Murder She Writes

Sorry for the rather profane, if censored, heading, but I really don’t much like television. And the whole TV world has given me yet ANOTHER reason NOT to like it with the new reality show, More to Love.

Ah, Fox television. I have a love/hate relationship going on with them. Everybody loves American Idol, and even though I haven’t watched since the third season, I think it’s still a fun premise. And a great way to discover untapped talent. And being a dance aficionado, I LOVE that they have the hit show, So You Think You Can Dance, on their network. It’s proved a huge hit, and the dancing is incredible every week. I adore it.

P.S. Vote Jeanine. She is DA BOMB. She’s fighting short legs and no natural turnout, and still LOOK at her dance. Beautiful.

But back to the topic at hand. More to Love is built on the premise that the average American woman is a size 14, and the average female reality television contestant is a size 2. Okay, they still have me. Except… They are making a HUGE deal of these women being “big.” They post their weights! They have them cry on television about how they just want love even though they are “big.” In short, they are not treating them as if they are average. They are treating them as if they are HUGE.

Average is not normal in LaLa Land, so surely it’s not average in the rest of America, right? Puhleeze.

I suppose I can’t expect TOO much from a network that, a few years back, did a search to find overweight, frumpy, plain women, then spent a few months torturing them with plastic surgery, extreme exercise, major dental procedures and isolation from friends and family, all so they could turn them into a swan. A swan with a serious need to get out an AK-47 and mow down some doctors, television producers, and health trainers. Thank God that show didn’t last too long. I think ONE season….

Sadly, maybe that show, The Swan, really WAS reality. When we see larger-sized women in a show like More to Love, we call them big. We think they have not had any luck getting a date, let alone a date, because they are “big.” How many times have you heard “she has such a pretty face, but…” If we don’t all look like a SWAN–Size 2, Winsome, Attractive, Naughty/Nice–then we are not, what, real?

Does being a size 12 make you any less real than someone who is a size 6? I would say it makes you a little more real, but then someone would think I was making a joke at their expense. I suppose in some ways I am.

My own.

My battle with weight did not start until I was in my thirties, and then it became a constant fight. I had some health problems, was given some controversial medication, gained too much weight, and I have fought it ever since. I am not HUGE, nor I am considered morbidly obese, but I am a size 12, just down from a size 14. I am exercising daily, eating a high-protein, low-fat, low-carb, low-calorie diet, and my goal is a size six. I have been a size 2, and I liked it.

I don’t really like me the size I am.

Is that because the world has spent so much time convincing me that something is WRONG with the size I am?

Maybe. But with More to Love, I feel lied to and cheated, and manipulated. Don’t go to these HUGE lengths to show me I am average, just to tell me that you were KIDDING. You’re not average.

YOU ARE BIG. I guess that’s a nice way of saying fat.

What a stupid show.

Anyone else bothered by this?

It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.

That’s right: role play with SWAT.

Sure, I know, it’s a day away from writing, a day away from the kids, a day away from email, but somebody has to make the sacrifice, and because I wouldn’t want to force this on anyone else, I stepped up to the plate.

I volunteered to be a victim. Yes this is my foot.

Ouch

This was my second role playing adventure. About five weeks ago, I participated in a tactical training as a “bad guy”–or, more accurately, as the white trash wife of a drunk pedophile who was harboring his cousin the pimp and the pimp’s underage girlfriend in the house. I learned a lot from the day–and even picked up the term “Mental Muscle” from my new pal in the Air Force, Tyler, who played “Billy” the pimp. It’s a phrase I’ve already used in ORIGINAL SIN, I loved it that much. (Basically, you practice and drill and run exercises until you can do it right the first time, on “instinct” and without hesitation.)

Yesterday’s drill was far more extensive than my first time. And for me, as a writer, it was even more valuable than the first.

