A week or so ago I came across a couple of articles on Twitter that really made me think about racism, particularly how it relates to my own writing. The first article is more generally about ‘hipster racism’—I’m not sure I have a working definition of ‘hipster’ yet, so you’re going to have to read that one yourself. The second article points out the dearth of minority main characters, particularly in shows set in New York. Both of those articles gave me pause. Why don’t I have more minority characters? Is it because I suffer from this ‘hipster racism’?

Maybe I write too much of what I know? But, Sally, you say, you have all sorts of different friends. And this is true. Some of my favorite people on this planet just happen to be black or Hispanic or gay, but my high school had a minority population of less than ten percent. I didn’t meet my first openly gay person until I was in college as he nonchalantly told me his boyfriend had tossed him out. Naïve and sheltered by geography, I spent a good deal of my life being uncomfortable about people who were “other” simply because almost everyone I knew was white.

Maybe I’m afraid I won’t get it right? I’ve been criticized for my portrayal of teachers (I was a teacher), of southerners (yep, one of those two), and even of bean-pickers (did my share of that, too). I could dismiss those comments, though, because I knew my interpretation was, at the very least, true to my own experience. One of the first criticisms to really hurt me, though, was that of my gay florist. He was a former football player long before Cameron on Modern Family  or Karofsky on Glee made such characters cool. He was probably a touch too effeminate, but to me he had depth and courage to live so openly in such a small town. What did the judges say? Stereotypical. Then I had an African American woman lawyer. In my mind she was as tough as nails because she’d had to be. In my mind, her struggle to get out of the projects mirrored my protagonist’s struggle with her rural roots. What did the students who critiqued it say? Stereotypical. I’d love to defend myself on that one, but that critique scarred me to the point I took her out of the novel and didn’t write another black character until my current WIP. Honestly, it’s hard for me to say if the problem came from the characters I created or my inability to convey who they were on paper. I can assure you I’ve never intentionally written a stereotypical caricature, but both of those stories came from early on in my career when I couldn’t even write educated-country-girl-with-a-love-of-cows properly.

Maybe—and I think we have a winner here—maybe I’m afraid of what my friends would say. Maybe I’m afraid I won’t have any friends after I finish writing this blog post, but sometimes we need to speak the truth. My truth is that I don’t know what’s up with the writers on Sex in the City, Friends, Seinfeld, Girls, or How I Met Your Mother, but I think it’s possible that they, too, don’t write minority characters out of fear. And the more I think about that fear, the more I believe the only way we are ever going to get beyond racism is to eradicate fear in all of its forms whether it be the more insidious fear of people who aren’t exactly like you or the less harmless yet still debilitating fear of disappointing or offending those we love and respect.

So, I vow to include more diversity in my books–and by diversity I mean anyone who’s not exactly like me. I’ve been wrestling with a particular story that needs to be told through a male perspective, and I’ve had trouble squaring with that. But good writing, the best writing stretches us in a quest for truth. Keeping my little fictional world lily white, exceedingly female, and straight as an arrow is a) unrealistic and b)cowardly.

P.S. On this Tuesday right after Mother’s Day, I want to say thank you to my mother. She shaped my thoughts. She taught me that all people are God’s children. She taught me to look beyond prejudice and stereotype and to always imagine how the other person feels in any situation. Any mistakes I make are mine, but I’m so lucky to have had such a loving and empathetic person as my mother.

When I thought about it, though, I at least knew Beulah Land was my best work. It’s a lot like meeting your husband and knowing he is the only man for you. I enjoyed “dating” several of the other genres I wrote in, but with Beulah I just knew.

I started with a western historical, if you can believe that. It’s terrible. I can’t write historical to save my soul, so I’m going to stick to reading that category and letting better qualified folks like Jenni McQuiston write them. My second novel was a southern women’s fiction. Unfortunately, it was too autobiographical in many respects—still I could tell I was getting a little warmer because it did win an award at the Harriette Austin Conference back in the day. It’s also the novel that got me into the MAPW program at Kennesaw State. Persephone’s story shows some glimpses of who I am, but I lacked the skills needed to make it whole.

Next I decided to try my hand at a Harlequin American. The result? Married to the Mortician. Really. I did this. Not only did I actually write this story, but Kathleen Schiebling was kind enough to request it and to even consider it briefly before sending it back with some detailed notes. Fortunately, those characters live in the same small town as Beulah and can be fleshed out into their own story. I consider that novel to be an example of my voice breaking through in spite of myself. Yeah, I’ll leave categories to Tanya.

Then, I had this crazy idea for a paranormal story. I have to confess it was partially inspired by a contest entry I once read in which the heroine was the worst teacher ever. Having been a teacher myself, I wrote my heroine as a “real” teacher only to get the comment, “Do you actually know any teachers?” Several lessons learned here: A) I can’t write paranormal, in part because my heroes have to “man up” as Nicki Salcedo so succinctly put it, and B) I need to be more humble in my response to others. Not a single one of us is the only arbiter of taste.

Finally, the idea for Beulah’s story came to me. Her story is a combination of everything that had come before: an appreciation for history and tradition from my western, a love of small towns from Persephone and Married to the Mortician, and big ol’ slice of humble pie courtesy of the paranormal-that-should-not-be-named. My only question to all of you is this: are you writing what you really want to write or are you writing what should win you a contest, what should make your mama proud, or what should make you money? Just as I found my future husband the same week I decided to concentrate on my studies instead of boys, I found my true writing self once I said, “Screw it. I’m going to write what I want to write.”

