I’m excited, and a little bit scared, about Thanksgiving.
I’ve had dreams of the turkey suddenly jumping up. It runs up and down the table, at first entertaining us all with a Broadway song and dance number, it’s trussed little feet tapping to the tune. Then the wings start flapping and the damned thing is all over the room.

Interesting.

Thanksgiving is a big day for me–it’s one of the few when I get my entire family. My children, my nephew, my daughter-in-law, niece-in-law, two great nephews, and, this year, Jeremy (my daughter’s boyfriend, the family loves him to pieces!) and his children, my cousin-in-law–a very favorite relative, along with his wife–a best friend before they were even married–and their three children, and three friends. We’re headed up to the Dolphin at Disney where we’ve spent many a holiday. (Working holidays, but hey!)

We used to try the restaurants, but that entailed a lot of rushing around, a lot of standing around, and, usually, harried service and not the best food. Thanks to Joe, we now have the meal catered to the room which makes it nice–home away from home. When traveling with toddlers, this is a great plan. When the toddlers get restless, they can move about, they are not locked into a high chair, or in a position where they’re driving the wait staff crazy. I like it. No, I love it.

So why the nightmares about the turkey?

Hm.

I’m afraid. Very afraid. We put a great deal of expectation into holidays, and forget that each person remains an individual with all the quirks and personality traits that make them–well, individual. I want everyone to be happy.

Twenty two people.

Some rise early, and some don’t. Some can’t wait to get to the parks, and some couldn’t be bothered–they want to vegetate. Some are compulsive, some are, to be kind, a bit piggy. So, speaking of Disney, I think of something that Jefferson says, paraphrased, in the American exhibit at Epcot. “Trying to get thirteen clocks to chime as one is hard enough . . . .” Jefferson goes on to say that one stroke of his pen brings about a hundred changes from congress. Hey, things don’t really change.

I have twenty-two clocks.

Here’s the thing–my clocks will probably be just fine. They won’t chime as one. Whoever wants to do whatever will do it. The parents of small children will be with their kids in the parks early, they’ll be at different parks, but they’ll be happy, and each group will do what they choose. Shayne is a loner sometimes–he’ll take off by himself to do something if no one else is interested. Derek and Zhenia now live in Connecticut–she dreams of going swimming. Some of us will head to karaoke at the Swam–where they also have super sushi. We’ll trail in at different times at night, and often wind up down in the twenty-four hour buffet.

But I can’t help thinking about my dancing turkey.

It’s not the end of the year yet, but I’m still reflective on the year. In many ways, it’s been a difficult year, personally. I–and the publishing community–lost a best friend, and a brilliant editor, Kate Duffy. We lost Pablo the cat, and Chloe, the albino skunk. Pets don’t compare to a person, but they are still gone for our lives, and since we’ve lost family as well, we know the difference. I’ve had wonderful times with my family, and with my many writing groups. I’ve traveled new places, been up and been down–oh, and in the accountants office about five times with the IRS.

But it’s Thanksgiving. And I’m grateful. I’m grateful I was blessed to know Kate, grateful for the friendship and the many favors she gave me. I still buy broccoli for the skunk, and then remember that she isn’t there, and I miss her on my lap when I’m typing. We didn’t have Jeremy in our lives until last February, and he’s a wonderful addition. I may be going through the audit from hell, but my IRS agent is a doll, helping me comprehend what I’m doing–and what I’ve done wrong, and how to fix it in the future. Most of all, I have the people in my life, and I have a career, doing what I love.

Anyone who knows me is well aware that Martha Stewart would definitely have nothing to fear from me. I am the worst housekeeper, and a “real” dinner party means buying the good, plastic coated paper plates. I am accustomed to large numbers; my brother-in-law called me “dial a party.” But I do have that thing that so many of us seem to have–it’s the mother syndrome. Somehow, we must make everyone be happy at every minute. So I worry.

But I’ve got it covered–when the bird starts flying around, I’ll put on the soundtrack from Peter Pan, and we’ll watch it go. And, actually, once, at 3:00 on Thanksgiving, twenty-two clocks will chime as one when we sit down to Thanksgiving dinner. And I’ll be grateful for those twenty-two people, and grateful for the cacophony of sound! Thankful, just like the pilgrims, that my parents came to this country, and my holiday will include a bevy of nationalities. I’m going to be so glad that we have Thanksgiving, and doubly grateful that I have the privilege of being neurotic and crazy, and having the luxury of wanting not just survival, but happiness. The glass is looking awfully damned full.