Descending upon the former McClellan Air Force Base in Sacramento, California were seventeen SWAT teams from local law enforcement in Northern California. Run by the FBI and supervised by FBI SWAT Leader (and all around great guy) Brian Jones and run by the joint task force. (I believe this because the SWAT officers supervising the drills were from both the FBI and other law enforcement. But however they did it, it was very well orchestrated.) The teams were there for extra training, and could pick four of eight realistic scenarios (such as a sniper, officer down, and my drill–a school shooting.)

Just to set the stage: there were 250 SWAT guys in 17 teams, plus about 30 running the drills and 20 of us as “role players.” Role players come from interns in law enforcement, students in criminal justice classes, and people like me, graduates of the FBI citizens academy.

My scenario was a school shooting. I was a non-ambulatory but stable victim. Others had more serious injuries, or less serious injuries. The purpose of the drill was to put SWAT in a real-life, real-time situation (without real ammunition–they use paint pellets, but they hurt I’ve been told!) in order to train with “real” victims. One trainer said that role players are invaluable because when they run situations like this with just a shooter, once the shooter is down, they’re done. In real life, there is far more going on–clearing the scene, triage, civilian panic, etc. So the drill was two part–secure the scene, then deal with the victims until EMT arrives. SWAT is not extensively trained in triage, though many SWAT members are former military or have some basic medic experience. But handling a downed soldier is far different than a panicked civilian.

We were staged at various positions throughout the “school.” There were serious (abdomen) injuries and less serious injuries. And my pal Larry had a small “boo-boo” on his face that he declared loudly and often was bleeding and he needed medical attention now. I was placed in a doorway where I had a visual of a girl being “gunned down” as SWAT rounded the corner. I was told to scream until I was hoarse, and that if anyone touched my injured leg I was to scream in pain. Only two SWAT teams of the six actually touched the wound (and yes, I did scream in “pain.”)

As a side note, every SWAT team is a bit different in how they approach the scene and, for my purposes, how they handled triage. Two teams actually bandaged my GSW in the field with gauze and tape. One put a tourniquet around my thigh, but didn’t touch the wound itself (so I didn’t scream at him.) Two teams had me put pressure on my wound with my hand. One got me up quickly and into a staging room within the “school” (as opposed to the medic staging area outside the “school”) and had me sit until everyone with more serious injuries were dealt with. Of the six teams, two secured a room for victims, and four took the victims from the scene starting with ambulatory, then moving to non-ambulatory–most serious injuries first.

Triage after area is secure

Okay, another aside–hands down, if you’re ever held hostage in Northern California, you want Citrus Heights SWAT to be in charge of your rescue. Though I was the last victim to be removed from the scene, it was the smartest move (in my opinion) because I had a non-lethal injury. They were fast, they knew what they were doing, and they WERE IN CHARGE. They did not hesitate, they lit the shooter up, they quickly cleared the rooms (ALL the rooms) and assessed injuries without debate. Kudos to them! (All the teams did well, but this one just stood out head and shoulders above the rest. The last team that did the drill was above average as well, but I don’t remember who they were. It was late.)

How does playing these games help me as a writer? I know it’s not real, so while I’m excited and have a shot of adrenaline when gunfire ensues, it’s hard for me to know exactly how I would react in a real situation because my mind knows it’s not real. The only hint of what I’d really do (if I wasn’t given a verbal “script” to follow) would be to hide. When the first gunshot rang out, my instant reaction was to crawl into the room I was blocking and curl up in the corner. Make yourself a small target. But then I thought, what if someone I loved was injured? I think back to my oldest daughter’s surgery when she was two and I realize I would probably do what I did then–be a big girl, calm, collected, in charge, and then when I knew she was okay, break down in tears.

But the point is, everyone reacts different to the stimulus–not only the victims (some compliant, some panicked; minor injuries and major injuries)–but the SWAT teams. As a writer, the most valuable part of the exercise was not the scenario itself (though that was the most fun and the most exciting!) but the walk-through. After the drill, the trainers walk through with the team and ask them what they were thinking, why they did this or that, how they decided which formation or tactic to use, etc. As a role-player, I got to listen in to the conversations and heard first hand what they were thinking and why they did what they did. What’s running through their mind has me thinking what runs through the minds of my characters when placed in hostile or dangerous situations. These are trained cops–they are not idiots. They know what they’re doing. But sometimes they hesitate because of things we might not think about.