So, that’s the only piece of advice I have to give: say screw it. A lot. No, seriously, don’t write for someone else because it’s never going to ring true. And I want to say thank you. Somewhere out there in RWAlandia are judges who read Beulah’s story and loved it. I appreciate you, whoever you are and wherever you are, because you didn’t dismiss the story of my heart for being a little different.

And to everyone else kind enough to read this ramble? Search yourself and tell the story of your heart.

P.S. In my current WIP, I’m combining Shakespeare, American folklore, and cows. What about you? As a little extra incentive, I’ll be giving away a $10 amazon credit to one lucky commenter who can A) tell me where I got the title for this piece and B) shares a little about his/her own journey to finding the right genre. If you want to be in the running, you’ll have to do both because I really was a teacher and a stickler for following directions at that!

So back to the launch party. There I am, courtesy of my kind husband’s pledge to keep the kids—and with book in hand, thanks to Tanya Michael’s best Christmas present ever. There’s a long line, a ton of people, and I am completely star struck. Kinda like the time I met Harry Connick, Jr. Or how Joshilyn herself felt about meeting Stephen Colbert. (And she does a much better treatment of this subject that you can find here—if you promise to come back and finish reading mine because I’m needy like that.)I finally get up to meet her, clutching my two books, and she and the bookseller are engaged in some kind of witty negotiating over the proceedings of the evening. Their conversation ends with Joshilyn saying, “No, there are only six people in my world.” She lists husband, kids, I think the dog, the bookseller and adds “and Sally over here.” I walk away clutching my book and inwardly jumping up at down like my 1989 self at a New Kids on the Block concert. I’m one of only 6 people in Joshilyn Jackson’s world!!!!

 And the whole episode—on top of highlighting what an idiot child I am—got me to thinking about the importance of interacting with other authors and of being a fan girl. There’s a magic that comes from interacting with those who manipulate the words on the page in a way that speaks to you personally. I treasure my e-mail from Tess Gerritsen where she encouraged me not to give up. I came up with the idea for Beulah Land while sitting in a Dianna Love and Mary Buckham workshop. Leigh Michaels once gave me some great advice when I was seeking agents. I had the luck of having Stephanie Bond critique my work at the Gin Ellis Workshop one year, and she has always been a fount of spot on advice. One of my favorite moments was at M&M 2010 when Sherrilyn Kenyon said, “What can I do for you, baby girl?” I mean, really. Sherrilyn Kenyon called me baby girl?!  Another favorite moment? At M&M 2009, I didn’t have my copy of Heros and Heroines for Tami Cowden to sign. She signed a business card, and I sighed and groused a little about it not having the same mojo as if she’d signed the book. She snatched back the card and wrote “Feel the Mojo!” Priceless.

But one of my favorite moments actually happened in the Still Elementary cafeteria. I ran into Tanya, oh she of the awesome present, there and she says to her daughter, “This is Miss Sally. She’s a writer just like Mommy.” But, no, not just like Mommy. Tanya had written well over 20 categories and 2 women’s fiction novels at that time. I had written stuff best used as under the bed dust bunny repellent. To have a published author acknowledge that I, an unpublished writer, was just like her? That was a pivotal moment. Tanya’s words gave me the validation I needed to stop saying I was an “aspiring” novelist. No, I was a novelist. I am a novelist.  Even if I’m never published, I’m still a novelist because I write novels and try to get a little better with each one I write. And I greatly admire the work of Tanya Michaels, but I’m even fonder of my friend, Tanya Michna.

 So those are just a few of the moments when I’ve rubbed elbows with the literati. What about you? Do you have any inspiring moments with published authors that you would like to share?

P.S. No, Michna, where in the blue hell would I be without you? No doubt, I’d be out there blushing, blinking twice and trying to make every day Arbor Day.

Remember that episode of Friends where they were talking about their “freebie lists”? You know, the five celebrities you can sleep with, and your significant other can’t get mad about it? A couple of years ago, I made a startling discovery about my top five list: it’s usually not the actor I’m attracted to, rather a character he plays.

I really got to thinking about the subject the other day when Angela James asked on Twitter, “Why is Viggo Mortenson so hot in Lord of the Rings?” *raises hand emphatically in the style of Hermione* Because Aragorn is hot. Who doesn’t love a wandering mortal king in love with an immortal elf who finally steps up to the plate, kicks some major ass, and gets the girl and kingdom after all? Viggo almost made my list based on those movies.

Need a better example? David Boreanz had been on the list for quite some time. Then I did the unfortunate act of googling him to see what he had beenup to and those activities included cheating on his Playmate wife. I put my Angel ornament on the tree so that it faced the corner. He needed to think about what he’d been doing. That said, the character he played, Angel, is the poster child for a tall, dark, and handsome brooding loner in search of redemption.And let’s not forget he was more than a little dangerous what with true happiness bringing out his inner demon quite literally. Angel stays on the list; David has to go.

But what better way to illustrate my point than to admit—please don’t cart me off to the nut house—that a completely fictional character stole my heart? Yep. I have a thing for Flynn Ryder. Yes, he is an animated character, and, no, I am not alone. (You know who you are!) I probably couldn’t pick Zachary Levi out of a line up, but I love Flynn Ryder. He’s handsome with a sense of humor, a vulnerable side, and a frying pan. And that ultimate sacrifice he makes? That’s what makes the ladies swoon.

Finally, in the area of characters who have charmed me, I adore adventurer Rick O’Connell from The Mummy movies. Just ask my husband. He never wants to watch The Mummy again because I have watched it so many times. Brendan Fraser has had a pretty comfy spot on the list thanks to him. As long as I never watch Monkeybone, I think he’ll be safe.

