were located. Kat would search first in the master and second in the kitchen, the two most likely locations.

She found one safe set into the master bedroom wall behind a painting. Obvious. Where would she install a second? She'd want easy access without a hint of anything different from the surroundings. The tiled floor. On her hands and knees she explored each exposed tile and all the grout, then the ones under the bed, chest, and chair. Nothing.

"Oh!" In the chair or chest. By having the safe in his personal belongings, Ediz would need to install it only once as it would travel with him from posting to posting. She found the second safe, with a keycard lock, in the bottom drawer of the chest. The CIA prepared its officers well--she came ready for any type of device and withdrew a plain black card from her messenger bag.

She inserted the card into the slot. "Do your magic, Houdini. Spring that lock."

While the software on the card worked to unlock the newer safe, she exposed the older safe behind the painting. That one looked as ancient as the house. For grins she tried the old lever handle. It didn't budge.

Kat studied the single old-fashioned combination dial, memorizing the setting. No smudges, threads, or other alerts. She pulled a stethoscope from her bag. It trailed a USB plug that she plugged into a handheld computer.

She spun the dial a few times to the left and twice to the right. Then she placed the stethoscope monitor to the metal near the lock and turned the knob one number at a time. Her fingers felt the first tumbler fall. The computer beeped and recorded the number. She turned the knob to the left and concentrated. The computer beeped again and recorded the second number.

Her shoulders ached. She stretched and relaxed her fingers before going for the third number. Houdini emitted a soft trill. She checked the safe in the drawer. Empty.

"Ediz, you are a clever fox. But I'm going to find your secrets."

Kat returned Houdini to her bag and went back to the old safe. "Okay, baby, Mama's back. Show me your stuff." She turned the dial and hoped the old safe wasn't booby-trapped. Maybe Ediz had a third safe.

An eternity passed. Inside her gloves, sweat formed on her palms. Her mouth grew dry, and she tried to swallow. Beep. No boom. Kat breathed again.

"Ediz, you better not have booby-trapped the handle."

She pushed down. The door opened to Ediz's secret stash. Papers typed in Turkish. Four Greek passports with photos of Ediz, Yagmur, their children--his safety net. Yagmur's jewelry. A man's Rolex. She removed the watch with her left hand and pulled its twin from her bag with her right. She studied them under the light.

Ediz's timepiece was more worn than the replacement, but not by much. Nothing her little hammer and pick couldn't replicate with a few minutes work. The same number of links filled each band. The back of Ediz's watch bore no engraving for her to match. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Kat placed Ediz's watch in her bag and its replacement in the safe, closed the door, reset the dial. Her return visit on New Year's Eve would take less than five minutes.

Outside, she walked to the nearest thoroughfare with a confident stride, her head held high. She hailed a taxi. "Syntagma Square."

The driver nodded, and started the meter. She would arrive early for her meeting with Dave Krizak in front of the carousel. Amid the noise and bustle, she would pass Dave the Rolex.

Dave would be the case officer to take the watch into the Embassy for the installation of the stealth transmitter. Ediz was to be part of a delegation to Tehran in January. The transmitter would give the U.S. ears without outside embellishment.

The taxi screeched to a stop. Kat paid the fare and stepped out. Ahead she saw Dave paying his driver.

The world exploded in a fireball.

Kat hit the sidewalk.

When she came to and sat up, chaos reigned. People shouted and screamed. Sirens wailed. Her bag still hung around her neck. Houdini, the tiny computer, and the Rolex still rested inside. Dave. Where was Dave?

The stench of burnt rubber and flesh hung in the air. Several bodies lay motionless on the blackened street and sidewalk, curled in the fetal position, charred. Kat threw up in the gutter.

Worst case, she was a target. But the explosion had made it her responsibility to get the watch to the Embassy. The Hard Rock Café was a few blocks away, and she would find taxis there.

- - -

The next day, Kat arrived at Langley. In the two years since the bombing, she'd been back to the Agency once--on this date last year--to touch Dave's star on the Memorial Wall. To tell him goodbye.

Technically she was on long-term leave, still paid but not yet working. As she'd fought her way back to the living, she'd leaned on Remy Sonnier, the instructor who had taught her--as he said--stealing for fun and profit.

He'd called her one day, said he was moving to Corpus Christi, and would like her to help him find a place. Not for one minute did she think his presence was coincidence. The Agency was keeping an eye on her. She'd gone from Remy's star student to his current assignment.