Such as liability. Two of the teams mentioned liability as a point of hesitation in firing upon the shooter. Because if he survives, he may sue. And if he doesn’t survive, his next of kin may sue.

I really had to think about that. I asked about it, and one true story that emerged related to an EMT unit. They were sued because they didn’t tend to a severely injured suspect during a shooting–where the scene was still hot–and instead tended to a downed officer. The suspect died and the next of kin sued saying the EMT should have treated them on scene. Fortunately, the case was dismissed because the code says that if a suspect has not been searched and cuffed, EMT are not required to give medical attention. And because the scene was hot (meaning there were still bad guys out there) there was no way for law enforcement to get to the suspect, search and secure him, and get him to the EMT in a safe zone. Considering that a bad guy might have a gun, might take a hostage, and was seen shooting a cop . . . well, the rule makes sense.

There are a lot of gray areas. Do you shoot a guy who’s holding a gun to his head? Do you leave the wounded in order to secure a scene? When do you shoot and when do you hesitate? SWAT is trained extensively on knowing how to identify the bad guys, but today one civilian was shot (grazed) because he pulled out his cell phone as SWAT came through the main doors.

We all know cops who are assholes. Who wear authority like a right to be worshipped. Some should be forced to resign because they give the majority of good cops a bad name. But watching them in action you realize that the choices they face on a daily basis might give them the right to a little bravado. They face life and death choices every day. In traffic stops that far too often go bad. In school shootings where they are facing victims and shooters who could be the same age as their own children. In robberies, car jackings, break-ins, kidnappings, rapes and murders. They’re the ones who tell a mother her son was killed; they’re the ones who step into a hostile domestic violence situation to try to diffuse it; they’re the ones who usually are first on scene at an accident or murder. They are not only responsible to keep themselves alive, but their partner. Not just their partner, but other cops. Not just other cops, but innocent by-standers. The rights of criminals are–rightfully–protected by our Constitution. But cops deserve the same rights and consideration as the bad guys. And, frankly, a little bit more. They’re putting themselves on the front lines to protect people like us, to protect our rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And in doing that, many are shot, killed, disabled. So I’ve cut them a little slack when I see the attitude, because honestly? They deserve it.

Next up, I’m going to Quantico in September. I could tell you it’s research for the Lucy Kincaid series (which it is) but I had the trip planned before I sold the series, so it’s also because I think it’s going to be a blast. I can hardly wait!

Now, to be perfectly selfish . . . CUTTING EDGE went on sale this week. This is the third book in my FBI Trilogy and the spark of the idea came from the domestic terrorism presentation during the FBI Citizens Academy. A special agent discussed a case he worked where there was an FBI informant in a domestic terrorist cell (eco-terrorism) and his respect and admiration for the informant really hit me. It got me wondering why would someone become an informant? Who are they? What do they grow up to do? Who do they become? How does it affect them . . . not just being an informant, but betraying people they know and care about? What, if any, life-long repercussions are there? And asking myself those questions, I came up with Special Agent Nora English.

Some of you might have already heard, I lost my dad recently. July 12th, to be exact, the day after his 94th birthday. Although he’d been sick off and on for about a year, Dad loved life and hated to let it go. We were fortunate to be at his bedside when his body finally said, “Sorry, old buddy, like it or not, we’ve gotta go.” His passing was peaceful and quick, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful.

Dad was an extraordinary man. I say that not just because I’m his daughter but because of the effect he had on everyone he met. It didn’t matter if it was a man, woman, or child, when someone left Dad’s company, they left laughing, smiling, or more confident in themselves and/or the challenges they faced. Without question, the legacy he left behind was his life and how he lived it.
Through example, Dad taught us—

– You can achieve anything in life if you’re willing to work hard enough to get it.

– You learn a thousand times more by listening than you do from talking.

– Say what you mean and mean what you say and always look a person in the eye when you do it.

– Physical pain is just a road block in life. It’s not an impenetrable wall.

