Beach Excerpt: THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND

          If you are a facebook friend of mine, then you are aware that for these first three weeks in March I am involved in an INTENSE Principals of Real Estate class, which should (if all goes well) prepare me enough to pass the national exam and get my agent's license.  To that end, there is no writing go on here.  And by that I mean, no writing of any sort.  No books, no stories, no emails and especially no blog posts.  I did have the foresight to book my beach chat guests, but didn't really think about putting fingers to keyboard for my own posts.  So, I'm "cheating" a little bit by offering up an excerpt of The Blond Leading the Blond.  This is from the end of chapter four, and is written in the first person of Ellery Tinsdale, an amateur sleuth--and a most reluctant one at that--as she gets to know some of her new neighbors in Braddocks Beach, Ohio.  Enjoy!

          We ate.  We talked.  We laughed.  A lot.  Sam only had to coach me one more time on my manners. “Corn should be eaten left to right, like a typewriter,” she’d whispered in my ear when racing off to greet some late-arriving guests. Who’d a thunk? She buzzed back to our table, and with her once again seated across from me, I didn’t dare lick the basil butter from my fingers. “If you’ll excuse me for a minute.” I climbed out from under the picnic table. My dinner companions nodded. George and Doodles stood up when I did, after I felt Sam kick George under the table, that is. I was glad I wasn’t the only one who needed prompting when it came to all things mannerly.

Beach Eats: PIE À LA MODE

<<Third in a continuing series exploring the tastes, histories and crafts of favorite food items mentioned in THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND…>>

          “Be it apple or humble, pie should always be served à la mode,” the woman tempted me.

          I hesitated, thinking about my half-diet and wondering if I’d rather limit myself to one full piece of pie without ice cream or one half of a piece with creamy vanilla melting over it. 

          ~Excerpted from The Blond Leading the Blond 

           Which “foodies” amongst us hasn’t heard the story about the invention of the Sandwich? Well, not so much the “invention” of as the naming of it.  I’ll save you a Google search:  While the idea of tucking meat between slices or on top of slices of bread (in lieu of plates) had been around for a while, it wasn’t until the late 18^th century that the term sandwich was coined.   The 4^th Earl of Sandwich was fond of asking his valet to bring him meat tucked between two pieces of bread, enabling him to continue to play cards while eating the meat.  As you probably realize, eating meat without cutlery left your hands messy, so this was a perfect solution.  Others at the table would say “Bring me what Sandwich has,” and the rest, as they say, is food-naming history.

          But very few people know the story behind the naming of Pie à la Mode.

          Many people mistakenly think that à la mode is French for “with ice cream.”  Nothing is further from the truth.  It means “to the modern” or more loosely, “how fashionable.”

          So how did pie with a dollop of vanilla ice cream on top become to be named à la mode? 

Beach Eats: THE BIG FIG NEWTON

<<This is second in a continuing series exploring the histories and crafts of favorite food items mentioned in THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND…>>

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Sam asked as we exited the dimness of Flossie’s Pharmacy.  I squinted against the sunlight of a glorious summer’s morn.  The three Fig Newtons I’d stuffed in my mouth prevented me from answering, but I figured it was a rhetorical question, anyway.  I was right.

~Excerpted from The Blond Leading the Blond 

          Raise your hand if you thought the Fig Newton was named after that Apple-to-the-Head guy.  You know, Sir Isaac Newton, the brilliant man who first proposed the laws of gravity. Yeah, me too.  But in my research for this food-related topic I learned something quite different. 