And how do you know someone on the list is truly a keeper? When you still like him even though he’s played characters you can’t stand. Johnny Depp played Ed Wood and Sweeney Todd, among MANY other weirdos. No problem. Harry Connick, Jr played a serial killer in Copycat. Fine by me. (She says nonchalantly even though she was so traumatized by the movie that she couldn’t listen to his music for at least three months and still gets nervous in bathrooms with black and white tile) I’m the only person in America who doesn’t have the hots for Coach Taylor, but Kyle Chandler has been on the list since he played Jeff on Homefront. The Rock (The Great One, The People’s Champ) played the Tooth Fairy and disappointed me by being a baddie in Get Smart. And Nathan Fillion? He can play whoever he wants, although I confess I’m rather partial to Captain Tightpants and one Rick Castle.

The best part of this is that my husband has nothing to fear, even if I did happen upon one of the men from my “freebie five list” in a coffee shop. I only like them for the people they tend to play. I love him for exactly who he is. What about you, folks? Who’s on your “Freebie 5”?

This is but a fraction of my to-be-read pile:

But, wait, there’s more…

Here you have 24 books. Last year I read a little over 40 books. This really bummed me out up until the point where I realized I was also taking the Disciple class which means I read over half of the Old Testament and an accompanying study guide. So, I can count each book of the Bible as a separate book, right? Boost my numbers? Okay, guess I shouldn’t be using the Word of God for that.

Here are a couple of other factors to take into consideration. I’m working on Backseat Saints right now, and I have a grown-up kind of pretty in my hot little hands. Joshilyn Jackson takes precedence over anything in the TBR pile. Her books don’t even sit on top of the TBR pile. No, no, they wave and stick out their tongues at the TBR pile. Oh, and if Tess Gerritsen has a book come out this year? It goes straight to the top, too. Also, critique partners, like the prolific and delightful Tanya Michaels and the yet to be discovered but equally delightful Romily Bernard and Jenni McQuiston, get first dibs. ‘Cause they rock.

Let’s talk other parameters. First, take a look at the two pictures above and tell me where to start. DISCLAIMER: if you see a book you absolutely think I shouldn’t read, please just send me an e-mail. I don’t want any book bashing on this site. If you can’t say something nice, then don’t say anything at all. If it’s really negative, I will delete it. I taught high school for eight years and have ushered two kids past the terrible twos. Don’t try me. Remember, different strokes for different folks. I just saw a review for Karen White’s The House on Tradd Street that claimed that Jack was the most obnoxious character in the book and that it would have been better off without him. I nobly resisted the urge to respond that the reviewer had to be on the crack-weed because he was my absolute favorite character in the book. Moral of the story? Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean it’s bad. (See here:  Kilpatrick, Sally—opinion of the Twilight saga.)

Second, you’ve got to tell me why. Hello? English major here! Back up those arguments, people! (I will not require a well-developed five paragraph essay, but that’s only because I wouldn’t have time to read all of the comments if I did.)

Final caveat: is there something I’m missing that isn’t in the stack? Please keep in mind that some of these titles are going to demonstrate just how woefully behind I am in my reading. If you’re going to add to my virtual TBR pile, then you’re really going to have to have a great reason I should read your book.

It’s a great problem to have, isn’t it? My friend Travis once said he thought he would actually keel over and die if he didn’t have at least one other book lined up to read. I can’t imagine ever being able to read everything I want to read. Wanna weigh in on how you keep up with your reading? I’d be happy to take some general advice on the subject, too.

And—what am I doing?—to celebrate Petit Fours and Hot Tamales’ anniversary month, I’m going to give a $10 Amazon credit to one lucky commenter today. I’m such an enabler. I have no doubt that your TBR pile looks a lot like mine. For one of you, it’s about to get that much taller.

She Had to Know How the Story Ended

When Skirt Boy jerked the phone from her hand, Désirée knew she was a dead woman.

He didn’t use the Louisville Slugger in his other hand, but he did grab the rope that tied her wrists together. The hatred in his eyes made her whimper.

“Get up.” He spat the words.

Désirée tried to get to her feet but stumbled and fell. Dazed, she looked over to see that the heel had broken off her right Jimmy Choo.

“I said, get up.” Skirt Boy grabbed the rope that bound her wrists with so much force that he dragged her a couple of feet on her knees. Her stockings tore on the dried plant stalks of the fallow field, and her knees screamed in protest as those same stalks dug into her skin.

“You…you,” was all she could whimper. Had she actually called this boy harmless just a few days earlier?

“Shut up!” He curled his hands into fists. Désirée flinched but the blow didn’t come. Instead he threw her phone to the ground and used his bat like a pestle, grinding the sophisticated electronics into the ground.

Désirée took a deep breath and forced her shaky legs to hold her. She didn’t want to end up like her phone.

She kicked off her useless shoe and was about to take off the other one when inspiration struck.

“That’s better. Now walk.”

He grabbed her arm both to steady her while she wobbled and to keep her from running. He was leading her back to the hovel not far from the library.

Désirée kicked off her other shoe and wondered if Detective Bonner would ever think to look there.

# # #

Danny Bonner ran a hand through his hair. He shouldn’t have left her. The minute he saw Désirée’s name on that book he should have stayed with her twenty-four-seven. Instead, he’d been called into the office to speak with an au pair who had mysteriously disappeared. The Kitteridge family had no idea where she’d gone or why.

He slammed his hand down on the top of his cruiser, glad to feel something even if it was pain. He didn’t have all the clues. He didn’t have Désirées’s ability to “read” books, and he didn’t even have her. He did have two dead bodies, and he was about to have a third if he didn’t do some thinking. And fast.

