Daylight Saving and Small Beginnings (3/13/11)

The calendar turns, the sun rises earlier and sets later, and suddenly here we are back on Daylight Saving Time. I, for one, wish we’d stay on it. I resent the twice-yearly resetting of my internal clock and I recently read somewhere that efficiency and mental acuity both drop off during this period of readjustment. Why can’t we just move the clocks a half-hour ahead once and for all and leave it there?

Or we could emulate the ancient Romans and divide the daylight hours into 12 equal parts. Our daytime hours would be 75 minutes long in summer and only 44 minutes long in winter, which seems fair to me.

In the meantime, a dozen green seedlings sit here in the east window of my office with their promise of ripe red tomatoes to come as the daylight hours turn from spring to summer.

Hard to think that each spindly plant is going to turn into a four- or five-foot tall bushy vine.

On the other hand, I’ve just written the first 500 words of the 79,500 words that should come before we turn the clocks back again. Deborah’s nephew Reese has just scooped up a dead squirrel from the highway and put it in a Tupperware bin in the back of his truck. I’m not totally clear on what he plans to do with it, but knowing Reese, you can be sure it’s not quite what you might expect. I just hope that these 500 words produce as much fruit as those seedlings will.

Come over to my Facebook page and tell me what you think of Daylight Saving Time.

*************************

Death of a Butterfly (3/7/11)

Death of a Butterfly is the second in my Sigrid Harald series. Out of print for years, it is now available as an eBook from Nook and, by the time you read this I hope, from Kindle. The new cover was designed by Paper Moon Graphics in Raleigh. Although it can be read as a standalone, it does follow on the heels of One Coffee With and uses characters introduced there.

Synopsis:

Artist Oscar Nauman continues to insinuate himself into Sigrid Harald’s personal life but their idyllic Saturday morning outing is cut short when she is called to a homicide scene. A beautiful young mother has been struck down in her sunny upscale apartment and lies on the tiled kitchen floor like a crumpled butterfly pinned for display. Sigrid soon discovers that Julie Redmond’s fragile beauty hid an amoral character and that there were many who will not mourn her, including her toddler’s surrogate grandparents, her ex-husband, her thieving brother, and a former lover that she was blackmailing.

Although Sigrid tries to keep it professional, she finds herself emotionally pulled by those whom the dead woman had hurt. To her absolute dismay, she is also asked to assist in a home birth and to provide shelter for a temporary roommate. To cap her discomfort, her building is going condo and she’ll have to buy or move.

For someone who has always kept her personal life on the back burner and totally separate from her work, Sigrid is suddenly plunged deeper and deeper into relationships that threaten her equilibrium.

Halfway through the book, one of my writer friends shook her head in amusement. “Poor Sigrid,” she said. “You put her up a tree and then you throw rocks at her.”

First time around, most people didn’t see the humor in these books. This time, I’m getting delightful comments as my readers catch on and realize that Sigrid’s prickly nature is a not very protective armor when it comes to life and love.

Even though she’s quite different from Judge Deborah Knott, my North Carolina protagonist, this New Yorker has slowly gained a partisan readership. Hope you’ll try one of the books to see why.

Book Signings

For the last few years, my books have always been launched at Quail Ridge Books and Music in Raleigh, and this year was no exception.  Again, it was a nice crowd (and if you were there, it was good to see you even if we might not have had more than a minute to talk.)  I had a few remarks prepared, but as soon as I looked over all those faces, I couldn’t help but remember my very first book signing at Quail Ridge, back when it was Quail Corners Book Store in a different location outside the beltline. 

Death of a Butterfly, my second Sigrid Harald mystery, had just been published.  Somehow the store owner, Nancy Olson had heard about it and invited me to come.  I was thrilled.  I was famous!  I was going to have a real signing.  How exciting!

At the store, there didn’t seem to be many cars around.  In fact, that part of the parking lot was so empty that we could park right at the door.  The store itself appeared to be deserted.  There was a clerk at the front desk and Nancy soon came out from the back to introduce herself and make us welcome.  I apologized for being a little early and confessed that I’d been too excited to come at the proper time.  

Well, the proper time came and went, but no one else did.  In the end, it was me, my husband, my mother, Nancy, and the clerk she probably had to bribe to come and sit and pretend to be interested as I talked about the book and even, at Nancy’s kindly insistence, read a page or two.

It was my baptism by fire.  Every writer I know has a similar story.  The times we’ve sat in malls and directed customers to the cookbook section or the nearest water fountain while our books sit unsold.  The humiliation of entering the signing room at Bouchercon or Malice and seeing a huge line in front of our table only to realize that we’re supposed to sit between Mary Higgins Clark and Donald Westlake.  Their lines, not ours.  And feeling pathetically grateful if one or two people take pity and ask us to sign the program book. 

My favorite signing story is of a friend who was booked into a small store somewhere in the southwest.  His mysteries had begun to take off, he’d been nominated for major prizes, and he was starting to garner some attention.  But when he got there, no one was in the shop except the two little old ladies who owned it.  They set out a plate of scones and watercress sandwiches, and invited him to join them for tea.  “And maybe you’ll sign some of your books for us?”

Embarrassed, he drank his tea, ate a scone and afterwards signed the four books they had in stock, which should have told him something right there.  Finally, after another cup of tea, when it was clear that no one was coming, he prepared to leave.  As he stood up to go, he apologized profusely that the signing had been such a failure.    “Oh, no, dear!” said one of the ladies.  “We didn’t tell anyone you were coming.  We wanted you all to ourselves.  And hasn’t it been fun!”

Happily, Nancy Olson didn’t keep Friday night a secret.

(Click here to read a sample chapter of Death's Half Acre.)

photo by Robert Witchger