–Don’t take yourself or life too seriously–it’ll all change tomorrow anyway.

–It’s a guarantee that stuff will come about in life and knock you down, but the only thing that can keep you down is you.

–Success in life has little to do with material things. Real success is living life on your own terms.

–Life might have rules, but that doesn’t mean you have to live those rules just like everybody else.

–Stay true to yourself no matter how unconventional that may appear to the rest of the world.

–If you make a mistake, don’t keep beating yourself up over it–learn from the damn thing and move on.

–Self pity is a useless emotion that’s not worth your time.

–The cheapest thing in life is an excuse.

–Offer advice only when asked. Otherwise you’ll wind up only talking to hear yourself talk.

–Patience doesn’t mean sitting back and waiting for life to toss something good your way–unless you’re sitting in a deer stand! Patience is really a synonym for tenacity–being patient with yourself whenever you have to push past something that feels immovable, knowing one way or another, you WILL get through it.

–Loving family doesn’t mean loving them only when they conform to your way of thinking. It means loving them for who, and sometimes in spite of who, they are.

There were truly so many wonderful things to learn from this remarkable man’s life. My only regret is not having asked Dad for one last piece of advice– How does a daughter move on once her hero is gone?

I guess I’ll have to figure that one out on my own. And I have a feeling that as difficult as some of life’s lessons have been so far, this one may be the toughest of all.
deb

I probably shouldn’t admit this because I’ll be inundated with requests, but I like judging contests. I think I learn as much from critiquing a new writer as the new writer (I hope) learns from my critique. One of my favorite contests to judge is the Maggie because there is no pesky evaluation form, just a one page anonymous critique. A few years ago, I judged an entry titled Dollface and I knew in, oh about the fifteen words, that this writer had the chops. And then some. After a rave critique, I did something I rarely do…I signed my name and told the author I’d love to meet her. And when this lovely woman introduced herself to me at the Moonlight & Magnolias conference, I liked her in person every bit as much as I did on paper. But, you know, me being me, I couldn’t stop at just liking her. I dragged her to an agent. I pushed her from behind. I promised her a life of happiness and joy and self-actualization as a published author. She was…hesitant and humble, a choral conductor, a professor of music education at a major state university. Not a novelist. I pressed on. She was just too good to let go.

Fast forward a few years (here we are last week in DC) and I am given the honor and pleasure of reading an ARC by Grand Central debut author Kate Brady. Dollface is now One Scream Away. My friend Kathy is now Kate. But everything I loved about that contest entry is right there on the page: compelling voice, supersonic pace, textured characters, spinetingling suspense. But even better – I get to finish the book! (And blurb it!) Oh, and sleep with the lights on.

I am so thrilled to see fantastic writing like this get recognized and published, and so delighted to welcome talented, funny, humble, sweet Kate Brady not only as a special guest to the MSW blog, but to the wonderful world of writing. (Happiness! Joy! Self-actualization! Sing it with me!) She’s here from her home near Atlanta to tell us all about her “unveiling” and give away a free copy of One Scream Away to a random poster. Pay attention to this lady — I think we’re going to see great things from her!

Coming Out

Thanks so much to Rocki and all the incredible Murder She Writes authors for having me here. I imagine the folks on this site already know, but I’ll say it anyway: Roxanne St. Claire, aside from being writer-extraordinaire and most-fun-to-sit-with-at-any-dinner-table (ask what she does to make sure the waiter pays attention), is the best cheerleader in the business. I’m honored to share this space with her. I’ll never quite understand how I got so lucky to get names like Roxanne St. Claire and Allison Brennan on the cover of my book, but I try not to question it. I’m afraid I’ll wake up.

Over the last few weeks, people keep asking what it’s like to have my first romantic thriller in stores. And I have to say, my overwhelming emotion is relief. Up to now, you see, my writing has been done in secret; only my closest friends and family knew about this clandestine pastime in which, essentially, I play with imaginary people. Even fewer knew I was murdering them. It wasn’t until I sold the first two books that I started to fess up, and you know what? It’s been like a dark, weighty cloud lifting.