He slid into the car and slumped against the wheel. Deep, deep in his subconscious he had somehow envisioned that he would have Désirée here to help him crack the case.  Sure, he’d told her to stay out of his business at first, but she had a way of figuring things out—not that he was ready to call it psychic abilities or anything—and all kinds of databases.

Databases. When he’d left she’d been cross-referencing information, compiling lists, and printing them on the computer. Maybe if he went back to the library, he’d find something in the lists she’d been printing.

# # #

“What do you want from me?”

Désirée cowered in one corner of the crudely built lean-to about five-hundred feet from the new library. It stank of body odor, urine and mildew, but those off-putting smells weren’t what truly nauseated her. No, Skirt Boy sat in front of her sharpening and polishing a hunting knife large enough to gut a bison.

“I don’t want anything from you. You just keep poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Just like Ada Rawlings and Fred Carson did. We had a nice thing going, but some people just never know when to butt out.”

We? So Skirt Boy wasn’t working alone.

“I-I can butt out. I promise. If you’ll just let me leave, I won’t say a word.”

He smiled down at the knife he was sharpening, the twist of his lips reflected in the steel.

“No, it’s too late for that,” he said as he lifted the knife to the naked light bulb that was attached to an orange extension cord. Désirée sucked in a breath. He had to be getting the electricity from somewhere. Maybe Bonner would be able to follow the cord….

He leaned forward, the flash of light on the blade blinding her. He held the blade against her neck, and she closed her eyes instinctively. She knew she should struggle, but she was afraid the knife would slice into her neck if she moved.

A trickled of blood slid down her throat with an eerie tickle.

“Jacques! Not yet!”

Gone was Skirt Boy and his knife. Désirée sucked in a deep breath, blinking furiously at the woman just beyond the light bulb.

She knew that voice. Her mind whipped through memories as quickly as Celeste Rogers’ gnarled fingers had once moved through the actual card catalog, flipping the cards fast enough to create a breeze. The voice was so familiar, but something was different, a little off—

“We’re going to have to leave earlier than expected because that idiot police officer has already figured out she’s missing.”

Mais non, Mademoiselle.

“Then why not kill her now?” Skirt Boy obviously wanted to play with his new toy.

“Because she will be too easy to find, and so will we.”

We have come to see zee books.

Giselle.

Désirée blinked twice. She had known Giselle and Skirt Boy were close, but she would have never imagined in a million years that they were partners in crime.

“Why?”

Both of them looked to her from where they stood at the entrance to the lean-to. She really hadn’t meant to ask the question, but as a woman who had to know how the story ended, she wasn’t really surprised the question had escaped her lips.

Giselle took a step forward up just underneath the light bulb where the canvas roof of the lean-to started its sharp decline. “The Kitteridges are an abomination, and their children are brats. Jacques has been stealing antiques and I have been selling them on the black market to make enough money to retire for life. At least we were until your librarian friend tried to blackmail us. We had to take care of her, but then Carson wanted out of the deal.”

The Tick Tock Bandit.

Ada’s sudden ability to afford a deluxe Mediterranean cruise on a small-town librarian’s pay.

The antique clock from the French Riviera that must not have been going to Ada, but rather to Giselle.

Désirée’s mind swam with the possibilities. “But why kill her? And why now?”

Giselle smiled. “We hit the jackpot with one of the Kitteridges’ antique clocks. We only needed a private buyer….and to tie up some loose ends. Like you.” She turned on her heel and walked back to the doorway. Obviously, she didn’t have trouble walking in her designer boots with the four-inch spiked heels. Désirée  felt an irrational stab of jealousy. Then she reminded herself that she would be feeling the stab of something else if she didn’t figure a way out of this mess.

# # #

Bonner found all of Désirée’s lists, still on the computer where she’d left them. He took one look at the summer reading display on the library table closest to the circulation desk and swiped it clear with one arm. He then carefully laid out each of the lists, arranging and rearranging the papers as though he were a general in the war room trying to figure out the best strategy.

It didn’t make sense.

He would have suspected Darren Bennett, but his alibi had been air-tight for both murders. Gertie Johnson and the Happy Hookers were all over the lists Désirée had pulled up, but he had a feeling their weapon of choice would have been a crochet needle. He frowned. Apparently, Giselle had participated in one of the reading groups, as had Ada. Even Giselle’s friend Jacques had shown up for the book club for a couple of months.

And Giselle had been at the station just before Désirée disappeared.

Of course, that unlikely assistant librarian had shown up just before Bonner left, too.

Bonner frowned. What was his name again?

His phone rang before he could remember. “Bonner.”

Something wrapped around his feet, and he cursed right into Gertie Johnson’s ear before he realized the culprit was Désirée’s flea-bitten cat.

“Well, good evening to you, too, Detective Bonner!”

“Sorry, Gertie. Can you tell me anything helpful about what happened tonight?”

“There’s nothing to tell. We did our hooking. That new assistant librarian—such a nice man if you can get past his earring and all that—offered to take SueEllen home, and Désirée offered to lock up. She said something about finishing up her homework before she left.”

She had been working on the lists for him. And, knowing her, she had forgotten to lock the front door while she worked. The new guy could have easily driven SueEllen the two blocks over and then doubled back to get her. The more Bonner thought about it, the less coincidental the new librarian’s appearance seemed.

“Detective Bonner?”

“Sorry. I was just thinking. You’ve been helpful, Gertie. Thanks.”

She said goodbye, and he muttered his. At the moment it all seemed to hinge on this assistant librarian—if that’s who he really was.