Beach Chow: Milano Cookie Sheep

Source:  ediblecrafts.craftgossip.com  

Excerpt from The Blond Leading the Blond: 

          The pantry held a treasure trove of snacks.  My gaze flitted from cereal shelf to canned vegetables shelf to crunchy snacks shelf and then, lo and behold, a dessert shelf.  Lined up in alphabetical order was the entire line of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies:  Double Chocolate, Milk Chocolate, Mint, Orange and Raspberry.  I gasped with the realization that Aunt Izzy was alive.  Not “alive” in the physical sense, in that she’d been pirated away in the witness protection program somewhere, and another woman’s face had been beaten beyond recognition, or even the paranormal sense in that her spirit would be dragging chains down the stairs or moaning at all hours of the night.  I  meant alive in that she was not a glossy photograph but a real flesh-and-blood woman who had lived and breathed and loved and shared her DNA.  With me.

          We had the same cookie-loving gene. 

Prequel to THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND

The characters of Ellery Tinsdale and Samantha Greene begin their fictional lives in the first book in my Blonds at the Beach series, THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND.  But they did have a life before the book.  Here we get a peek into the incident that led up to the opening scene, and get to see a little of the characters in their “ordinary world” before everything is tipped topsy-turvy on the very first page of the book.  I call this THE PREQUEL.  Enjoy.    

<<News clipping from the front page of the  Braddocks Beach Bugle, Braddocks Beach, Ohio, May 31)>>

Town Matriarch Dead at Age 63

          Isabel Genevieve Tinsdale, age 63, was found dead yesterday at the bottom of the stairs of the Braddocks Beach watchtower. Although the autopsy report is not expected to be released for two more days, sources involved in the clean-up efforts indicate that loss of blood will be listed as a contributory cause of death.

          Police have declared Miss Izzy’s tumble down three flights of steep, cement stairs to be an accident, although the reason she was visiting the watchtower at two o’clock in the morning leaves many asking questions. Don’t expect answers from the local authorities, as according to Braddocks Beach Police Chief Albert C. Bennett, “Delving into a citizen’s personal business is beyond the scope of our duty to protect and serve the community. Miss Izzy took that secret to her grave.”

Beach Bling: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words....

This is what the UPS man delivered to my house yesterday!

Beach Tale: "Eat. Drink. Repeat." A Prequel to THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND

          Total anarchy. That’s the only word to describe the hodgepodge of homemade food offerings placed on tables stretched the length of Henrietta Zucker’s driveway.  Thick and creamy desserts snuggled up next to light and healthy salads.  Appetizers mingled with main courses.  Sushi sat next to Stromboli while the chips were three feet away from the guacamole.  There were steamy dishes not just next to, but actually touching, chilled Jello-O plates and a heavy bowl of horseradish dip had been plopped on top of an apple crumb pie, forcing the filling to ooze out over the crust and onto the white linen tablecloth. What a mess. 

          Samantha Rose Greene, known affectionately to all who loved her (and even those who didn’t) as Sam, surveyed the potluck debacle with an eye as to how best to make order out of chaos.  If Miss Izzy were here, she’d have it properly organized in no time.  No, if Miss Izzy where here this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.  But Miss Izzy wasn’t here, because she’d suffered a horrible fall down the steep steps of the watchtower and died ten days ago. 

          Sam was skeptical about the facts surrounding her dearest friend and lifelong neighbor’s demise but had refrained from voicing her concerns to the new chief of police in whom she had little faith.  He didn’t seem to be capable of finding a polar bear in a field of buttercups, let alone investigate a suspicious death, the first in their small lakeside resort in over 100 years.  So just like everything else around Braddocks Beach, if Sam wanted things done right, she’d have to do them herself, starting with a few discreet questions asked of others attending the potluck tonight.    

          But first things first.  Sam began moving dishes from the last table and stacking them on the tailgate of her husband’s F350 parked at the end of the driveway.  She then worked quickly to move desserts to the open space and moved down the line to organize side dishes, main dishes, salads and appetizers.  Just as she was finishing, Doris Rodgers, a retired nurse who’d more recently retired from her second career as a librarian, stepped over to lend a hand.

          “Not the same without Miss Izzy, is it?” Doris asked.