I don’t think the turkey nightmare has anything to do with Thanksgiving day. I think it’s all about trying to get the Christmas card done. Most of our Christmas cards could be labeled “bah humbug!” cards. Trying to get all those people to smile at the same time . . . .

Well, that’s a challenge!

Heather Graham

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

1  1

Ah, Friday the 13th! Be afraid, be very afraid.

But why?

Well, the number has to do with several events in myth and ancient history.

Most familiar to Americans and Christians worldwide would be the fact that there were twelve apostles and Jesus, making the number 13, and, hm, we all know about Judas, whose name has become synonymous with betrayal, and it’s hard to thinking of a time of greater fear or mourning than the death of Christ.

And, remember, Jesus Christ was crucified on a Friday.

Beyond that, once Christianity was established, and looking into Judaism and the Moslem religions, we know that there were angels, and once there were angels, there were fallen angels—including the devil, or Satan. In ancient times, covens consisted of the number 12—but, actually, they were considered to consist of 13—Satan and his twelve apostles.

Actually, originally, some cultures saw the number 13 as lucky. Somehow, across the millennia, they were voted down. In certain ancient societies, the number 13 was viewed as an odd number—after all, there were twelve months. But this came about in a strange way, and not to get the battle of the sexes going, 13 was fine in matriarchal societies because there were (usually) 13 cycles for a woman in a year. When matriarchal societies gave way to male dominated cultures, well, that 13 had to go, and the solar calendar built the hell out of the lunar.

The Hindus consider 13 an unlucky number for any grouping. They might have somehow gotten that from the Norse. Once upon a time, the gods were having a grand old time at Valhalla. Only twelve gods were invited, but—totally uninvited—Loki showed up anyway, making the number 13. Loki then tricked Hoder, the blind god of darkness, into shooting Balder, the god of joy and happiness, with an arrow dipped in mistletoe. Balder died, and the world became dark, and, naturally, joy and happiness departed the world. Okay, no joy and happiness sounds very unlucky indeed.

They say that people who feel that there are unlucky are more disturbed by the day than others. We’ve all noticed that some buildings don’t have a 13th floor. Some people won’t go to work, and others won’t dare step out the door, that’s how bad it might be!

There’s a name for it.

Paraskevidekatriaphobics.

Okay, so these are some aspects of our little human minds and psyches that lead to the fear of 13—but Friday? Well, there is the Crucifixion. It was also hanging day in the middle ages and so on, but worse! Friday was dedicated to Freya, the Norse goddess who was dedicated to love and sex, among other things. And in Rome, Friday had been dedicated to Venus, another mistress of love—and sex.

When trying to tamp down the ancient religions, the Christian rulers wanted to be very careful with Friday—which became known as the witch’s Sabbath. It was just a bad day all along, as they saw it.

Ah, well.

I happen to like Friday the 13th. My sister was due to be married on Saturday, the 14th—a big grand church wedding. Well, she’d forgotten to get her wedding license, so she had to fly with her groom to be to Georgia, where she didn’t need to have the same waiting period to be married legally–so that she could be married in the beautiful ceremony that was planned. (My parents, naturally, were ready to throttle her.) Anyway, time went by, she celebrated both, her church wedding in Florida—and her first wedding , in Georgia, on Friday 13th. She wore a black dress—they had to pack fast!

My nephew, DJ, one of my favorite people in the word, was born on Friday, February 13th, 1981. If that’s not lucky, I don’t know what is!

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

1  1

Ghosts, goblins, and ghoulies will out be soon. Not to mention vampires and rock stars, princes, princesses, Jedi warriors and more. Halloween.

It’s a fun holiday! It’s a religious holiday! It’s just the scene in Chinatown, it’s both, especially when you slap it all around.

For many of the ancient peoples, it was already a holiday. Especially in Great Britain, Ireland, and northern France, where pagan Druid and cultures and others similar were very real. The night, for them, was sacred to the harvest, the gods and godesses of harvest, and a Celtic festival known as Samhein. (For those of you, like him, who call this sam-hine, it’s closer to sowe-in.) It marked the end of one year, and the beginning of another. To honor that passing and beginning, the people dressed up in animals skins and other such array. They believed that the spirits of the dead came back on this night, and the priests and priestesses could better foretell the future, and help the people through a hard and lonely winter. The had great bonfires and sacrificed animals (animals, I can’t find a reference to people, though we kind of do know because of peat bodies that they did offer up human sacrifices!)

