First off, thanks so much for welcoming me to Murder She Writes as a guest blogger. I’m honored to be able to share my debut release excitement with such a fabulous group of writers.

Follow Your Dreams

I had a different post written and ready to go when I realized that the day it would be posted — today — would have been my brother’s fifty-second birthday. That gave me pause, because my older brother was my inspiration and he passed away ten years ago this month.

He wasn’t a writer, nor did he ever read one of my manuscripts. So, why was he my inspiration? He left me the legacy of Follow Your Dreams.

My brother was a gifted man—bright and capable and visionary. He gazed up at the stars, thrived in nature, and reveled in the sheer physicality of life. He had the same curiosity children have and expressed a similar, uninhibited joy at new discoveries. His patience was incredible—he could easily spend an hour coaxing a chipmunk to take a peanut from his hand or waiting for a family of deer to venture from the shadows to visit the feeder. He never walked past a homeless person without offering a dollar, even if it was his last one. Helping others was a huge part of who he was, and at various times in his life, he served as a lifeguard, a ski patroller, and a volunteer for the Coast Guard. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but if there’s one thing that could be said about him, it’s that he defined the word potential. Possibility radiated from him.

Unfortunately, my brother died before he could realize his full potential. Oh, he did a lot with the time he had, but some of the things he wanted to experience never happened—like finding the girl of his dreams and getting married. The usual roadblocks, like finding himself and making ends meet, got in the way and his time ran out.

It’s terribly easy to lose sight of your dreams. Behind such weighty words as responsibilities, mortgage, and promotion, they can disappear from view. Mine certainly did. And time. Where do we find the time to do frivolous things like chase dreams? The lawn needs mowing, kids need help with their homework, and the boss is demanding more every day.

I don’t know what my brother should have—or would have—become. I think about it every now and again, and feel a pinch of sadness, but that’s not really the point. His passing was a wake-up call. It reminded me that dreams are vital to who we are. Each and every one of us.

Because of my brother, I took a good hard look at the outward trappings of my supposedly successful life … and then I looked inward. Because of him, I found the discipline to rise an hour earlier each morning and do what I’d always longed to do—write. Because of him, I finished my first romance manuscript and submitted it. Because of him, I not only acknowledged my dreams, I pursued them. And this month, my boldest of dreams came true—with the arrival of Drawn into Darkness on store shelves, I became a published author.

Would chasing my dreams have been worthwhile if I’d never gotten published? Yes. Absolutely. Because the struggle to reach my dreams has been much more satisfying than any promotion I ever received, and I’ve passed down the one lesson I hope my daughter will never forget: Follow Your Dreams.

There is nothing like a dream to create the future. — Victor Hugo

I’m offering up a copy of Drawn into Darkness to one random commenter today, so tell me what your biggest inspiration has been. A special person? An enlightening event? Or did the inspiration come from within? I’d love to hear.

p.s. This is also a stop on my “Cross into Darkness” blog tour, so feel free to visit my website at www.annettemccleave.com for a chance to win the tour grand prize. If you’ve been following the tour from the beginning, here’s the clue….

Murder She Writes clue: Home to the Campbells responsible for the Glencoe Massacre

–Annette McCleave

I met Leanna Renee Hieber last year at RT when she helped shoot the video interviews RT Magazine did with a bunch of authors. (She and director Morgan Doremus had me cracking up between takes, which is probably why I look like I am high or a complete ditz and WE ARE JUST GOING WITH THAT THEORY, thank you.) I adored them both immediately. They are the kind of women you wish lived right around the corner, because you just know you’d have a blast hanging out.

Which turned out to be amazingly true. Leanna and I hung out a bit this year at PASIC and again at national and she is just one of those amazing, talented people you immediately root for. Especially since her book – The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker — is terrific.