          “Not even close,” Sam replied.  “Can you believe they had the plates next to the napkins and forks?  Everyone knows the Chinet goes at the beginning and once people have filled their plates they grab their cutlery at the end.  It’s not like these people have never been to a potluck before.”

          “I know, but we all relied on Miss Izzy to make sure things were done right.  And if you don’t want your head to explode I suggest you stay away from the drink table.”

          “Dare I ask why?”
          “They have pop in the same bin as wine coolers.”

          Sam gasped in horror.  “But kids could grab the wrong—” 

          Doris raised her hand and Sam pressed her lips into a tight thin line to keep from speaking her mind.

          “Hang in there.”  Doris reached out and patted Sam’s arm. “I’ve heard a rumor they found Miss Izzy’s niece and she’ll be here for the reading of the will tomorrow.  I can’t remember her name, though.”

          “Ellery Elizabeth Tinsdale,” Sam said, providing the name of the last living descendant of one of Braddocks Beach’s founding fathers, only recently discovered through an exhaustive—and, she suspected, expensive--search.      

          “I’ve also heard she is the spitting image of her aunt and will no doubt sweep into town take the reins of local society to lead us with the same aplomb as Miss Izzy.  Oh, here comes Flossie and it looks like she broke out her melting pot for tonight.  I’ll just go offer my taste-testing services.”  Doris turned and greeted Flossie Underwood, the local pharmacist, and escorted both her friend and her tiered plate of chocolate-covered Oreos to the dessert end of the table.

          Sam finished organizing the appetizers, her thoughts not quite as optimistic as Doris’s.   After all, what did anyone really know about this Ellery woman?  Her father had disappeared from town a half-century ago and until recently they’d all thought him dead.  Suddenly a private investigator finds he had a daughter, and just like that she’s to be crowned Queen Bee.  Would this stranger have the ability to organize charity events, set fashion trends for each season and play Hostess with the Mostess to everything from a BUNCO party to a posh garden party, continually WOW-ing her guests with culinary masterpieces?  Those skills are not passed down on the DNA, but instead learned by years of walking in the shadows of a mentor, as Sam had been doing the past forty years of her life under Miss Izzy’s careful tutelage.   Now some nobody from nowhere is sailing into town…

          “Belly up, people,” Henrietta Zucker announced.  “Dinner is served.”  The announcement was met with riotous applause from the guests who then stampeded toward the tables. 

          Sam grabbed a piece of broccoli and swiped it through the chipotle pepper dip before stepping away. Like goats to a feeding trough, Sam thought.   The beginning of the end of polite society. She could practically hear Miss Izzy spinning in her grave. 

          Before Sam could work her way to the beverage table to make sense out of that mess, Mystic Sayers, the beat reporter for the Braddocks Beach Bugle, shoved a microphone in Sam’s face.  “Care to comment on the palm trees?” she asked.

          Sam stared at Mystic, who was her usual rumpled self.  “I’m not aware of an issue with the palm trees,” Sam replied. 

          “They’re practically dead.  Waste of taxpayer money, if you ask me.  I believe it was your idea to bring in live palms to, let me see, what were your exact words?  Oh yeah, ‘To lend a tropical feel to our beaches which will bring in more tourist dollars.’ So, your comment for the record?”

          Sam owned up to saying those exact words.  And they did lend a tropical feel to the lakeside resort in central Ohio.  Feedback had been positive and tourism was up enough to warrant the cost of their purchase.  “What’s wrong with them?”

          “Nobody’s been watering them.”

          “What?”  Sam knew Miss Izzy had secretly hired the new police chief’s grandson who was visiting Braddocks Beach for the summer, in order to ensure Sam’s great idea didn’t fail.  But Miss Izzy was like that, quietly funding community events, never wanting nor expecting a bit of thanks from anyone in the community. 