Ahha. Along came the Romans.

Feralia and Pomona! Let’s face, one did not conquer the known world by being stupid. The Romans wanted to keep control of subdued people who learned to co-abide. It was really difficult, you see, to instantly repopulate the known world with Romans. Feralia was a holiday that celebrated the spirits of the dead. The second of the imported celebrations, Pomono, celebrated fruit and the bounty of the earth.

Hey, folks, let’s have one holiday that we all acknowledge. And thus, from this, the concept of bobbing for apples became part of the holiday as well.

By the early eighteen-hundreds, Christianity had replaced what had come before–almost. In the collective soul of many of the people, the old holidays still existed. The pope was a bright man, too. He decreed that all Hallow’s Eve might be the eve of All Saints day, and therefore, all together in a holiday that was religious–and still one that celebrated the secrets of the human mind.

Some Christians dressed up as saints, angels, and demons. Others were still dressed up as animals. Trees, maybe Roman soldiers, Celtic priests and priestesses, and more.

Now, you will still see animals, saints, angels, trees, and demons. You’ll see warlocks, witches, and vampires. You might just bob for apples, though in these days of terrible flu strains, it’s unlikely!

But you will see a few handsome fellows from Twilight now, Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles, a few rock stars, and more. There’s always my favorite. Dropping by church one night, I saw a wolfman and a vampire walk in together. Luckily, I attend a university church, and the Father–dressed in his favorite Dolphin colors–went on with the rite of communion though his church was filled with costumed creatures–and then warned everyone to be careful!

So, whatever your mode of celebration, go forth and enjoy–and just be careful. As the good Father said, “We don’t need to be adding any more souls in for next year, we’ve plenty to honor as it is!”

Heather Graham

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

1  1

Touring with a ghost book is fun.

Okay, let’s face it, touring with any book can be torture. I loathe autographings. I love people, I just hate autographings. Sometimes a store knows you’re coming and they care–and sometimes they’ve even put a poster in the window. But many times, and I don’t care who you are–I know a truly big name author who was at a Costco and counted the lettuce leaves–autographings are torture. You’re not in your hometown, your family and friends aren’t there, and you don’t a soul who lives in the city and . . . I digress.

But, well, most authors have been there.

And, still, ghost books are fun. There is always someone to meet who has their own great ghost story.

This tour wound up being even better than fun. It included nights in haunted rooms and ghost tours. It meant I got a chance to go out with the Peace River Ghost Trackers. We were going to do a ghost expedition in the old Spanish military hospital in St. Augustine. I’ve been corresponding with Sprout for a while, and it was wonderful to finally meet her and her group–Scott, Craig, Mike, Lori, Sawyer the dog, and . . . . . .

First off, a tour of the old jail. One of the most frightening aspects was that it had just closed in 1953. A recreation of the gallows had been built, and a picture–taken against strict rules–hung on the walls. Everyone dressed for the occasion, but there was no picnic atmosphere in St. Augustine at the time. The loss of any human life was a somber affair.

Next, a tour of Ripley’s. The building is old and beautiful. It was once apartments, and a hotel. There was a fire there, and two women died in like manner, wrapped in towels in their bathrooms. There are questions, of course, as in–why didn’t the one in the penthouse just break through her windows and go out on the balcony? These are the questions that “haunt” as time goes by.

We made a stop for pizza. Ghost trackers have to eat.

I was impressed by the methods used. Ghost trackers aren’t out to prove–they’re out to search and discover. Cameras were set up, heat indicators were used, and recorders. I was startled by something on the film, quickly certain that I might just be seeing something. But it was pointed out to me that I was only seeing dust motes in the air. Sprout’s group is really seeking truth–not to make up what isn’t there.

We sat in different rooms, and asked different questions with the voice recorders. It was a Spanish military hospital, so we spoke to the spirits in English and Spanish.

The trackers are still checking their recordings, so I don’t know yet if they came up with answers that night. I do know that I wasn’t being left alone in any of the rooms. When the ghost trackers moved, I moved with them.

My oldest son, Jason, was with me. We like to jokingly call him “ghost repellant.” He doesn’t disbelieve, he would love to see something happen. Far more than me. He wasn’t allowed to tell me about the ghost in our St. Augustine B and B until we were gone.