In the first place, I’m no longer inclined to fudge the truth to acquaintances when they casually ask on the phone, “Whatcha doin’?”

“Oh, just some housecleaning. Scrubbing toilets, you know…”

For years I imagined my neighbors whispering behind my back, wondering why my house doesn’t look better when I clean so much. At times I’ve wanted to grab them by the lapels in front of my weed-riddled garden and cry, “I write! In every spare moment! That’s why I haven’t weeded. That’s why the pizza delivery guy was here again last night. That’s why my kids are wearing the same clothes they had on yesterday. There’s a killer loose on my computer…”

In the second place, I no longer feel compelled to conceal my research. Consider the Favorites list on my computer. Oh, there are some innocuous things… A recipe for salad with prosciutto and caramelized pears and walnuts. (Yum.) A file on training new puppies. (Ours is now eighty pounds and gaining.) Collections of favorite kitchen floor tile designs, backyard landscaping ideas, and remodeled kitchens. (Hope springs eternal.)

But there’s also a document on the twenty-six stages a body goes through after death. Another about nitric acid burns on flesh. There’s a list of street names for opioids and the going price to buy them. Pointers for making murder look like suicide. Tips for crafting a gun silencer or making a Molotov cocktail.

And consider some of the questions I’ve Googled lately:
• How many hours until maggots hatch on dead flesh?
• Will a .38 hollowpoint exit the skull from close range?
• How long until chloroform wears off?

Then there are the conversations in restaurants. I’ll never forget one time when my critique partner and I were discussing the ins and outs of a murder when a nice-looking man—who turned out to be an off-duty police officer—came to our table. “Ladies,” he said, and introduced himself. “I overheard a little of your conversation…” Needless to say, we came clean with him, but deep inside, I had to wonder if he’d heard that excuse before. Yeah, right, lady. That’s a good story. I looked over my shoulder for police all the way home.

Another time I came home and hit the message button on my answering machine. It was my critique partner, shouting over the traffic and bad connection on her cell phone. “Kathy?” she said, “I just need to know: How do you get nitrites off your hands? Will they just wash off with soap and water? Call me.” I laughed when I heard the message. And was really glad no one else had been around to hear it, too!

Yes, after years of cautiously guarding the history on my laptop, speaking in hushed tones, and making sure no one’s listening when I check messages, I now have a real-live romantic thriller out there. With that comes a new sense of freedom: the ability to point at something tangible, in print, and say, “That’s why I learned to shoot a 9mm Glock. Honest.” That’s my story, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.

So, what about you? Has your interest in fiction ever meant you had a little explaining to do about something on your computer, in your life, on your mind? Am I the only one who worries what people are thinking? Because basically, I’m a nice, normal person. Honest. Check out my site at www.katebrady.net if you don’t believe me.

One commenter will receive an autographed copy of One Scream Away. And if you like it… Well now, what would that say about you?

I’m presently coming off back-to-back two weeks of cons — RWA Nationals and Comic-Con. To say I’m wiped out would be an understatement. However, it was all lots of fun. RWA with friends and CC with my family (though both definitely qualified as work). But… now it’s time to get back to writing. I’ve taken a few months off — it was absolutely wonderful and necessary — so I know getting back into the groove won’t happen overnight. It’ll take some planning. This leads me to contemplating how prolific I’ve been in the past and what I need to do to get back into that mindset. Quite a few things have changed over the last few years and I can’t help but wonder how many of the changes might be affecting my ability to hit “the zone” as regularly as I used to.

First, my writing hours. When I started my career, my daughter was an infant and my son was in afternoon kindergarten. I could sleep in most days and stay up very late at night. Writing until the wee hours of the morning worked for both me and my daughter. I still find myself having bursts of creativity just before I fall asleep, but I’m no longer tapping into them because I have to get up early.