She pulled into his driveway and got out. Along the South Texas coast, the balmy mid-December weather was nothing like Athens. It matched her happy mood. She was getting better. It felt good to smile, to laugh. Kat pushed the front door open and stuck her head in. "Remy! Are you home?"

"In the kitchen, cher."

She passed a Christmas tree decorated with Mardi Gras beads and ornaments shaped like shrimp, crab, and alligator and giggled. Her Cajun friend brought the bayou to Texas with everything he did.

"What smells fabulous?" She entered the large square room centered with a wooden table and benches.

"Gumbo. It's not ready." Remy returned the lid to the pot and wiped his hands on his apron. "How you holding up?"

"I'm good. Really good."

"I knew you would be, cher. I have something for you. I'll be right back."

Kat walked to the window. Sun diamonds danced on the green water. Kat's stomach growled at the pungent aroma of the gumbo. "Remy, you want me to stir the pot?"

"Don't touch it."

A minute passed, and she heard footsteps behind her.

"Merry Christmas, Kat."

She spun around. "Dave?"

He nodded. "It's me."

She touched his face, the scar that traveled from his hairline, in front of his left ear, and down his neck beneath his collar. "I can't believe you're alive. I was there, I--"

"Sshh." His finger touched her lips. "I read the debriefing. I know."

"But your star--" Burn scars mottled Dave's hands.

"Belongs to another officer."

Another family, other friends saddened by death. Life wasn't fair, but in the last two years, Kat had learned to accept and-- "Remy?"

"He didn't know until last week. He said he's going fishing for a little bit so we can catch up and I can tell you what's new."

The old excitement returned. "We're working again?"

Dave smiled. "You and me, babe. Remy also said for you to keep your hands off his gumbo."

Kat laughed. "Merry Christmas, Dave."

~*~*~*~

If you enjoyed the story, do give a gift to the author by sharing it.

STORIES ARE LIKE PUPPIES

It’s my pleasure to have, Deborah Coonts, visiting with us Over Coffee. She describes her writing as “sexy, wry, romantic, and slightly naughty mixed with a little murder and mayhem—shaken, not stirred—then illuminated by the bright lights of Las Vegas.”

She is an overnight success—by way of 15 years of bad writing and learning her craft. Sounds familiar. :-)

So how did she find her voice and style? What made this story worth publishing where her other stories weren’t. Deborah shares a bit about her journey to publication.



For a long time I wanted to be Sandra Brown. Okay, I didn’t actually want to be her, I just wanted to trade jobs with her… and paychecks…and, well, maybe wardrobes, but that’s all, I swear. But, have you seen her husband? He was the sports guy on Channel Eight when I was growing up---serious crush. Sandra was the weather girl. The weather girl and the sports guy, it’s great isn’t it? I couldn’t write it as well.

As it turns out, I can’t write like Sandra Brown either.

Oh I tried. My first romantic suspense effort was an international intrigue mish-mash of long-winded backstory, a plot with more black holes than a Star Trek movie, purple prose and nauseating descriptions. Absolute drivel. I’m pretty sure I’ve destroyed every copy. I’d rather find myself naked on the Internet than have anyone read that thing.

My second effort was a bit better—something about a small town Colorado lawyer, single parent with a small son. Curiously, I was a small town Colorado lawyer on my own with a small son. To say the whole story bored me is a gross understatement. Writing it was like Groundhog Day. Didn’t I just do this? Didn’t my son just say that? My life wasn’t nearly exciting enough to live it over and over.

But, I had no more stories. Nada. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. The well was dry.

Briefly I thought of resorting to mind-altering substances to jump-start my muse. We all know about those creative personalities, don’t we? But as a tax lawyer, creativity was a go-straight-to-jail card. And that whole single-parent thing didn’t mesh too well with a life spent in an alcohol-induced haze. So I did what everybody in that position does: I took a job doing something I had absolutely no idea how to do and for which I was peculiarly unqualified.

I became a humor columnist for a national magazine.

I know, what was I thinking? I can’t tell you how many times during those years I asked myself just that. But, I kept churning out columns that were EXACTLY 1100 words. And I learned. I learned to write tight. I learned what was funny. Actually, I learned more from being scolded when readers thought what I wrote WASN’T funny AT ALL. I learned I am way more hambone than I ever imagined. And I rediscovered my infatuation with a good belly laugh. I’d forgotten. But, I still didn’t have a story.

Until I threw everything out the window.