# # #

Oh, no. Danny’s going down the wrong path! I knew there was something fishy with that au pair. But will Danny rescue Désirée in time? Tune in tomorrow and find out.

In the meantime…yes, that’s right. Leave a comment for a chance to win.

Dangerous Vibes

“So, let me get this straight:  The FedEx guy is Fred Carson, who apparently had been secretly dating Ada Rawlings for two months and wanted to marry her.  But she was going on a singles’ cruise to meet a man she’d met on the Internet and was convinced he was going to propose.”  Danny Bonner stopped to take a breath.

Miss Devereaux’s green eyes never left his.  “Don’t forget the clock.”

The clock.  Of course there was a clock.  And a skull, a dagger, and an Aubusson carpet. He opened his mouth to tell her she was out of her gourd, but the earnest expression of those eyes stopped him.  He couldn’t tell her she was a loon.  Even if she did claim to be able to pick up a book and be able to tell something about the person who’d read it.  Maybe he didn’t work in the big city, but he’d seen enough as a cop to believe in the here and now—what he could see and touch.

Bonner shook himself from his reverie.  “Right.   The clock.  I’m sure you’re into all of the conspiracy theories and know who was on the grassy knoll and if he or she acted alone, but…”

“Actually, it was a ‘she’.”

She really was bat-shit crazy.  “I don’t care if it was an alien.  I don’t do cold cases.  What I’m saying is I don’t think your buddy Fred or the clock had anything to do with the death of Miss Rawlings or the vandalism.  I don’t even think the vandalism had anything to do with Miss Rawlings.  Just some punk kids who thought it’d be fun…”

“But the same person who killed Ada also wrote in those books.”  Miss Devereaux fidgeted with the ruffles on what appeared to be an expensive blouse, but her eyes still radiated that earnest concern.  Bonner was a pretty good judge of character, and he didn’t take her for a liar.  Still, he said nothing.  He wasn’t going to lend credence to her crazy Jedi mind trick of reading books or whatever crazy mess she had been spouting a couple of weeks ago.

“I know because I felt it when I picked up the books.  The same person was here both times.  The same person who wrote in those books took the life. . . .”  She swallowed hard, and he gauged real emotion.

“Miss Devereaux.”  He placed his hand on top of hers.  “I know you believe you can really tell me something useful, but I can’t tell a jury that it’s so because a woman picked up a book and told me so.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously.  “Fine.  I’ll prove it to you.”

# # #

Désirée knew she shouldn’t have closed the library early just to prove to Detective Bonehead that she knew what she was talking about.  That said, if she didn’t get to the bottom of what was going on, the new branch library would be closed indefinitely and she would be back at the Main Branch doing all the things that old biddy Celeste Rogers didn’t want to do.

She rolled her shoulders back into the passenger seat of Bonner’s cruiser.  He’d believe her when she picked up that Stephanie Bond book he’d been reading.  Then she’d be able to tell if he was partial to boxers or briefs and that he’d spent the night eating popcorn while watching Skinemax or whatever other embarrassing thing he might have been doing.

She cut her eyes to study his profile.  He wasn’t what she would have expected from one of Harrow County’s finest.  He was too lean, too angular to be one of the good ol’ boys who were generally well-rounded from one too many Michelobs.  No, his patrician features almost bespoke privilege, but she’d heard rumors that no one in town knew who his daddy was.  Danny Bonner might not look the part, but he’d grown up in a mobile home on the wrong side of the tracks, the only son of a single mother.  He’d been a couple of years ahead of her in high school.

“Stare any harder and you might make me blush.”

Désirée looked away, the one to actually blush.  He probably thought she had some kind of crush on him, but she really only wanted to know why he so doggedly refused to believe her.  Wasn’t she a believable person?  She honestly couldn’t think of a lie she’d ever told—unless you wanted to count how she’d straightened her hair and tried to hide her freckles with make-up to impress Fred.

And we all saw how that turned out.

Disgusted with herself for going to so much trouble for someone who clearly had no intentions of giving her the time of day, then ogling the boneheaded lawman who thought she was a nut job, Désirée studied the passing businesses.  There went the Cut and Curl and the Post Office.  The grocery store and the McDonald’s went by in a blur.  Then, blessedly, they turned into the parking lot of the Public Safety Building.

Bonner killed the motor, but neither of them moved for the moment.  “So, you’re sure you want to do this?”

“Of course,” she sniffed.  “It will be no trouble at all, and it’ll take just a minute.”  She threw open the cruiser door and heaved herself out.  If he didn’t want to move, that was his problem.  She had other things to do with her day.  Like try to figure out what all those symbols in the books meant.

Bonner watched her wobble up the handicap ramp to the entrance.  Still wearing the ridiculous shoes.  He shook his head.  Why did women feel like they had to wear such things to get a man’s attention?  He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find the look appealing, but, in his opinion, women should wear high heels only as far as the bedroom.  The man got to see the full effect, the woman got to take off the shoes before irrevocable damage was done to her feet, and a good time could be had by all.

He had a flash of Désirée Devereaux standing in his bedroom doorway wearing those Jimmy Choos and little else.  He shook his head to rid it of the notion.  He really needed to get out more if he was having such thoughts about a librarian.

“Are you coming or not?”

“Right behind you,” he snapped.  “What’s your rush?”

“I’d like to get back to the library and open up for story time.”  Désirée stood with hands on hips with a stern expression.  He felt for the first little brat that dared fidget during her circle time.

“Now just exactly how are you going to prove to me that you can figure things out by handling books?” he said in a low voice as soon as they passed the reception desk.

“Still have the Bond book?”

“Yeah, it’s on my desk.  But it needs to go back down to evidence.”