The story:

What fortune awaited sweet, timid Percy Parker at Athens Academy? Hidden in the dark heart of Victorian London, the Romanesque school was dreadfully imposing, a veritable fortress, and little could Percy guess what lay inside. She had never met its powerful and mysterious Professor Alexi Rychman, knew nothing of the growing shadows, of the Ripper and other supernatural terrors against which his coterie stood guard. She saw simply that she was different, haunted, with her snow white hair, pearlescent skin and uncanny gift. This arched stone doorway was a portal to a new life, to an education far from what could be had at a convent—and it was an invitation to an intimate yet dangerous dance at the threshold of life and death…

[This is where I get to say, "I got an ARC, I got an ARC, nyah nyah nyah nyah, nyah."]

I know, I am so mature. But while we’re waiting for this book to come out TUESDAY, AUGUST 25TH, Leanna agreed to blog for me, and I know you’re going to have fun with this one.

So I am pleased to give you Leanna Renee Heiber:

“Everyone’s Favourite Serial Killer”

No, I don’t mean Dexter.  I mean the other one, the real one.  Jack the Ripper.

How does one deal with such a household name?  From movies to graphic novels, fiction to non-fiction, the killer is a superstar and has made his presence known in every artistic form.

I’ve been on the classic Jack the Ripper walking tours through Whitechapel, and found myself enrapt, and spooked, and I left those alleys feeling no closer to knowing the truth.  All the London walking tours are led by exceedingly knowledgeable guides who have very passionate opinions on all that’s been written and proposed about Jack and the murders, but they themselves are hesitant to present conclusions.  Resources like www.casebook.org will have you immediately steeped in a vast wealth of valuable information proving that Jack remains, by far, the most popular of all unsolved mysteries.

Why?  I believe our fascination with Jack has many factors.  It was an immediately famous spree of horrific murders at a time when ‘serial killing’ didn’t have a sensational list of names attached.  It remains mysterious and unsolved.  It came at a time we now regard as quite ‘civilized’, an era we highly romanticize.  The Victorian era fascinates us as being so very different from ours.  Yet we can certainly recognize true horror, no matter the era.

If an author decides to take a crack at including Jack the Ripper in their book, it can easily become daunting.  I don’t, frankly, have an opinion about who Jack was.  My favorite Jack narrative is Alan Moore’s From Hell, but that doesn’t mean I believe Moore’s take on Jack’s identity.  Because I’ve no sense of who, I made Jack supernatural, an unfortunate side-effect of the much larger problem of a war between the mortal and spirit world that’s about to rage at the center of London.

While Jack is a bit of a sidebar in The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker, I do use details of the murders, locations and victims within my fantasy narrative.  During my research I found my fascination with the Ripper case as strong as it was the day I’d first heard the name and surprised at how easily upsetting and shocking it still remains.  The Victorian photograph of Mary Jane Kelly’s body, the final and most severely mutilated corpse, haunts me to this day.

What fascinates you about everyone’s favourite serial killer?  Why Jack? Do you prefer fiction or non-fiction accounts of Jack the Ripper? Do you have any theories?

–  Leanna Renee Hieber is an award winning author, professional actress and award-winning playwright. Her greatest loves are ghosts and fantasy fiction. The Strangely Beautiful Tale of Miss Percy Parker, first in a Gothic Victorian fantasy series with Leisure Books/Dorchester Publishing, launches 8/25/09 visit her at www.leannareneehieber.com

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?

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…

Live from DC…it’s Leslie Parrish! I’m in DC at the RWA conference where I’ll spend the week in the bar networking with industry professionals and good writer friends. So I’ve invited one of those dear friends to be our MSW guest today. I first met Leslie in 2000 — ouch, that was a long time ago. Our kids were close in age, our homes were close in proximity, and our careers were not really close at all – she was sold and soaring, I was anxious and impatient to join her. Along with another really good friend and Florida-based writer, Cami Dalton, our friendship thrived, nourished by similar experiences, lots of laughter, and a few hundred bottles of wine. Readers and writers know and love Leslie by her real name, Leslie Kelly, author of funny, sexy, brilliant romantic comedies. But now she’s writing some murder and mayhem, and doing it very, very well. Under the name Leslie Parrish, her debut romantic thriller, FADE TO BLACK, was released last week to some amazing acclaim and buzz. I’ve invited Leslie here to talk about her journey from light romance…to the dark side.