Second, I moved locations. I used to have my office upstairs in the loft. Now, I have an office downstairs in the den/bedroom vacated by my stepson when he left for school. I thought the larger, dedicated space would be conducive to writing (I set it up according to the principles of Feng Shui, too), but maybe not? It’s a high traffic area — adjacent to the family room and across the hall from the downstairs bathroom. The loft, while open, was up and away.

Third, I’ve been blessed to write for multiple editors/publishing houses. Styles and demands were different for each one. I’ll be honest and say that I’ve been very valuable to some and not so much to some. For me, it’s very hard to get excited about a project while feeling like my editor/house isn’t. The mental/emotional stumbles set me back a bit in the creativity department. I think I’ve recovered, but maybe my mindset was tweaked enough to slow me down indefinitely? Can’t let that go on. This is a tough business. Picking yourself up and dusting yourself off is a necessity for a career author.

Fourth, the internet. Yikes. It’s a major time suck now and it wasn’t before. I keep trying to brainstorm ways to stay instantly available to my editors and agent without being plugged in all the time. I haven’t figured it out yet, but I really need to. I know if I can disconnect, I’ll get a lot more done. Any suggestions? The phone is fabulous, but not a viable solution for full-time.

Fifth, the gym. I used to go three times a week. Now it’s closed and I don’t go. I’ve gained lots of weight and I know that’s a factor I need to address in order to get back into peak creative (as well as physical) form.

What other things affect creativity and production? If you’ve taken an extended break, how did you get back into the saddle again? Have you ever found that returning to an old routine brought the magic back?

Not! I’m still flying high from the RWA National Conference in DC last week! I have more stories bouncing around in my head then I can ever write. I met more awesome women then most girls meet in ten lifetimes, and I had more fun than anyone had the right to have.

I L.O.V.E. National! I love the pulse, the passion, the vibe and the energy. It’s at the top of my favorite-things-to-do list. The ladies at RWA National do an amazing job. They deserve a two-week paid vacation on a tropical island with hot hunks waiting on them hand and foot for their Herculean efforts. If there has ever been a glitch (that debacle of a Rita ceremony in Reno several years ago aside…) I didn’t feel even a ripple.

There are detractors of RWA, and they have their reasons, but I am not one of them. I am a fan, even when, like, hmm, they tried to censor covers a few years back. Wasn’t that the same year the Rita ceremony was…ah, never mind, that’s old news. And I’m not one to dredge up old news. The past is the past and thankfully, most of us learn from it. And here’s the other thing, if I was that unhappy with the way the organization was run, I’d do something about it. Yep, I’d step up and run for a National board position. Or volunteer for a committee.

A few years ago, I was cornered at the Atlanta con to run for president of my local chapter. The current prez was terming out, and so was the board. New blood was desperately needed. I stepped up because my chapter needed a president. And trust me, I wasn’t going quietly. I dragged my good friends with me. We had a great run and made a good chapter great. When it was time to recruit the next prez there was really only one person in the chapter that I thought had what was needed to carry the torch. She didn’t hesitate when I asked her to run for president. And like me, she dragged her friends along with her. She guest blogged here yesterday. Sophie Littlefield. SFA-RWA is in very capable hands. I feel that way with the national board. Talk about time consuming?! Dayum. It’s like having another full time job! Forget deadlines! And for many of them, they get grief. I’d like to take this opportunity to challenge those who have issues with RWA or any other organization they are a voting part of to zip the lips and step up.

It’s like politics. When people bitch about our elected officials I’ll ask, “Who did you vote for?”

Typical response: “Oh, I didn’t vote.”

Well, I guess then you got nuthin’ to bitch about. You want things to be different? Make it happen. Show, baby, don’t tell. And that’s about all I have to say on the matter. Except to say, if I’m honest, I’ll admit I had no idea this was the turn this blog was going to take when I began writing it, but it did, and I’m not going to write something else. I believe in RWA, on all levels, and while I know it isn’t perfect, we need fresh ideas, fresh minds, and fresh blood to keep it the vibrant organization it is. So, be a fighter, not a complainer, and volunteer for something. Even if it’s to make the raffle basket for your local chapter.

Soooooo? When was the last time you volunteered and what was it for??