          Come to think of it, Sam hadn’t seen hide nor hair of that redheaded imp, but then she’d been preoccupied with Miss Izzy’s death and funeral to worry about it.  Maybe he thought with her gone he wouldn’t get paid? 

          Sam quickly excused herself from Mystic, offered a quick “Thank you” to her hostess, hopped in the F350 and drove straight to the beach where, still dressed in her pale blue summer sweater and pearls, she proceeded to water the three dozen palm trees herself.  Really, sometimes she felt like The Little Red Hen.  Water the palm trees, organize the potluck, find out what really happened to Miss Izzy, and do her best to settle Ellery in to her new role as Braddocks Beach societal leader.  Was it to much to hope that she carried the Queen Bee gene on her DNA?

         

Follow the adventures of Sam and Ellery as they try to find out what really happened to Miss Izzy in the Avalon Mystery, The Blond Leading the Blond, available at a library near you or for purchase through the following links: 

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Beach Tale: "The Honor of Your Presence is Requested", a short prequel to THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND

          Have you ever felt like a dry martini, shaken not stirred?  I don’t mean felt like imbibing in one, I mean actually felt like the gin and vermouth inside a shaker where the bartender rattles it up and down and side to side to make sure all the ingredients are sufficiently blended but not bruised?  That’s how I’ve felt ever since the letter arrived from Geoffrey Maxamillion Eddington the Third, Esquire.  I don’t imagine anyone likes getting a letter from an attorney, but this one had the effect of shaking me like a martini. 

          On the surface, one might consider his request for "the honor of my presence for the reading of the Last Will and Testament (his capital letters, not mine) of one Isabel Genevieve Tinsdale," to be held June 11 at his office in Braddocks Beach, Ohio, to be a good thing.  There’s a hint that I might be a beneficiary of some sort, and with my current financial situation, well, any little bit would help.      

          But here’s the problem.  I’ve never heard of Braddocks Beach, let alone anyone by the name of Isabel Genevieve Tinsdale.  So I ran to my computer and Googled both and I discovered the small lakeside resort in east central Ohio to be nothing more than a dot on the map and found an obituary for the Tinsdale woman. Based on that, it seems a nomination for sainthood was immanent.

          Figuring they must have mistaken me for some other Ellery Elizabeth Tinsdale, I called this Geoffrey guy to tell him he had the wrong person.  He was out of the office, but his secretary asked me a question that had every last one of my neck hairs standing at full attention.

          “You are the daughter of Jack Elliott Tinsdale, born March 9, 1940, aren’t you?”

          “Yes,” I answered.  At least in my head.  My mouth didn’t seem to be functioning at the time.  How would she know who my father is?  He and my mother have been gone from this earth for more than 15 years. 

          “Miss Izzy was Jack’s little sister.”

          Oh.  Well then. That explained it.

          Not!

          When I had been about five years old, my mother told me that everyone from my dad’s side of the family, including his sister Bella, had been killed in some sort of tragic accident when he was 18 years old.  Mom warned me to never ask Dad about it because it upset him, so I never did.  Could Bella and Izzy be one and the same?  And if so, why then, up until a few days ago, had she been alive when Dad thought her dead? 

          “Why didn’t my aunt contact me before?” I asked, my voice revealing just a hint of the suspicion I was feeling.  Could this person be fishing for information so they could steal my identity?  Sure, I've heard horror stories about that stuff but I didn't think it would ever actually happen to me. 

          “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details with you,” the secretary said. 

          Nor was the secretary able to answer any of the other twenty questions I bombarded her with. But she did reveal just enough information to lead me to believe that this was no hoax.  I was due to inherit something, and anything that tied me to my father as a child, say a picture of him and my grandparents, would mean more to me than all the money in the world.  But truth be told, a little money would be nice, too.   

          Eventually, and in the most syrupy sweet voice, the secretary said, “If you are able to meet with Mr. Eddington on Friday at 2 p.m. you’ll get all the answers you need.” 

          “Okay.” Really, what choice did I have? 

