A Day Late!

Contest Winner: Terri has won a Lush gift certificate and signed copy of my book! Congrats!

Terri, please contact me at btrue@gmail.com so I can get some info from you.

xoxoxo and keep commenting everybody!

Perception and Timing

Perception and timing are two important things you must take into account when writing, especially when you're writing mysteries like me and the other fabulous ladies here at Killer Fiction. There's a subtle art of misdirection while still giving real clues that must happen or the reader might feel cheated at the end of the book or at a particularly surprising turn in the story. Sometimes this happens in real life and it makes a situation humorous - a combination of events and people that lead to a conclusion that isn't necessarily what you were expecting. I'd like to share a story with you about my brother and my grandma that I think you'll enjoy.

First of all, to understand the story, you have to understand a bit about my grandmother. Grandma Heyse was born in 1909 in Louisiana and started picking cotton when she was four. She died just one week before her 93rd birthday. She was a strong women - the kind they only made back then - widowed in her thirties left with seven kids to support and raise and she did it all on her own. She was an oldest of the old school Southern Baptist and in fact, cleaned God's house for decades until retiring at age 85. Religion was part of Grandma, not just something she believed. She was in church every time the doors were open. She read her Bible every day and never missed a Billy Graham special. And Grandma was the real deal - not a bit of hypocrisy anywhere. If faith was ever going to move a mountain, this was the woman who had the faith to do it. She never drank, never smoked, wouldn't even play Old Maid because she considered it gambling, and didn't cook or sew on Sundays because no work was allowed.

As kids, my brother and I were fairly sure she had a relationship with God so personal that he might just call her directly on a land line and chat. She always seemed to have the answers for everything, including when we were up to something and exactly what it was. And since she lived next door to us our entire life, it was like having a second mother with second sight.

My grandfather died young, and was buried in a cemetary in a secluded wooded section of my hometown in Louisiana. There was no charge for the land or plots. You simply needed to find a spot, bury someone and mark it. Well, as time went by and the cemetary grew more crowded, my grandma began to worry that someone might "get her spot" next to my grandpa, so she decided to pre-purchase her tombstone to save her place. Now the cemetary was really secluded and dark with huge oaks and cypress trees and quite frankly, over the years had become the type of place that women really shouldn't venture to alone. So when my brother was home on leave from the Marine corp, she asked him if he would drive her out to the cemetary so that she could ensure the marker was up and everything was in order.

My brother drove her out to the cemetary and they found my grandfather's grave with grandma's shiny new headstone next to it. My brother stood there, waiting patiently, as Grandma studied the stone. After a minute, she made that "hhhmmmmmpffff" sound that she always made when something had perturbed her and said to my brother, "Well, they got the date wrong."

Now, bear in mind what I just told you about my grandma and her life.

My brother panicked and his first thought was "My God, she knows when she's going to die." It didn't even occur to him that she was talking about her date of birth.

Now, of course, when he was telling this story to my mom and I, we all got a huge charge out of it, but given our lifelong perception of grandma and the perfect timing of that statement delivery, I can totally see where he got that thought. But it doesn't make it any less funny every single time I think of it.

Grandma Heyse passed away in 2002 and I miss her still. My latest release, UNLUCKY, is dedicated to her because she is the strongest woman I've ever known and has been such an inspiration to my my entire life. I wish all women had an example in their lives like my grandma.

Deadly DeLeon

Why did the blonde cross the road...

I just started working on the 5th High Heels book, in which Maddie and her cast of kooky friends encounter a murder among the world of wedding planners. So far, I’m having a blast. Two blondes in super high heels chasing after a killer on the loose - what’s more fun than that, right? So, in honor of Maddie’s sometime less-than-rocket-scientist blunders, I’ve complied a list of my fav blonde jokes. Enjoy!

What do you call a blonde skeleton in the closet?
Last year's hide and seek champ.

How can you tell if a blonde's been using the computer?
There's white-out on the screen.

Why did the blonde got fired from the M&M factory?
For throwing out the W's.

What is the difference between a smart blonde and bigfoot?
Bigfoot has been sighted

Did you hear about the blonde lesbian?
She kept having affairs with men!

What do you call 15 blondes in a circle?
A dope ring.

What do you get when you offer a blonde a penny for her thoughts?
Change.


Making Babies:

Three women who were at the gynecologist having pre-natal checkups The doctor asked the first woman "in what position was the baby conceived ?"

"He was on top, " she replied.

"You will have a boy!" the doctor exclaimed.

The second woman was asked the same question.

"I was on top, " was the reply.

"You will have a baby girl, " said the doctor.

With this, the third women, a blonde, burst into tears.

"What's the matter?" asked the doc.

"Am I going to have puppies?"