Sophie Littlefield’s a recovering housewife from the California suburbs who wrote a whole lot of stories before creating Stella Hardesty, the middle-aged rural renegade heroine of A BAD DAY FOR SORRY, which hits the shelves August 4th. She has a young adult novel coming out next year from Delacorte – and just between us, there may be a zombie or two in that one.

I got a chance to meet Sophie at RWA and wow, Andrea Sisco was right–she is awesome. It was especially cool that I got to witness her very first autograph of her very first book, EVER. Please give a warm MSW welcome to Sophie!

by Sophie Littlefield

Thank you so much to Toni for the invitation to join you guys! This was especially cool because it came out of one of those “hey, there’s someone you should really meet” encounters that started with one friend and skipped along like a stone on a pond as I got introduced to a string of incredible and supportive women. (Hey, Andrea! Waving!)

I’ve been attending writers’ conferences for quite a while now, and you’d think that I might have learned some manners in the process, particularly when it comes to interacting with Famous Authors. Unfortunately, I tend to react the same way now that I did when I first spotted Susan Elizabeth Phillips across the room at a long-ago RWA National conference and had to sink into a chair, short of breath, digging furiously in my purse for a soothing and restorative Dove chocolate square.

Lately, the problem is getting worse.

For instance, I’ve had a chance to speak on a few panels about writing. Which is cool and all, except invariably the rest of the panel is composed of ridiculously talented, impressive authors and all my carefully composed thoughts go right out the window. A while ago I found myself sitting three feet away from amazing/charming/smart/funny Allison Brennan and I just wanted to ask her if I could get her some more water or unwrap her Smarties for her.

On that same trip, I had an appointment with an editor, and I found myself standing in the lobby of the Random House offices. In, you know, New York Freaking City. Oh. My. God. I think I started hyperventilating. They have these huge three-story tall bookcases filled with first editions of books going back decades. There are people striding purposefully in and out of the building who are clearly thinking deeply literary thoughts. I’m pretty sure they were all literati, probably Pulitzer nominees who refuse to appear in People (which is why I didn’t recognize them). I was asked to show my ID at the desk, and I wanted to blurt out “Really, I swear I’ve written a heck of a lot of words!”

At industry events, well-meaning people introduce me to Famous Authors. You’d think I’d develop some moves after a while, right? Nope, I’ve got a standard response down pat and it goes something like this:

Famous Author: Congratulations on your upcoming debut!

Me: uh. Umm, mmm.

Famous Author: So what’s it about?

Me: Oh. Ah, there’s this. Mmmm. (long silence)

I’ve got this really great tradition I started at a conference over a year ago – every time I attend an industry party I spill a glass of wine on somebody, and it’s always the most well-known person in the room. I mean, every single time. It’s gotten so I really think it would be best to walk into the room and do a quick scan of the room to find the most famous person and grab a glass from the nearest waiter and dump it on them…you know, just to get it over with.

Oh, and I also have a talent for meeting famous people in bathrooms. Last year I ran into – and I mean turned around and plowed into – a truly legendary editor, a woman whose name is always whispered in reverent tones, who’s led the literary charge for literally decades and decades. I’m a tall gal who’s built kind of like a linebacker and this lovely lady is an elegant wisp of mature chic, and if her assistant hadn’t deftly whisked her aside I probably would have knocked her into the sink. Then there was the time I was so excited to see a favorite author on the night she won a special award that I cornered her in front of the stalls and babbled away with great enthusiasm until she begged me to let her do what she’d come to do. Um, and then I hugged her. Hard. Cause I was just so caught up in the love, you know? 