Every rule I’d been told about writing novels, every suggestion, the whole write-what-you-know-thing, the wanting-to-be-Sandra-Brown thing, which was an example of the write-what-you-read thing, all of it, out the window. I opened my heart…and nothing but the wind blew through. Oh, I felt lighter, unfettered, a veritable ball of iconoclastic optimism, a renegade writer waiting to be told what to do. Yup, still hadn’t quite gotten the point.

One summer afternoon, I was sitting on a bench at the Grand Lake Lodge on the west side of Rocky Mountain National Park. The sun balanced on the mountain range to the west. The air was still. I could hear the hummingbirds zinging by. The day had quieted. Even the boats on the lake bobbed at anchor, their engines silenced. I shut my eyes and leaned by head back, luxuriating in the warmth of the fading sun. Softly, a voice whispered through my brain. The voice belonged to a young lady named Lucky O’Toole and she wanted to tell me her story. I smiled as she talked and I imagined her world—a huge resort/casino on the Las Vegas strip. I imagined her history—a mother who ran a brothel, of course. Hey, it’s Sin City, right? And her best friend—a straight female impersonator who just wants to get the girl. Would he have trouble? How would women perceive him? How would Lucky respond to a guy with better legs than hers?

Just like a puppy picks it’s owner, MY story found me.

The minute I began listening and taking notes, I became the author equivalent to the Whoopi Goldberg character in Ghost—listen to one character and all of a sudden there were hundreds shouting to be heard. All of them were like puppies wanting to run in any direction other than the one I wanted, peeing on my foot when I’m not listening, refusing to budge until I give a little and go where they want to take me. They’ve taught me to trust my instincts, go with the flow. Since that day, it’s been my sincere delight to be able to herd them into a novel, then a sequel, and a third. Now, a fourth is coming together.

You know what’s funny about the whole thing? I had written the first line to what became WANNA GET LUCKY? five years before Lucky whispered in my ear. It was there all along, but I hadn’t listened… hadn’t found the courage to listen. I mean, humorous first-person stories are devilishly difficult. What kind of nut tackles that right out of the box?

This kind of nut, as it turns out. It turns out I’m not Sandra Brown; I’m me. Who knew?


Are you trying to be someone else? What story is in your heart, but you are afraid to write?

LUCKY STIFF (Hardcover 368 pages)


Lucky O’Toole—head of Customer Relations at premier megaresort the Babylon—thinks its just another night in Las Vegas. A tractor-trailer has spilled its load of millions of honeybees, blocking not only the Strip but the entrance to her hotel…The district attorney for Clark County—apparently the odd man out of a threesome on the twelfth floor—is hiding in the buff in one of the hotel’s laundry rooms…And Numbers Neidermeyer—one of Las Vegas’s less-than-savory oddsmakers—is throwing some major attitude at Las Vegas’ ace private investigator, the beautiful Jeremy Whitlock.


The next day, Lucky discovers Ms. Neidermeyer had been tossed into the shark tank at the Mandalay Bay Resort as a snack for the Tiger shark. When the police show up with a hastily prepared search warrant, applied for by the district attorney himself, and Jeremy lands in the hot seat, Lucky realizes her previous night was far from routine.


Amid the chaos of fight weekend, the Babylon’s hiring of a new, eccentric French chef, and her madam mother’s scheme to auction off a young woman’s virginity, Lucky is drawn into a deadly game that will end only when she discovers who made fish food out of Numbers Neidermeyer.


Lucky O’Toole and fabulous Las Vegas—life doesn’t get any better. Excerpt

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My mother tells me I was born a long time ago, but I'm not so sure--my mother can't be trusted. I do know that I was raised in Texas on barbeque, Mexican food and beer. I currently live in Las Vegas where family and friends tell me I can't get into too much trouble. Silly people. I have owned my own business, been a tax lawyer and a flight instructor, and have survived a teenager. And now, I make stuff up for a living.

Each day I sit in the front window at my favorite Panera and play with my imaginary friends. My SO is a psychologist and he tells me that many of his colleagues would consider me an annuity. I can live with that. Thankfully, he can too.

I write a mystery series set in Las Vegas--funny, sexy and romantic. I've been told they are comedic thrillers--sounds like an oxymoron to me, but you get the drift. The first in the series, WANNA GET LUCKY?, came out May 2010. The second, LUCKY STIFF, will be available February 15th, 2011. With the third, SO DAMN LUCKY, to follow.
 
You can find Deb: Facebook, Twitter, and her Website
 

A Glutton For Punishment

A chance to win a copy of Skating Around The Law.