Savannah is one of the most beautiful cities you’ll ever see, and we went on a wonderful ghost tour there–wait, we went on several. We took the Trolley of the Damned, the Haunted Hearse, and the walking tour. All were wonderful, good stories, good story tellers. And I can’t begin to tell you just how many ghosts are walking around Savannah. I had a few of my spirits, however, in the bar at the 17 Hundred 90 House. Room 204 is haunted by Anna, the pregnant victim of a jilted lover. He didn’t kill her–she jumped. One of the most interesting aspects of the “haunted” room was what the innkeeper told me was the “bad mannequin.” She didn’t mean that mannequin behaved badly. It’s just a bad mannequin. But she’s creepy–the mannequin, not the innkeeper–and I had to pass by her every evening to reach my room. My room–another interesting feature about it. Miley Cyrus had recently been a guest. While filming in Georgia, she had chosen to stay in the room. 204. Certainly, for Anna. And, according to the “anonymous” letter she sent, Anna moved her boots about in her suitcase. She also blogged about her experience in the room, and seemed to enjoy it very much. (We had to compare the handwriting by looking her up!)

Anna was kind to me. The lights in the bathroom flickered, but I’m not sure if that was Anna or faulty wiring.

One thing certain, the bar at the inn was one of the coziest places I’ve ever seen, and filled with the nicest people in the world. Rhonda was great, and told me a story that had happened to her–pots and pans flying off a shelf when the only other three people in at the time were walking behind her!

Anyway, I’m home again, home again, and about to head to Bouchercon. I don’t know if Indianapolis is supposed to have as many ghosts as St. Augustine and Savannah, but I’m sure there’s a tour out there!

Heather Graham

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

1  1    33

Kate was like a force of nature, so unbelievably strong, managing to find the irony and humor in any situation. The vitality of her life makes it hard to accept her death.

She passed away on Sunday. We’re all trying to come to grips with that fact. There is not a soul who worked with Kate, met Kate, or knew Kate in any way who doesn’t have a wonderful story about her. She was generous to a fault, and I’m not referring to money–I’m referring to her spirit. I told her once, when she asked me to go to a luncheon at a conference, that I felt guilty–I wasn’t writing for Kensington at the time. She told me flatly that Kensington still had my books for reprint, and who knew? Life was ever changing. One day I could write the piece that they’d fight for, and I wouldn’t be able to refuse their offer. She was the same with everyone.

Lost authors were welcomed into her fold.

I met her in 1982. Nowadays, we’re the old guard. Not the oldest guard–some came before us–but a pretty old guard. Kate was there for the groundwork of the genre. She saw the beginning, she saw the trends, and more than anything, she had a vision for what she wanted, for what was coming, for people, and for books. Kate knew that books were more than a commodity; she knew authors. She was an advocate who was never afraid to speak. She loved her authors, but demanded that they work, that they imagine, and turn in nothing but their finest work. She let nothing slide.

She drew the best from us. Once, I was irritated, hearing about a book similar to one that I had suggested to her. She told me that it was different–she was expecting far more from me and she intended to get it.

My heart bleeds for her wonderful family. And for all of us. Whether people in publishing worked with Kate, they knew her name. They knew her for her amazing sense of humor–and the truth, and for the fact that she was certainly not a shrinking violet. Kate fought constantly for what she believed in. She took the blows that came from being honest at time, but she would just fight back again. Nothing ever quelled her spirit.

Kate never offered lip service. What was–was. Usually, she could give any subject an ironic twist of humor.

There was no better friend. There was no such thing as being afraid to ask for a favor. She had a temper, and fur could fly. But she listened, and when something was really needed, Kate was right there.

Friends are calling me who didn’t really know Kate, still saddened because they had heard about her. And I’m glad. Whether we knew her, worked with her, or just heard about her, Kate seriously changed the world for the genre, for books, and for human beings.

Her loss in unimaginable, and I pray that she left those of us who loved her with just an iota of her strength, passion, and spirit.

Heather Graham

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

2  1

Not sure where I left off . . .
Okay, New Orleans is wonderful, people are wonderful, and everything is
going okay. Because of her ear infection, Chynna can’t fly, she and
Caitlin take a bus to reach us and they are not at all happy! But they
make it–and they even make Kathy’s and Erin’s great welcome party,
Helen Rosburg’s riverboat party, rehearsal and show on Saturday and all
the good things that are going on. It’s wonderful. I’ve got all my kids
with me–just missing my nephew, niece, and little Graham-ster since
his brother is due soon–and, naturally, I’m happy. But, all things
come to an end. People leave, and on Monday, certain that we’re going
to be fine, I take Chynna to the emergency room so that they can clear
us for her flight to California. Ah, and there the rub. No! No, she
still can’t fly.