Terminology used by blonde nurses:

Artery -- study of paintings
Bacteria -- back door of cafeteria
Barium -- what doctors do when treatment fails
Caesarian section -- district in Rome
Cat scan -- searching for kitty
Cauterize -- made eye contact with her
Diarrhea -- journal of daily events
Dilate -- to live long
Fibula -- a small lie
Hangnail -- coat hook
Impotent -- distinguished, well known
Labor pain -- got hurt at work
Morbid -- higher offer
Nitrate -- cheaper than day rate
Node -- was aware of
Outpatient -- person who had fainted
Pelvis -- cousin of Elvis
Post operative -- letter carrier
Rectum -- damn near killed 'em
Seizure -- Roman emperor
Serology -- study of knighthood
Tablet -- small tab
Terminal Illness -- sickness at airport
Tibia -- country in North Africa
Tumor -- an extra pair
Urine -- opposite of you're out
Vein – conceited


And finally…

Why are dumb blonde jokes so short?
So brunettes can remember them. (hehe)


Anyone else have some good blonde jokes? Lay 'em on me.


~ Gemma "Trigger Happy" Halliday

I'll Show You Mine if You Show Me Yours Part II: The Garage Getaway...

Several weeks ago Trigger Happy Halliday and Leslie 'The Assassin' Lantry posted pictures of their home offices--the quasi-factory where all those 'killer' stories are manufactured and committed to manuscript form on the computer. So, I thought I'd share a picture of what I call my 'summer office'.

You see, I bought a house with a garage that housed a television and VCR repair service on one side of the structure. It hadn't been used for anything except storage for a number of years, however, and needed some TLC. Still, I immediately saw the possibilities for a home office that would actually take me out of the home. Well, fifty steps, at least. So, as time and money permitted, I worked on converting the TV shop into a writer's escape. I yanked off the tattered, old, green carpet that covered the length of the work bench and replaced it with a nice, serviceable wood top. I did it all by myself, folks. Uh, with a little help from a brand new drill and a miter box. Later I added a nice, big room sized-rug, a loveseat, plus a TV for some background sound. When I work in the garage office, I take my laptop with me. The shop was outfitted already with surge strips so that was a nice added feature. My horse bridles hang from a hook on the wall. What you can't see to the left are shelves that house two western saddles. Hey, I could have horses again someday. I'm not that old...

Since I've had summers off, I generally get up each morning as if going to work and grab my cup of coffee and head out to the garage office. I write until noon--or whenever I need to use the restroom--and often will stay out there writing until the wee hours. In one 24 hour period alone in the garage office, I wrote 57 new pages on a contracted project--a personal best for me. My kids know I'm working when I'm in the garage office--and know not to interrupt unless absolutely necessary. I'm still close at hand if needed so a win-win for everyone.

Now that winter has set in, I've moved my office back into the house so I don't have the added expense of heating the detached garage. Since my oldest son is in college and rarely home, I have taken over his room and it serves as my office at present. It's next door to my bedroom and is on the other end of the house from the triplets so if I'm up late writing or get up at my usual 5 a.m. to work, I won't disturb them. And no. I won't be posting a picture of this office. Not today. Not until I have time to sort, shred, file and toss. (I could swear there was a bed in here when I moved my writing stuff in, but at present I can't find it. It's a mystery!)

Still the in-house office is not the same as the 'seasonal office', I'm finding. Too many distractions. (I have my very own Kid Nation) Too many temptations. (Food and puzzles come to mind) As a result, I'm behind on my next Calamity Caper. Big time. I'm really gonna need a couple of 57 page weekends to make this deadline, that's for sure. And with the holidays smack dab in the middle of what time I do have left...? Well, let's just hope Old St. Nick has an Energizer Muse in his bag for Ol' Bullet Hole here.

She's been a real good girl.

And she's so gonna need it.

Catch you next time!

~Bullet Hole Bacus~

Spartans! Prepare for Mashing!

First of all, I MUST apologize for not blogging last week! My wonderful friends here at Killer Fiction have graciously forgiven me but I want to apologize to everyone else who reads this. No, I don't have a great excuse like George Clooney begged me to run away to Italy with him (no-calling bastard), or Nora R. begged me to collaborate on her latest book.

I was cleaning my house for Thanksgiving. Yup. Boring. So I'm apologizing to everyone out there. Believe me - I would've rather been blogging.

I'd also like to incorporate the most recent holiday into my blog today. By the way, why is Thanksgiving the only holiday where we celebrate food with food? Someone needs to come up with more of those.

As a writer of humor (at least, I like to think I'm writing humor), I'm thankful for the people out there who are funnier than me. When I'm struggling to pen some witty dialogue, I look to tried and true sources of inspiration (what? you thought I read War and Peace?) like my AbFab or Monty Python dvd's, chapters of J. Maarten Troost's books, etc.