My guest is comedic mystery author, Joelle Charbonneau. Joelle has worn several hats in her career; performer in a variety of Operas, Operettas and Musicals, teaching acting classes and private voice lessons, wife, mom, and now author. Joelle is still teaching voice lessons and sings for the occasional professional event.

Performing made her very familiar with rejections and how to handle them as well as learn lessons from them. She talks a bit about that with us.



I must be a glutton for punishment. That’s the only explanation for my career choices. I’m a professional singer and actress. I might even dance for you if you pay me enough. All are fields filled with rejection. So, of course, I decide to pursue the next obvious choice - an author.

What was I thinking? Well, to be honest I’m not sure I was thinking at all. Becoming an author was never one of my childhood dreams. I was a reader not a writer. Then one day, I sat down one day with an idea for an opening line for a novel in my head and I started writing for my own pleasure. To see if I could. To see what would happen next.

What happened next was that I learned I liked the challenge of filling a blank page. (Yep, there’s that ‘glutton for punishment’ theme again.) So, I decided to try to write a real book. Once that book was done I decided to start submitting it to editors and agents. That’s when the rejection started. I wrote another book. More rejections.

Funny, but my other professions made me ideally suited to the rejection that inevitably comes along with writing. Sure, there are some writers who get their first manuscripts published. (This was so not me. It took me five attempts to finally get the call.) But even those published-out-of-the-gate writers get rejections on later manuscripts or in the form of bad reviews. Rejection is something that comes with the territory. And I traveled lots of that not so happy territory.

I am not one to count or keep all my rejection letters, although the idea of creating a bonfire with them and roasting marshmallows to soothe my wounds was more than a little tempting. It is hard being told that your work isn’t what someone is looking for. In fact, it hurts. A lot.

Funny, but I’m really grateful for those rejections. (Go ahead and throw tomatoes. I’m good at ducking.) They made me a better writer. They also gave me time to figure out what kind of stories I really wanted to write. See, when I started writing, I decided I was going to write emotionally driven women’s fiction. Perhaps because some of my favorite books are ones that tug at my heart strings and make me cry. Well, I tried. I really did. I wanted to make people sigh and weep and feel as if the author was a close friend who understood their problems. Some of my best author friends are fabulous at making me read with a box of tissues close at hand. I wanted to be them when I grew up.

Instead, I wrote about a dead body in a roller rink toilet, an ex-circus camel that wears hats and a grandfather that is looking for love in all the wrong places. Yeah – so much for growing up into a hard-hitting women’s fiction writer. Trying to become one was like putting a triangular peg into a round hole. A miracle girdle hasn’t been invented yet that could squash me enough into the right shape and size. The agents and editors who read those attempts probably understood that.

Today, I sit behind my computer screen and write whatever off-the-wall thing pops into my head and I enjoy every minute of it. I am also proud of every rejection that I got along the way. They created the writer I am today.

• What's the best advice would you give an aspiring writer?

Write an entire book. That seems simplistic, but it isn't. It is the very first step in the process. If you have an idea for a story, write it. Get to the end. Then you can figure out what your strengths and weaknesses are. Many writers get so caught up in making their writing perfect that they never get to the end of a novel. They are too busy revising the beginning. Often, once the novel is written, the beginning changes or gets cut. You won't know if this is true for you until the book is written and you know where the story is going. Once you have the book finished, I recommend joining a professional writing group like RWA to help improve your writing and help you learn the business.

Bread, Butter, and Bad Kitties

I'm pleased to have award winning author, Michael Wiley, as my guest today. He wrote The Last Striptease (St. Martin’s Press), which won the coveted Private Eye Writers of America and St. Martin’s Press prize for best first private eye novel in 2006.

I make no secret of the fact I like good detective stories. As a kid I read Mickey Spillane, much to my mother's horror, I loved Mike Hammer, PI. I also loved Philip Marlowe, PI. I graduated to Robert B Parker's books and Spencer.

It's funny how certain characters draw a reader more than another. While I enjoyed Spencer as a hero, I had a crush on Hawk. Why? He was a dark hero. That edge of danger, the knowledge he had lived and seen the really bad side of life, yet he had a goodness about him. Hawk had standards, a code, which as a reader I respected. You knew if Hawk was there, you'd be safe. I like characters like that.

I haven't read Michael's books yet, but I am waiting impatiently for The Last Striptease for the same reason. Characters that are good, bad, and ugly; in other words, interesting and real.

Michael talks with us about moral ambiguity and what draws him to writing characters where the lines between good and bad are a bit hazy.