We’ve all gone to look for America!

The train. At first, I can’t find a way out. I’m trying NOLA, Houston,
Mobile, anything close. Then we try Baton Rouge. The Baton Rouge train
will leave on the right day–to go back to NOLA to head to California.
So . . . we have to call the school and get her set up to be a day
late. Call the apartment complex where she plans to live. And then,
plan for the train!

I’m at a writers’ conference for God’s sake. You wouldn’t begin to
imagine that in my quest to pare down our luggage (tons of it–she is
heading off for a semester!) I leave a book conference WITHOUT A BOOK!
Oh, well, I am off to see America. Here’s the hard part–the train is
fine, people are fine, and our attendant, Lisa, is a true doll. But I
have managed to book a sleeper that is actually just two seats that
stretch out. No shower–and she will have to get off the train and rush
straight to her auditions. Well, luckily they allow me to upgrad again,
and we have a teensy room with a teensy shower that showers you over
the toilet. But, hey, it’s ours. The dining car is fun, and we find the
cafe and viewing car, and it is fascinating to watch the landscape
change. I’m telling Chynna that it’s great, we’ll stop in San Antonio,
El Paso, and Tucson!

Ah, the rub. We do stop at these places I love, but at three AM. I must
say, tho, that I’ve never been to Palm Springs, and even the back of
the Amtrak station was lovely at 3AM.

We played Trivial Pursuit in the lounge car with a lot of neat young
people moving on–many there because they could afford the plane fare,
but not what it would cost them to bring luggage with them.

Amazing. Somehow, on a math question, I manage to win for the sleeper
people. A tiny bottle of red wine, but it’s a treasure, and it’s going
to sit on the shelf of the apartment.

It was long, that’s for sure. I never found a place to buy a book, but,
hey, I worked so that was good. Chynna memorized monologues, and we met
lots of great people.

I have to admit, I loved the time on the train. I got those last few
special days with my daughter before leaving her for months. I met
super people, and I did the see our magnificent country in many guises,
the wet lands and the above ground cemeteries as we left Louisiana, the
flatlands, beautiful trees, then oranges and all kinds of colors in the
west. The rise of the mountains.

Now . . .

If they can just make it stop somewhere during the day for the hours
they need to change cars, etc., I’m on it again.

California, Zombie TV, buying Chynna a bed, and saying goodbye. Goodbye
is always hard. I still cry every time Derek and Zhenia leave. But
that’s the way life goes, and the main thing with kids, I’m learning,
is that they have to be happy themselves–they are not there to make
you happy! But I am happy that they are happy, so . . . .

And now, on to Killercon. Las Vegas, and thank God, Lance, Rich, a
reunion with Bryee and then Shayne and Juan, Connie, Dave, Paul and
Teresa and good friends. They won’t mind when I whine a bit about
missing people. Caitlin is back home, watching Toto, and Jason will
get home from Denver, and pretty soon, I’ll have a new little nephew
and Debbie will come down. Time goes on. Before we know it, there will
be a break in the semester. That’s life. It goes on. Thank God for all
the people we are lucky enough to have with us in our travels!

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

1  1

Okay, set to come here—New Orleans–this morning, and naturally, nothing goes smoothly. Chynna is suddenly in agony with her ear. It’s six in the morning. Okay, the last time I went to emergency room, we sat there for six hours. I decided to get her to our doctor, a personal friend. Problem was, we are due to leave Miami at ten-thirty. Connie is already on her way to the Monteleone with a truck full of papers, costumes, decorations, giveaway and more. A big truck. Tons of stuff. Must be unloaded and arranged in the holding room.

So . . . .

Caitlin, our friend, and daughter of Debbie Richardson, my friend for many years, has moved to Florida. She is coming with us to NOLA, where she’ll get to see her mom.

I really need to take that plane, and Caitlin can get to the doctor with Chynna, and then on a plane in a day or two. I have to call the airlines.

First, it doesn’t matter that I’m dealing with a medical emergency. I must pay the fare difference and a hundred and fifty dollars a ticket for a change fee. I have no choice—I can’t make a child fly with an ear infection that has her in tears.