          I brushed away the niggling worry that I would have to leave tomorrow and that the pilgrimage would take four days out of the two weeks that were already slammed full with myriad of things that needed to be done before my summer vacation, which had been three years in planning and saving.  I was booked on a cruise to Alaska, and my ship sailed in a little over two weeks.    

          “I’ll tell Mr. Eddington you’ve confirmed the appointment,” the secretary said. “He’s looking forward to meeting you, as is everyone else in Braddocks Beach.”  And she hung up.  Just like that, with the faintest of clicks, my tenuous connection to my father’s childhood was severed.

          Most self-respecting females when faced with the prospect of meeting kin she didn’t know existed for the first time would plan a trip to the mall.  And even though I had long ago accepted the fact that I had not been blessed with the Shopping Gene in my DNA, I did just that.  This was perhaps the one instance where a snazzy new outfit was needed.  I mean, I couldn’t very well show up in my teaching uniform of denim skirt and polo shirt now, could I?  So I dragged myself to McArthur Center in downtown Norfolk and blew an entire year’s clothing budget on one outfit, complete with shoes and a dab of classy (translation: pricey) jewelry. 

          On the afternoon of June 10^th, I threw an overnight case in the passenger seat, hung my new outfit on the garment hook and pointed the nose of Bessie (my bold and brassy Land Rover) northwest.

          No sooner had I cleared the limits of Virginia Beach than I got a craving for pimento stuffed olives.  Preferably ones at the bottom of a gently shaken martini.  

You can read what happens when Ellery gets to Braddocks Beach in The Blond Leading the Blond, a cozy mystery published by Avalon Books and available for reading at a library near you or for purchase from Barnes and Noble or Amazon.com

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If you missed the post of Aunt Izzy’s obituary, just click the Read More button to see it now.

Beach Tale: "Miss Izzy's Obituary" (the inciting incident for THE BLOND LEADING THE BLOND)

<<News clipping from the front page of the  Braddocks Beach Bugle, Braddocks Beach, Ohio, May 31)>>

Town Matriarch Dead at Age 63

          Isabel Genevieve Tinsdale, age 63, was found dead yesterday at the bottom of the stairs of the Braddocks Beach watchtower. Although the autopsy report is not expected to be released for two more days, sources involved in the clean-up efforts indicate that loss of blood will be listed as a contributory cause of death.

          Police have declared Miss Izzy’s tumble down three flights of steep, cement stairs to be an accident, although the reason she was visiting the watchtower at two o’clock in the morning leaves many asking questions. Don’t expect answers from the local authorities, as according to Braddocks Beach Police Chief Albert C. Bennett, “Delving into a citizen’s personal business is beyond the scope of our duty to protect and serve the community. Miss Izzy took that secret to her grave.”

          Our dearly departed Miss Izzy has taken more than secrets; also gone is the magic and mystery that defined our societal leader.  Her gracious spirit was mimicked but never duplicated.  Her boundless energy was admired but never matched.  Her financial generosity was appreciated but never publicly acknowledged.  Regal in conformation and character, she was a true local treasure. 

          Born on the steps of the old Town Hall (now the Tourist Welcome Center), Miss Izzy left her mark on our small lakeside town. As a ten-year-old, she started a

Teddy Bear Drive

for orphans. It became an annual event, which last year distributed over $1,000,000 worth of toys and clothes to impoverished children throughout Ohio. As a teenager, she staged the town’s first sit-in to protest rising school lunch prices. Her actions led to a free milk policy still in effect today. Most recently, she appointed herself Braddocks Beach’s Goodwill Ambassador, making daily rounds of local eateries to spin tales of local lore in the manner of the great Samuel Clemens (better known as Mark Twain). Thanks to Miss Izzy’s efforts, visitors to our town left feeling they were as much a part of Braddocks Beach history as the gingerbread trim that adorns the shops that encircle Town Park.