In the mid-1970s, when I was fifteen, I wasn’t sure which song was more romantic, “Everything I Own” by the bubblegum band Bread or “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed. If Bread’s soft melody and promises to give up “my life, my heart, my home” just to “have you back again” clearly set the right mood for making out with my girlfriend in my parents’ basement, I suspected that Lou Reed’s hookers and hustlers knew things about life and love that the members of Bread would never know. Even at my most uncertain teen aged moments, I was pretty sure that I didn’t want to live like Lou Reed’s characters, but the characters fascinated me. I knew that they wouldn’t be caught dead with a Bread record and if they were spending time in a basement it wasn’t in their parents’ house and they were doing more than making out.

I grew up but I didn’t grow much wiser. I live a pretty Bread-ish life. I’m happily married to a woman with whom I gladly share “my life, my heart, my home.” Our friends are varied but over the years even the biggest misfits among them either have drifted away or have settled into middle-aged complacency. Many of them are in relationships in which they also share life, heart, and home with spouses or partners. But I still like Lou Reed’s – still like the danger, the edge, and the sex that Lou Reed conjures in it – still listen to it from time to time, while my Bread records disappeared sometime around 1980.

Moral ambiguity interests me. When I write, I try to catch the ambiguity­ that I’ve experienced and that, if my readers speak truthfully, seems to be a common human characteristic. In my books, I take this ambiguity further than I live it myself. I write about men and women who know the pleasures, safe as they may be, of committed lives, hearts, and homes, but are drawn by forces inside or outside of them to danger and crime. They enjoy being home with their families but find themselves in rooms with murderers and deviant lovers. Worse, they find themselves enjoying the company. “Whoops!” they think later, as they shower off at home, “how did that happen?” And the next day it happens again.

So, in my new novel, THE BAD KITTY LOUNGE, my hero, a private detective who looks like Lech Walesa from the Solidarity days but with abs and no moustache, struggles as hard to reconnect with his ex-wife as he does to find the killer of a nun. But he messes up. Time after time. And others in the book mess up too: the nun, the detective’s ex-wife, his new partner. These characters put themselves on roads of goodness but the roads take them to various kinds of hell. But my hero eventually does catch the murderer and he does find his way to life, heart, and home (even if they don’t look like what he initially has imagined).

Moral ambiguity excuses nothing, of course. But it explains a lot. I believe that most people, even people who do very bad things, are essentially good or would like to be. That’s not to deny that some people are truly evil. I know a few of them. But purely evil characters are tiresome – less interesting in works of fiction than characters who, like the rest of us, possess both good and bad. So, the characters in my books take walks on the wild side. They get hurt. Some recover. Some die. And for reasons that I can’t fully explain, that pleases and satisfies me as both a reader and a writer.

Bad Kitty Lounge

Greg Samuelson, an unassuming bookkeeper, has hired Joe Kozmarski to dig up dirt on his wife and her lover Eric Stone. But now Samuelson has taken matters into his own hands. It looks like he's torched Stone’s Mercedes, killed his boss, and then shot himself, all in the space of an hour.

The police think they know how to put together this ugly puzzle. But as Kozmarski discovers, nothing’s ever simple. Eric Stone wants to hire Kozmarski to clear Samuelson. Samuelson’s dead boss, known as the Virginity Nun, has a saintly reputation but a red-hot past. And a gang led by an aging 1960s radical shows up in Kozmarski’s office with a backpack full of payoff money, warning him to turn a blind eye to murder.

At the same time, Kozmarski is working things out with his ex-wife, Corrine, his new partner, Lucinda Juarez, and his live-in nephew, Jason. If the bad guys don't do Kozmarski in, his family might.

Excerpt

• What kind of characters do you find satisfying as a reader or a writer? Good? Bad? Somewhere in between? Why?

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Michael Wiley is the author of The Bad Kitty Lounge (St. Martin’s Press, March 2010) as well as The Last Striptease (St. Martin’s Press), which won the Private Eye Writers of America and St. Martin’s Press prize for best first private eye novel in 2006 and was nominated for a Shamus award in 2008. He is writing a third novel in the series, which features Chicago Detective Joe Kozmarski, as well as a stand alone mystery, which is set in the wetlands of northern Florida.

• Michael grew up in Chicago and has lived and worked in the neighborhoods and on the streets where he sets his Kozmarski mysteries. He now teaches literature at the University of North Florida in Jacksonville. As part of this other life, he has published books on Romantic Geography (Macmillan-St. Martin’s Press) and Romantic Migrations (Palgrave Macmillan). No one shot at him when he was writing either of them.