She rewarded him with a wide smile.  “You can feel free to take it to evidence just as soon as I look it over one more time.”

Elevator doors opened with a ding, and he gestured that she should go first.  No one else followed them.  She cleared her throat, and he rocked back and forth on his heels once.  She smelled like vanilla and brown sugar.

And he’d forgotten to eat lunch.

Blessedly, the elevator announced their destination with a ding.  Bonner jumped out of the elevator, almost welcoming the manly smells of the detectives’ area:  sweat, cigarettes, and a hint of liquid paper.  He coughed as he inhaled a little too eagerly, and the librarian narrowed her eyes.  Neither of the two detectives on the floor bothered to look up.

“Allergies.”  He sniffed to add credibility to the story and led her to his utilitarian steel desk, one of the last in two rows.  The paperback in question sat on top, its fluorescent colors contrasting sharply with the earth tones of papers, file folders, and the like.  Désirée’s fingers hesitated only a moment before she took the book gently, reverently.

“Rooting for Jack, are you?”

“Good guess since I’m a cop.”  He shrugged to show he was less than impressed.

She closed her eyes.  If she went into a trancelike state, he was hauling her down to the drunk tank.  Hell, he could put a kerchief over her head, hand her some hoop earrings, and start a side business of telling book fortunes.  The department could definitely use the money for a new black and white.

Her eyes snapped open and held his.  “Last night, you wavered between frozen pizza and Chinese, deciding on the Chinese.  You also gave in to two beers instead of one.  I was personally wondering if you preferred boxers or briefs, but,” and her she pursed her lips.  “It would appear you prefer commando—at least in the evening.”

Bonner felt heat rising from his collar, up to his ears, and across his cheekbones.  “How did you find that out?”

She waved the book in front of his face before gently laying it on the desk and pivoting on one heel.  She lost her balance for just a second, but that wobble did nothing to lessen the effect of the gesture.  When she reached the elevator, she turned to yell over the entire office, “Don’t mind me—I think I’ll walk over to Maisy’s for lunch, then grab a taxi.  Oh, and I think it’s kinda sweet you shed a tear or two at the end.”

The elevator doors opened, and at least two heads turned to look at him and snicker.  Bonner put the book in his top right drawer and ignored his fellow detectives.  His heart beat ninety to nothing.  There was no way she could have known any of that unless she’d been stalking him.  And Désirée Devereaux didn’t look like a stalker.  Like someone who might be stalked, maybe, but definitely not a stalker.

He walked the three steps to Rogers.  “Rogers, read any good books lately?”

# # #

The last person Désirée expected to see was Detective Bonner.  He leaned against his navy Taurus with three paperbacks clutched under his arm.

“Detective Bonner, what a pleasant surprise.  Here to make a donation to the library?”

“Not exactly,” he said.  “I was wondering if I could trade you some dinner for a demonstration of your hocus pocus on these books.”  He held them out, an assortment of genres:  mystery, romance, self-help.”

Désirée couldn’t help herself.  “Is this a date, Detective?”

“No, it’s not a date.  I need a place to discuss these books and a restaurant seems just as good as this parking lot.  Better, even, because I’m starving.”

She shrugged.  Where did she need to be?  At home with the cat?  While affectionate, Deci had made it perfectly clear that she could handle herself and that she sought affection on her terms.  Come to think of it, that need for affection could possibly manifest itself in shredded curtains, but Désirée would risk it if it meant she didn’t have to cook.  “Where to?”

“Pizza joint?”

She nodded and rounded his sedan to her pragmatic little Civic on the other side.  Her makeover hadn’t extended to the older model—champagne so it didn’t show dirt—because a) she didn’t have the money and b) she hadn’t planned on letting FedEx man see her car.  As it turned out, she needed not worry.  She did, for at least a moment, wish she had a more exotic car, something to shock Detective Bonner into seeing her as something other than a staid librarian.

What do you care what he thinks?

She blushed at the thought of her accurate assessment of his underwear choices and of how she’d called him out in front of some of the other guys.  Who was that woman of a few hours before?  Désirée Devereaux certainly didn’t know her.  She’d blame it on the hair and nails, but she thought the impulse to shock him went much further.  He hadn’t believed in her abilities.  That had rankled far more than it should have.

She guided her trusty Civic into the parking lot behind his car.  Pizza sounded good, and a beer didn’t sound bad, either.  But she was NOT going to have a drink with Detective Bonehead.  Besides being a notoriously cheap date, she needed no help embarrassing herself in front of him.  Besides, he’d probably be obligated to put her in jail for nothing more than a good buzz.

He held the door for her and she followed him into Gino’s.  The hostess, an almost transparently thin teenager, led them to a vinyl booth.  They faced each other.

“So?”

“So.”

He cleared his throat.  “What do you eat on your pizza?”

“Pepperoni and sausage.”  When she ate pizza, which was almost never.  She supposed she’d chalk this up to a special occasion—especially if he was paying.

He cocked his head to one side.  “Huh.  That’s my favorite, too.  Guess I better hold off on the beer, though.”

“Cause you’re on duty?”

“Nope.  Wouldn’t want you to think I’m a sot since you already know how many I had last night.  Thank goodness you didn’t pick up whatever book I was reading after the Georgia-Florida game last fall.”

Désirée blushed.  Now wasn’t the time to lose courage.  Bonner ordered a pie for the two of them to split, and she put in her order for a soda.  He waited only two beats before passing her the first book.

She picked it up, turned it over.  She started to open the cover and gaze inside, but he would claim she was fishing for information.  She concentrated.  “Owned by a woman, recently divorced.  She has a Persian cat and is only pretending to read this book to make her mom happy.”