          Miss Izzy’s direct lineage to the town’s founding father gave her “royal” status among local society, leading to the official title of Town Matriarch. She served with grace, pride and flair. Her fashion choices set the trend for the season. Recipes for her culinary creations (when she shared) were hoarded like gold. Her bestselling book, Etiquette-liness is Next to Godliness, will proffer mannerly guidance to young men and women for generations to come.

          Throughout her life, Miss Izzy received many offers for her hand in marriage. Despite such romantic overtures as sky-written proposals, a newspaper headline declaring undying love and the legendary footprints painted in the street leading from both Tandy Grisholm’s and Miss Izzy’s front doors to the steps of the Braddocks Beach Church of Divine Spiritual Enlightenment, Miss Izzy chose to remain single. The consequences of this decision are that she produced no heirs to the great Tinsdale fortune. Undoubtedly, the reading of her Final Will and Testament will be the most anticipated event of the year.

          Miss Izzy is preceded in death by her parents, Jonathon and Gertrude “Irene” Tinsdale, and her brother, Jack Elliot Tinsdale. The existence of Jack’s daughter, Ellery Elizabeth Tinsdale, born in San Diego, CA was only recently discovered.  However despite Miss Izzy’s funding of exhaustive coast to coast searches, no record of Miss Ellery has been found in over 20 years and she is presumed dead. Thus Isabel’s passing is not only the end of an era, but also the end of the lineage.

          Isabel Tinsdale’s life will be celebrated in true “Miss Izzy style” with a potluck picnic and chamber music concert in Town Park on Saturday afternoon. Donations in lieu of flowers are requested to be made to the Braddocks Beach Historical Society (or as Miss Izzy was fond of calling it, the Hysterical Society), of which she was a founding member.

          I'm sure one and all will join me in saying, "Peace be with you, dear friend."

~Mystic Sayers,

Beat Reporter, Braddocks Beach Bugle

Beach Bling: Bookmarks

I hope you will excuse me a little BSP (in the writing biz, that’s the acronym for Blatant Self Promotion) but the Bling-i-est Bookmarks to ever hit the streets arrived on my doorstep this week.  They announce the upcoming release of my cozy mystery, The Blond Leading the Blond, on October 10 from Avalon Books.  And so, (if I could have a little drum roll please….) here they are:

Gotta send a SHOUT OUT to Su at Earthly Charms www.earthlycharms.com for not only the fantastic design, but also for the quick turnaround!  I had the proofs the same day as the request and the eye-catching and sturdy bookmarks at my house within the week.  Now that is service! 

Now I know you all are wondering how you, too, can own one of these limited edition bookmarks to tuck between the pages of your current read.  All you have to do is send your request, along with the address to where you would like them mailed, via my website contact link:  <<http://www.jayneormerod.com/contact_jayne.php>> And the best part?  They are free! 

There’s no doubt that this is what every good Beach Read will be sporting in 2012, so order yours while supplies last!  

Beach Tale: A Day in the Life of an Aspiring Mystery Writer

          4:00 a.m. – My husband kisses me goodbye before heading off to work.  I stretch like a calico coming out of a catnip-induced coma and plot--literally--the day.  Bailey, the quirky amateur sleuth in my current work-in-progress, keeps trying to jump into bed with Dante, my hunky, reluctant-sidekick cop.  He’s yummier than Godiva white chocolate domes with raspberry truffle filling.  Were I single--and fictional--I’d probably be romancing the pants off him myself.  But, we’re only in chapter two, and steamy sex without emotional commitment makes a girl look sleazy.  How can I convince Bailey to wait until chapter five at least?      