Open a New Window by Leslie Parrish>

I am about to do something pretty embarrassing.

Most times, I embarrass myself quite by accident. As much as I hate to admit it, I am the world’s biggest klutz. (My nephew once told me somebody ought to just wrap me in bubble wrap because I am always tripping over my own feet.) This time, however, I’m not about to fall and literally break my tailbone in front of my editor and a bunch of writers at an RWA conference (that was Dallas.) Nor am I going to decide to use a pen knife as a screwdriver and nearly slice my finger off (Nashville, with the Plotmonkeys.) Or believe I smell smoke in the middle of the night, so that my roommates in a D.C. high rise think the hotel is on fire. (Still sorry about that, Rocki!)

No, today’s embarrassment is not physical. And it’s something I really couldn’t joke about for a while after it happened.

I’m talking about getting fired.

Well, I guess in this business, we don’t call it getting fired, right? We prefer to say, “The contract wasn’t renewed,” or “The option was declined,” or “I finally have the chance to explore opportunities with other publishers.”

I dunno. It sure as hell felt like getting fired to me. After 4 single title contemporary romances—one of which was an RWA RITA Award nominee—my publisher decided I wasn’t a good risk anymore and they dropped me, right in the middle of a series. (That was probably the most painful part—not being able to finish the series.)

As a businessperson, I totally get their reasoning. My sales were pretty good with book 1. Stronger with book 2. Then book 3 came along. The one with the kind of cover that gives even the best of us a twinge of schadenfreude if it’s on a competitor’s book, or makes us sob in despair if it’s on our own. The cover of book 4 was just as bad if not worse.

My print run sunk like a stone. Orders were half the previous books. Sales less than half of that. So, yes, the publisher was disinclined to renew our contractual arrangement. (How’s that for fancying it up?) By the way—I’m not saying it was the covers alone. Maybe the books sucked, maybe it was just bad timing…but those covers did not help.

Anyway, I found myself contract-less. As I said, I understood why. Don’t let anybody tell you any differently—it’s all about the numbers, baby.

That door was firmly closed. But, as with so many things in life, elsewhere, a window opened.

I’ll admit, it didn’t happen right away. The experience derailed me for a little while. I had come to think of myself as the writer of funny, sexy contemporaries and had the same kind of lovely fantasies of my future that every writer has—the Times list, a big contract, the freedom to slow down and write just 1-2 books a year. But after what happened, I knew the outlook for all of that was very grim. Bad numbers stick to an author like the paparazzi stick to Brangelina. Any new publisher I targeted would immediately check out those numbers. And even if they did decide to take a chance on me, they’d have a huge hurdle to overcome in trying to get booksellers to order the books.

My career certainly wasn’t over; I didn’t fear that. Fortunately, I was still publishing regularly with Blaze—which I loved doing. So I still had a toe wedged in that doorway. I knew, however, that it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy me creatively for long. I needed to write bigger, more in-depth stories.

My conclusion was this: if light, single-title contemporaries were out for me, something else would do just as well. And if the name Leslie Kelly was going to be poison on a single title book cover, well, she’d just have to go away, too.

Fortunately, I’m a voracious reader in a number of genres. Thrillers, horror and dark suspense are among my favorites. So despite how strange it sounded to some people, I made the decision to go from light, sexy, and funny to dark, bloody and brooding.

I wasn’t sure it would work. Who ever is? All I knew is, I wanted to try again.

I thought about it, dwelled on it, then prepared a proposal and had my agent send it out. And within ten days, the window opened: A new publisher. A new contract. A new series. A breath of life in what I had feared was a dying career.

I spent the next fifteen months in a state of writing euphoria I hadn’t felt in a long time. The Black CATs books, which are being released back-to-back this summer, burst out of me, not necessarily with joy, but with immense creative satisfaction. When all was said and done, I knew I had produced three of the best books of my career.

Looking back, I’m incredibly glad that things worked out the way they did. Had it not been for the closing of that door, I might never have even looked for a window.

Much less flown right through it.