“Not bad,” Bonner murmured.  “Can you tell me who owns it?”

Désirée sighed.  “It doesn’t work that way.  If I know who handled the book last, everything comes to me stronger.  If I don’t know the person, a lot of what I get comes in snippets or images.  In the case of the murderer, that person is really guarded and the act was very violent, so I see flashes of the crime, but not a lot about the person who committed it.”

He nodded his head as though he might actually be starting to believe her.  “How about this one?”

She took the New York Times Bestselling mystery.  “A man, a friend of yours?  Fancies himself a real Alex Cross.  Loves to eat food laden with garlic because it reminds him of his Italian grandmother.”

“Unbelievable!  How do you do this?  And you want to be a librarian?  I think it would drive me crazy to pick up all of these little vibes from books.”

The waitress slid the pizza between them.  Bonner started to hold out the last book, then put it on the table, then held it out again.  “What the hell.  How about getting the last one out of the way before we eat?”

Désirée took the book, a dog-eared copy of Blue Smoke by Nora Roberts, and immediately recoiled.  The pizzeria disappeared in a swirl, and she could only see Ada’s face.  Ada pleading.  And she felt the anger, a violence so strong it threatened to break her in half even though it wasn’t her own.  She shivered, and the pizzeria swirled back in front of her.  Just as she focused on the pizza that had her mouth watering, an anchor back to the world where she wanted to be, the room started spinning.

And Désirée Devereaux slumped unconscious to the grubby, sticky pizza parlor floor.

# # #

Oh my gosh! Who read that book? And things are heating up with Detective Bonner, aren’t they? Tell us what you think for a chance to win a gift card ($5-Amazon). And tune in tomorrow for more…

Imagine my surprise when I went to Wikipedia and found in the first paragraph that Dame Barbara supposedly originated the phrase “I’m bringing sexy back.” I thought it was a joke, kinda like when Stephen Colbert had his viewers tamper with the African elephant entry. So I returned to that bastion of all human knowledge, Google, where Cartland’s words are, apparently, accepted as common knowledge on a LOT of web sites. That a romance writer born in 1901 would influence modern pop music is not, however, as surprisingly as the fact that such inspiration trumped a far greater achievement: being the sixth most translated author in the world, and the third bestselling author in the world. Who’s ahead of Dame Barbara? William Shakespeare and Agatha Christie.

So, how to reconcile my idea of Barbara Cartland with reality? I can’t. I can only give you a few gems and let you marvel:

• Her first novel, Jigsaw, was a scandalous sensation and one of her subsequent plays was banned for its sexual content.
• She supposedly broke off her first engagement upon finding out what sex really entailed.
• She worked for a variety of causes from providing wedding gowns to service brides in World War II to working to help the gypsy population.
• She holds the Guiness Book of World’s Records for writing the most books in one year: 23. The year was 1983. I was 8; she was 82.
• She released an Album of Love Songs.
• She was step-grandmother to Princess Diana, although she was notably NOT invited to The wedding of the century.
• She was made a Dame of the British Empire in 1981.
• She’s buried in a cardboard coffin (due to concerns for the environment) under a tree planted by Elizabeth I.

And if that’s how you bring sexy back, I’m thinking about giving it a try. In the meantime, take a look at a study in contrasts over at my blog, SuperWriterMom.

What about you? Have you discovered any authors that surprised you? Who are some of your early inspirations?

Just the other day I had one of those magical moments, and it occurred to me that often life is like that dishwasher. I scurry about tutoring in classes, running errands, heading to the gym, or sitting down to cram in a few pages. Sometimes life is so overwhelming that I have all of these huge pots and strainers that take up too much space so they have to sit by the sink and taunt me or take up too much space in the dishwasher and cause other more deserving dishes to wait. Sometimes, there’s so much to do that I stand there and look at the sink and wonder, what in the blue blazes happened? Did the dishes really multiply like rabbits over night?

A couple of years ago I realized I was staring at the figurative sink of life entirely too much. In fact, just looking at that pile of dishes either made me angry, made me want to cry, or made me want to take a nap. And I don’t nap. Just ask my Mom—she’ll tell you I gave up napping long before she would have liked for me to. It was obvious I needed help so I screwed my courage to the sticking place and went to the doctor. It didn’t take him long to diagnose anxiety, the kind of anxiety that caused me to grit my teeth at night, to fly into abnormal road rages, and to even break down in tears in the doctor’s office because I was broken and I had to face the fact I didn’t have the ability to fix myself.

So, yes, I took a prescription for an antidepressant. I might have felt it was a weakness or a deficit in my character at the time, but my doubts eroded a few days later when I sat down and started writing a list. Yes, a list! An honest to goodness list! Finally, my brain could formulate a plan for what to do with all of those pots and pans and how to fit them all into the dishwasher.

I would love to say I’m always productive, that my life has been completely changed, but I still struggle. I’ve struggled this week while battling illness. I struggle as I attempt to create a writing-exercising-cleaning schedule because the world likes to dirty pots and pans faster than I can wash them. Not only that, but life likes to cook elaborate dishes at unpredictable times, sometimes rendering my well-meaning lists and schedules useless.

I guess I say all of that to say this: if you’ve ever stood in front of the sink of life unsure of how to fit all of the pots and pans in the dishwasher or overwhelmed by the sheer number of dirty dishes, don’t be ashamed to ask for help. Don’t think it’s something lacking in who you are as a person because it’s not. Take care of yourself, and the dishes will get done. Sometimes you’ll even have those beautiful days where everything fits just perfectly.