          6:00 a.m. – The alarm yanks me awake.  I must have dozed off while lecturing my characters.  I reach for my ipad, kept handy to record wispy snippets of dreams that will become the stepping stones of the next Great American Mystery Novel.  With a few keystrokes, I rearrange my day to make up for the lost hours.  Jobbing out the day’s errands is not in the budget, but I rationalize it as an investment in my career.  Someday I’ll be a rich and famous author and will hire a butler to take care of all life’s details...  I’m jerked out of my fantasy by the sound of children fighting over the use of the bathroom.  I’ll use the  royalties to hire a nanny, too.                  

          7:15 a.m. – The school bus driver stops and waits for my daughters to race down the driveway.  A trip across town would have wasted precious writing time.  Back on schedule, I pop Ritz Bits like they’re M&M’s as I commute to work, two flights up to the attic of our Victorian home.  Legend has it that in the late 19th century an insane Aunt Lizzie had been locked up here.  I can’t explain it, but I think there’s a little Aunt Lizzie in my heroine.  It certainly isn’t me driving all those lascivious thoughts. 

         

7:25 a.m. – First item on today’s agenda is Social Networking.  The bane of my existence.  Not because I don’t enjoy interacting with potential readers (I do, really!), but because it is a Time Hoover, sucking up precious hours that could better be spent writing my mystery novel.  But it’s a blog-eat-blog world out there.  There are thousands—if not millions of—of writer wannabes that share the details of their lives in order to build a readership for a book they haven’t written yet.  And I am one of them, so I dutifully invest a little (sometimes a lot) of my time to build my platform.  First up, Blog reading (32 of ’em) which require thoughtful or witty comments, then click over to Facebook to share with my “friends” what’s on my mind: Diet Coke IV hooked up and I’m ready to write! Then I spend a few minutes (or today it’s hours) reading a bit about what’s on other’s minds (OMG—my friend Sandra Brown Rarey posted “Scene by my driveway.  They’re putting up crime scene tape.  No idea what happened.”  What a great opening scene for my book!  I’m inspired!) Finally I sign on to Twitter.  Like a shotgun blast to the face, thousands of Tweets and Re-Tweets blast me, all clamoring for my attention.  I log off before my brain literally explodes.  Phew.  That was close.    

          Three hours later--Fingers warmed up and all synapses firing, I open my novel and check the progress calendar at the top of my document.  The plan is to write five pages a day, putting me on a pace of four-point-six novels per calendar year.  I should be on page 95.  I scroll to the end of my document--page 30.  Sixty-five pages behind schedule.  I up my daily writing goals to ten pages a day for the next three weeks.  Doable, if I forsake laundry and housework.  One must make sacrifices for one’s craft, I remind myself.     

          10:45 a.m. - Thalia, the muse of humor, has chosen to sleep in this morning.  Without her influence, my writing is flat.  Experience has shown the best way to wake her up is with a bowl of Heavenly Hash ice cream.  Quick trip to the kitchen is in order, then right back to work.    

          10:55 a.m. - The phone rings. My sister’s voice squeals through the answering machine, “Dalton left his science project on the front seat of my car and I’ve got a meeting with the boss in ten minutes--I think I might be getting that promotion to senior VP and then we can afford that new house on South Cleveland Street--and since you’re not doing anything right now I need you to pick it up from my house and run it over to the school or he’s going to fail science, and you know that failure is not acceptable in our family.  Thanks, you’re a sweetie, and I owe you.  Bye.”  Beep.  I delete the message.  She’s right--failure is not an option.  For me.  I sigh heavily and go back to work.         

          11:00 a.m. - I remember a brilliant scene I’d written in a short story workshop a year ago.  With a little tweaking, it will fit in this book, enabling me to exceed my daily writing goals before lunch!  I scroll through work-in-process folder.  Not there.  I conduct hard drive search using every keyword that might have been in the filename.  The little dog icon on the screen wags his tale expectantly, but turns up nothing.  I wade through the thousands of files in my recycle bin.  Still no luck.  Hard copy?  Not to be found.  Those brilliant passages are lost forever.      