I enjoy asking my favorite authors to sign books for me – and I still get completely tongue-tied. I went to see a thriller writer I’ve admired forever – I’ve read all of his books, some twice – and when it was my turn at the front of the line, he asked me to whom he should sign the book. I couldn’t quite seem to get my own name out, and after a few unsuccessful tries I could see him resetting some internal sensor and he began speaking to me the way you’d speak to a lost five-year-old in the mall food court. He was kind and patient and chatty and politely ignored my pained silence and lack of social skills and maybe that is why, as I was lurching away, clutching my book in my clammy hands, I blurted out “I’m a writer too!” The look on his kind and handsome face as his assistant guided me away was a kind of mournful pity…

I mean, sheesh, “I’m a writer too?” I kicked myself for days after that, convinced I was the biggest loser on the planet. I actually had to turn his books around in my shelves for a while so I wouldn’t have to look at the spines, which were painful reminders of my unutterable social clumsiness. But time heals, and after a long recovery I was able to crack the pages of the new book with only a mild feeling of nausea.

In a very short while I’ll be signing my own debut book. I’ve heard lots of stories and cautionary tales and I’m completely prepared to sit at lonely tables talking to myself and eating Lorna Doones, but I’ve got to figure that eventually someone will buy the thing and ask my to write in it. Here’s my great fear: that some lovely person I’ve known all my life will come up, book in hand, and I’ll be overwhelmed and forget their name. It could be my own sister standing there and I’ll be like “Hey, uh….cute shirt.” I was planning to use the “er, how do you spell your name again?” thing except an experienced writer explained that every time you do that the universe changes that person’s name to Pat.  P-A-T.

So, do the rest of you ever commit gaffes around your favorite authors? For you famous gals, does it ever get any easier? I’ve got a party coming up so chime in with any and all tips…

I think I vaguely remember when summer was a time we longed for–a great trip somewhere, lazy days, time in the water, barbecues, playtime with friends . . . obviously, this doesn’t last for anyone that long. Even teachers, these days, are sucked into summer sessions, and the work world hardly recognizes the change of seasons and college quarters may be never ending.

Still, I was excited about summer this year. It meant that Chynna would be home from college, and the water would be warm. All right, I live in South Florida, but we do have seasons, contrary to popular belief. Summer is when you know the water will be warm and that you can actually go in most pools whether they’re heated or not. (Frankly, winter is when we easily recognize the tourists, because they’re in the water. Usually, whether they are or not, we refer to them as Canadians.) Summer is recognized by the fact that you can count on a storm sometime during the day, you can usually count on it going away, and you’re actually excited about it because it means that the air will cool down for about an hour.

This year, it has simply meant that my house and home arena have become Grand Central station. I have been to New York, California, New York, and Washington, Maryland and Key West since summer began. They were all wonderful. Bryee-Annon has come and gone. She’s heading to Hawaii tomorrow. (Why wasn’t that one on MY itinerary?) Chynna has come and gone, with me, and without me. I don’t even know how to make a dinner reservation anymore because I’m not sure where I am or who is with me.

I’m grateful, of course. A lot of these trips have been business, but there’s nothing wrong with business when you get to see a lot of friends, learn great new information, and go interesting places. But coming home isn’t all that evening.

Last night, I walked in, and even for me, it was terrifying. I’m not known for organization or neatness in any way, but the seven suitcases in the living room and the clothing tossed about from all of them was daunting, even for me. I walked into the kitchen and thought that something had been massacred on the breadboard. Turned out just to be a pack of my wigs–borrowed when some of the kids had a costume party in my absence.

They don’t all live at home. I have suffered the empty-next syndrome, but in the midst of it, I’m left wondering how it all comes about. It’s not really an empty next at all. They have moved on, but we are still a storage facility. I trip over things that I mustn’t or somehow can’t get rid of. We are also a place to shop where coupons are not needed. And a kennel. Chynna’s in college, the cat stays with me. The cat’s cat–brought home by another child–also stays with me. The husky did not make it on the invitation to Hawaii.

But still, with them coming and going, with me coming and going, it’s . . . summer. And I do get to see all of them, maybe different places, different times. So, after the initial shock, I’m glad to be home, and I’m glad it’s summer. Seriously, the wigs on the breadboard just aren’t all that weird. And we all know I’m a disaster to begin with, and so, I’m delighted that it’s summer, and I’m even delighted that I’m a warehouse and kennel. It means that all the things that really count are still with me–and I have an excuse for being a walking disaster.

Heather Graham