In the meantime, if you’d like to come help me with my real dishes, you are welcome any time. I’ll brew a pot of coffee and welcome the companionship as I tackled wiping down the counters.

Four years? Really?

It was bad enough I graduated college and took a minimum wage job because I didn’t have the good sense to major in something useful. (For the record, you know what you do with an English major? Teach Spanish. That’s what you do.) Around twenty-five I hit some serious doldrums, too. A quarter of a century and I hadn’t accomplished jack in the quest to make this world a better place.

Then I did something really stupid. I told myself I needed to get published by the time I was thirty. Well, guess what? Thirty-six, and I’m still not there yet. I finished up co-chairing the conference with Anna, and I told myself, “Things are going to change. Now you’re really going to be able to get your act together!” Somehow a half a month has gone by, and here I am. Between the conference and our trip to Disney, I gained back every pound I lost between July and October. I have sent out Beulah twice, but I’m well below my 2011 goal of fifty queries. Still haven’t finished Starcrossed. Still haven’t cleaned my house.

I caught myself thinking, “Man! My high school self wouldn’t be this way. Sure, my room would still be messy, but all of my homework would be done, and I would still be writing. I used to be much more focused in high school and college.” Then my husband laughed, and I realized I was speaking aloud again. He said, “Um, you’ve never really been a laser beam of focus, dear. You were more like, ‘I need to write a paper tonight, and—squirrel!’” (Yes, he implied I share some similarities with Dug the dog from UP!) Indignant, I decided to check in on my sixteen-year-old self and see which of us was right.

Precocious Sally:  (Looks up from her copy of The Winds of War) Whoa, what happened to you?

Jaded Sally:  Life.  How’s it going?

Precocious Sally:  It’s Sonic. It stinks. Literally.

Jaded Sally: (shrugs) At least you don’t have to pay the bills with this job.

Precocious Sally: (shrugs back) Good thing since it’s only part time and pays $3.25/hour. It doesn’t matter, I’m going to go to college and make something of myself. Maybe a songwriter or a lawyer or a politician….

Jaded Sally:  Yeah, about that….

Precocious Sally: What? Oh, no. What have you done? I’m only a few points away from Valedictorian, and I’d be at the top of the class if not for that ridiculous driver’s ed teacher and his book tests that didn’t have anything to do with what he actually taught!

Jaded Sally: Well, studying isn’t everything, you know.

Precocious Sally: Oh no. You stayed here for college, married a redneck, and now you’re living in a van down by the river. I can’t believe this. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Jaded Sally: No, no. I live in the suburbs of one of the wealthiest cities of the South. Uh, the difference between the two is not as much as you might expect.

Precocious Sally: Where do I live now? Is it exciting? It’s not here, is it?

Jaded Sally: No, it’s Atlanta, but you’d be surprised how much you miss home sometimes.

Precocious Sally: (wrinkles nose) Really?

Jaded Sally: Yeah, really. So about this follow your dreams business, you might want to change your major. Maybe you should major in something practical in college. You know, be a lawyer or at least go ahead and get your teaching degree while you’re there.

Precocious Sally: Teach? Are you out of your mind. That is the LAST thing I would ever want to do.

Jaded Sally: You’d be surprised. Sometimes it was actually fun.

Precocious Sally: Sure. And you fell and hit your head somewhere in the time warp on the way over here.

Jaded Sally: Don’t you want to know if you got married?

Precocious Sally: I guess. I always envisioned myself as more of a career woman.

Jaded Sally: Well, it’s a little harder than you think to take care of kids and work at the same time. But you’ll be happy to know you married a handsome, intelligent, and charming man who has never made you live in a van down by the river.

Precocious Sally: Oh? How will I know when I find him?

Jaded Sally: Oh, you’ll know when you see him. Just like you’ll know when to have your kids.

Precocious Sally (gulps): Kidzzzzzz? As in plural?

Jaded Sally: As in two. As in you might have had more if a) you didn’t think it would push you over the edge and b) you had won the lottery and were thus able to pay for their college educations.

Precocious Sally: So, I didn’t do so badly, huh?

Jaded Sally: (stops to muse) No, I guess you haven’t done so badly after all.

Precocious Sally: I hate to end this little chat, but I really have to get back to my carhop shift.

Jaded Sally: Remember to keep writing!

Precocious Sally: I’m no good at that. I just do that for fun.

Jaded Sally: But you are pretty good at it. You might be able to make something of yourself a little quicker if you’d write a little more and play a little less Uno when you get to college.

Precocious Sally: (rolls her eyes) Uno? That sounds stupid.

Jaded Sally: (sighs) Whatever. Keep writing, okay? Maybe in an alternate universe you actually will get published before you’re thirty.

Precocious Sally: (narrows eyes as if older self has lost it) Oooo-kay. Bye.

Jaded Sally: Oh, and be sure to sue Sonic for sexual harassment when they tell you to switch shirts from the large to the small just so they can continue their game of guessing who has the biggest cup size. And I’m not talking about the Route 44, if you know what I mean.

Precocious yet Naïve Sally: What?

Jaded Sally:  Nevermind. Your parents would never pony up for a lawyer for that. Just be smart about drinking and stuff—your instincts are right there. Bye, now.

Precocious Sally: Hey, you!

Jaded Sally: Yeah?

Precocious Sally: Have you at least had fun?

Jaded Sally: Lots of fun.

Precocious Sally: Then I don’t think I should change a thing.

And maybe I wouldn’t change anything after all, so nose to the grindstone. Surely, there’s a little more hope left, a little more faith. Lord willing, there’s a lot more will power and discipline because that’s probably been my problem all along. After all, I have always liked to do things the hard way.