          12:35 p.m. – My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t sent anything even remotely nutritional its way since last night’s dinner.  I needed sustenance.  And my brain needed a break.  I grab a mystery novel to “study” during while I eat a PBandJ, because reading is a critical component to becoming a better writer. 

          2:00 p.m. – YIKES!  Janet Evanovich sure knows how to pull a reader into the story!  I could learn a few things from her!  But no more time to study, I need to get back to work.  Back in my office, I pop a Relaxing Escape CD into the boom box, light a gardenia-scented candle, twist the blinds to cut the afternoon sun’s glare on the computer screen, settle back in my leather chair and start playing Spider Solitaire.  Thalia is still on her lunch break but should be back momentarily.    

          3:15 p.m. – The sound of school bus rumbling through the neighborhood yanks me back to reality.  Not only haven’t I typed a single page, I haven’t even dressed for the day.  But, I’ve logged in my eight hours of BITCh (Butt In The Chair) time, so that validates my day of work as a professional writer.  Time to escape from my imaginary world and reenter the real one.     

          4:45 p.m. – While daughters chase soccer balls and butterflies around the field, I sneak off to the grocery store in search of something to cook for dinner.  While surveying the canned soup display for potential quick meal ideas, I try to tune out the voices in my head.  Why now?  Why not two hours ago when I was sitting in front of the computer?  I let Bailey speak, so-to-speak.  She’s trying, as tactfully as possible, to find out what Dante knows about the dead body found in her living room.  “So, Dante, have you heard the results of the autopsy report yet?”  What could he respond?  Hmmmm.  A line from an old movie pops into my head. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”  I glance around to see a mother grabbing her daughter’s hand and tugging the girl away from me.  The frightened look in the woman’s eyes tells me I’d said that out loud.  I start to explain that I’m a writer and writers are allowed to talk to themselves, but they are racing towards the frozen food section.  I grab a family-sized box of macaroni and cheese and a package of hot dogs and head to the checkout stand before I have to explain myself to the police.

          9:00 p.m. – With my dearly beloved snoring in the recliner, I tune in the voices in my head.  Bailey is being witty and Dante is being oh, so charming and an idea for a red herring pops into my head.  I race upstairs to my computer.  The muses work faster than my fingers can type.  Bailey goes chasing after the killer with Dante in hot pursuit.  Pure literary gold. 

          1:59 a.m. – My muses retire for the night.  So do I, slipping quietly between the sheets, I snuggle against wonderful husband who is supportive of my dream to be a mystery writer.  Had somebody told me the work would be hard and the hours crazy, or that the occupation lonely, sometimes frustrating and often fattening (especially when my muses require constant feeding of ice cream and peanut butter), or that the chances of landing a lucrative publishing contract were equal to that of being eaten by a bear, I probably would have continued my career as a CIA (that’s not a sexy spy-thing, but a Certified Internal Auditor.)   But then no CIA (agent or auditor) I know has a book with their name on it shelved in the National Library of Congress. 

  

Announcement regarding The Blond Leading the Blond

We interrupt the regularly scheduled Beach Bling blog post with this late-breaking and totally rockin' announcement...

Cover art for The Blond Leading the Blond arrived in my inbasket yesterday.  And <<<drum roll please…>>> here it is!

The scheduled release date is October, 2011.  Only 9 weeks away.  Yikes! 

So now I have to muster up my inner-cheerleader and start promoting myself.  I could use a little advice here.  In the comments section, please tell me what makes you check out the details of a book to see if you’d like to risk your hard earned dollars on a new author.  Do you judge a book by it's cover?  Do you pay attention to tweets?  Blog posts?  Listserve BSPs?  Recommendations from friends?  Or does a tchotchke from a meeting, conference or book signing give you the impetus to Goggle the book?  If so, what tchotchkes work best? Bookmarks?  Pens?  Trading cards? Something else?  I welcome any and all ideas.  And if I sound desperate for a knock-your-socks-off promotional gimmick, it’s because I am!