Okay, so I have taken Chynna out of the seat next to me, obviously, since I just paid all that money to change her ticket. I asked if I could use the same upgrades to get my sister-in-law next to me.

The agent told me he’d have to see if there was a seat there! I tried to point out that there had to be, since we had just taken Chynna out of it.

Still took a while. Somehow, that logic was lost on the agent. I had actually just told the fellow that I didn’t hold airline policy against him. He told me it was his fault because it was his airline and his policy. I said that if it was his policy and he understood the concept of airplanes, pressure, and the possibility of a bursting eardrum, he could and should change the policy. That was entirely lost on him. He did not get my logic, or sense of humor.

So, I am in NOLA, and Chynna is home, and I’m happy to be here, setting up for writers for New Orleans. And I’m worried because I just left her home. Torn. Hm. That’s the choice we make when we become parents. Maybe an only child . . . .

No, then I’d smother the poor thing.

Ah, well, she has made it to the doctor, has an outer and an inner ear infection, but she’s now on antibiotics and had all the proper work done, so I’m hoping all will go well and she’s up here in a day or two. Actually, in a few days, I think I have all five of them. Many friends, five kids, and my daughter-in-law. I love the city; it is a cause to me, and to the friends who come, and who can’t come, but do so much to help, sending books for giveaways and more.

It’s going to be fine–except that I’m shaking.

I have to change that airline ticket one more time.

It’s the little stuff that gets ya!

I keep telling myself to chill-I am in The Big Easy after all!

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

1  1

Ah, that’s a lie. I’m alive, and other than a slight cold or an annoying allergy, thankfully in decent hearth. But I’m going to be truthful here, admit more than I usually do, and, I believe, I’m one of many in the situation.

I feel like the Scarecrow sometimes. If I only had a brain!

I would not be overwhelmed.

What is it about us? It’s usually considered to be women, but sometimes men as well. Somehow, we managed to grow up in the “Enjoli” era. Some of you may remember. “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never let him think he’s not the man!” Paraphrased terribly, but it’s a very old ad for perfume.

Sometimes, interviewers tell me that many authors have to have a quiet room, there own place, soft music, perfect lighting, whatever, to work.

That would be true insanity. For most of us, work takes place in the midst of kids. Or pets. Or other work, or other commitments. Oh, by the way, that was not a comment stating that Dennis was an incapable person. He’s been around far too long, actually, and is far too opinionated about publishing. But that doesn’t change life. For most of us, a quiet garret somewhere is a fantasy, or a dream. Or it’s not even a dream anymore, because if we had such a place, we’d be looking around, unable to work because something else wasn’t going on, someone wasn’t needy, there wasn’t a time line because a child didn’t need to be picked up from one activity to be brought to another.

Okay, so . . . this time, it got a bit overwhelming. First, there’s the audit. God was angry at me, and had me audited. He wasn’t that angry, or it’s all His sense of humor, because he did give me the most decent and kind agent in the world. I’ve actually learned tremendously from her. She’s stern and her figures will add up, but she has never just lifted a hand and said, “too bad.” She has done her best to help me get missing paper work and make the numbers crunch. But I did get hit with two years in which storm damage erased or ate up a lot of receipts, the journal, and all that. So it’s tough. She works with me.

God is good, after all.

Okay, so audit. Then, midstream, when I was about to turn in a book, we’ve decided that another book needs to be out first. Okay . . . .

Then there is New Orleans. Two weeks now before I leave. Panels, trying to make sure everyone speaks, and speaks with the right group. I have help on this–Mary Stella has put together lots of panels. Who is coming, what is specific need at the workshop, and how do I best serve that need? Roommates–do I have the best combination of people together. (Hey, even in–or especially in!–my own family, this is a tricky task. Again, lots of help–Connie Perry. Baskets for raffles–the original idea of the workshop was to bring people into the city, and then, to support the libraries. Of course! But we need those giveaway from baskets. I’m the one who needs to bring in the goodies. Books to fill the bags–and, thus far, we are remarkably proud of our bags. We try to give the most amazing bang for the buck out there, and support our fellow authors who are there and who cannot be there, so we try to make excellent goody bags.

(Hey, I’m not proud. Anyone with giveaways, books, etc! Connie Perry, 103 Estainville Avenue, Lafayette, Louisiana)

Okay, audit, change in book, NOLA.

That’s okay . . . .

Bill! What’s that wretched bastard doing out in the Atlantic? Okay, he’d better head north, that’s all I have to say. And leave Bermuda the hell alone, too, got it?

We’ve been remarkably lucky this summer. Lots and lots of rain and wind–remnants of storms that didn’t quite make it, and hey, that’s great, we can deal with rain. I am part of Florida, and the state has been beaten up, and it’s handled it well every time. (I mean, who needs electric every day, eh? That annoying Camille already moved into the panhandle, headed north, and is petering out.

So back to that frazzled thing, accountant’s office, book, email, wow, maybe I should twitter, all those pics on my camera and I haven’t downloaded, really need to do the laundry . . . .

It’s all part of bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan, and somehow live a good life, do the things we feel in our hearts, and . . . .

Really. Even back then, I was ready to beat the @#$$%% out of the “Enjoli” woman!

Heather Graham

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

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I’m in New Orleans as I write this–I’m up here to settle last minute details for the Third and a Half Annual Writers for New Orleans. First up–why we do we love what we love? And, certainly, we love different things. But when I’m here, I just love the city. Ah, crime, yes. Major league problems, yes. It can be a serious zoo–so many people, so much alcohol, frat kids, the wild bunch. Yes–upon occassion, you can side-step vomit on Bourbon Street. The city has changed subtly since Katrina. Some people have moved on, some people have moved in.

But I arrive, and again, I love it, but no, I don’t think that I was born here in a different life. I just love the good, bad, the ugly–and the beautiful. I love the architecture, and I love the history, and I love all the cultures that have come through, and made their mark. Community Coffee–pecan praline being my favorite. Shops that are not part of a chain–okay, sure, you may have the same T-shirts offered over and over again, but you still find the one of a kind places that sell incredible jewelry, costume and mega bucks! There is Fifi Mahoney’s–one of my favorite places in the world, a wig shop where the proprietors have the most amazing imaginations. No trip is complete for me without trying on a few. I love to walk in Jackson Square, hop into the Cathedral, and see the museums. There are the zoo and the aquarium. And the cemeteries. For writers, they are a str ange breeding ground for reverence, reflection, and imagination.

We came and slipped by Krazy Kat, where Kathy and Erin will host there welcome party this year. Zydeco–a real taste of the old city. Then we hopped over to see the steamboat Natchez–and had a ball. Helen is hosting a Friday night gala here this year. Southern belles and riverboat gamblers! We have the entire boat. A jazz trio will play upstairs, the buffet and karaoke we happen downstairs. From the boat, looking out on the Mississippi, history, long ago and not so long ago, all comes into being, and there’s a sense of nostalgia, something of a touch of pain, and something of incredible hope.

I can’t wait now for the month to go by!

They know us at the Monteleone. We’ve been doing this for–well, of course, three and half years. I’m still grateful that we got in our “half” last year. Kathy, Erin, and Helen hosted such wonderful parties that to this day, to my knowledge, no one hates me for dragging them into an evacuation situation. I have been assured that it led to some of the world’s best blogging material.

Back to basics . . . why do we love what we love? I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I wasn’t born here, and, as I said, I don’t think anywhere in my heart of hearts that I lived here in a previous life. I love the mule drawn carriages and the legends. I love the Civil War history, and I love the modern city. It’ not chocolate. It’s every color of the rainbow. It’s ecclectic music and I can walk down the street and see a gentleman playing on Royal in the same place I’ve seen him for years. He’s amazing–I never know what instrument he’ll be playing, he plays so many. And his voice! I’ve heard him do Broadway, jazz, and pop, and sing in every musical style known to man. I can stand in the street–in the heat, even–and listen to him forever.

I love this place, and that’s just the way it is, and actually, we do love what we love in the world, and that’s the way it is. But more than anything, I realize, my love for this city has a lot to do with friendship. I had so many friends help me here! Friends who fell in love with a place as well. New Orleans is a character, just as vital as any human being out there.

Today, I went to one of my favorite shops–it had closed. Here’s the thing. The city is coming back. There were a number of conventions here–but many came for the first years after the season of storms, and have now moved on. My favorite shop went down. There are a number of empty store fronts.

So, I’ll keep coming back. And I’m incredibly grateful to my friends who have fallen in love as I have, and who continue to support me and this city. It’s not my city. It’s just a city I love–and one that is real, such a character! As writers, we owe her so much.

Anyone interested check out www.writersforneworleans.com.

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

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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

©2010 Murder She Writes. All Rights Reserved.

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