But I'm always on the lookout for new stuff too. Lately, it's come in the form of Mitchell & Webb clips on You Tube, but a friend just recently sent me something wonderful. It's collegehumor.com. Some of you may have heard of my fetish for all things related to the movie 300. Well, go to this website and type in 300. There are some great parodies (and lots of photos of really buff college guys dressed as spartans) from old Transformer cartoons set to the soundtrack, etc. My personal favorites involve clips of cats, apples as the 300 fighting a large jug of eggnog as Xerxes, and 305 which claims to be "what if The Office met the 300?"

Check them out. They might just inspire you too. At the very least, you'll understand why my potatoes resemble Spartans (check out the tall potato sporting a 6-pack)) and get a laugh out of your day.

Your most humble assassin,

Leslie

A Daddy's Girl

UPDATE:

All your well wishes, thoughts and prayers worked miracles. My dad got through his surgery with a wonderful prognosis - it's NOT cancer, it's some kind of an infection that caused scar tissue but infections can be cured.

I am still in Alabama and still celebrating my release. Just found out the bookstore here already sold out. Woo hoo! (Of course, they may have only ordered four but, hey, they've sold out.)

Thanks, guys!

-Crime Scene Christie

Today is the day Divorced, Desperate and Delicious hits the stands. Am I thrilled, excited, dancing on clouds? You bet your bottom dollar I am. But I’m not dancing on Texas clouds. Today, I’m in Gadsden, Alabama, my ol’ stomping grounds, spending some time with my dear ol’ dad. We’ll probably open a bottle of Red Vino and celebrate large.

And here comes a confession: I’m a daddy’s girl, and a 100% full-fledged daddy’s girl at that. As the only girl in the family, I’m special. I’m also cuter than cute, and smart as a whip.

Don’t believe me? Just ask my daddy. He’ll tell you. You see . . . I am a daddy’s girl because without a doubt I am the apple of my daddy’s eye.

I can honestly say that I don’t think there’s anything I could ask my dad for that he wouldn’t bend over backwards to deliver. I can imagine calling him up and my saying… “Dad, there’s no popcorn in Houston. I want popcorn.”

I can hear his answer, “Do you want the real buttered kind or that light crap you always eat?” Then he’d fill his truck with popcorn and drive it all the way to Houston to deliver my heart’s desire, even if it was the light crappy kind.

Yup, he has a big heart, but he’s a tough ol’ dude, too. A southern, barrel-chested hardworking, contractor/plumber with calloused hands to show for his years of work. His work ethic was instilled in me. Which is why I never cop to writer’s block. I mean…not once have I heard him say… “I can’t plumb today. I have plumbers block.”

I’m sure there were days he plumbed better than others, like I write better than others, but he always showed up and so do I. Of course, he hasn’t quit working. Seventy-one years old, and he says as long as there’s stopped-up crappers, he has “crap” to do. (You might guess that I inherited my creative language from him.)

Yup…it’s perfect that I’m here on my release day, because according to my dad, my language isn’t the only thing I got from him. He claims he deserves at least half my royalties because I inherited my art of making up stuff, or as he calls it, “bullshiting”, from him. All I can say is . . . well, he is a contractor.

Another thing I inherited from my old man is his sense of humor. His knack of seeing the lighter side of life, of laughing and joking, even during a crisis. I can honestly tell you that when you get us together, we’re dangerous. We’ve practically gotten thrown out of restaurants because we couldn’t stop laughing. Once he literally had me thrown out of his hospital room, because he’d had surgery and he couldn’t look at me without laughing and it hurt to laugh.

I remember the time after his open heart surgery that he lay in the hospital bed and looked up at me with his stubborn, I’m-a-tough-guy expression and said, “Christie, you have to be a man to go through this surgery.” Then his tough-guy expression faded and he said, “And I ain’t no man. Get that nurse’s ass in here and make her give me some pain meds!”

And when we got him home, we laughed our way through his recovery. I remember they’d given him a heart-shaped pillow to hug when he coughed and when he did cough he’d get me to come over and hold the pillow to his chest so it wouldn’t hurt so much. But according to him, it still hurt like hell had just taken a nip out of his butt.

There was this one time, he had a coughing spell. He sat on the sofa, I stood beside him holding his pillow to his chest while he hacked and moaned. When he finally stopped, exhausted, he looked up at me. His eyes shined with emotional mist. “Baby,” he said and his voice shook a little.

Right then, I sort of knew what he was going to say and my own eyes grew misty. And standing there, holding his heart-shaped pillow to his chest, I awaited my, “I-love-you and can’t-thank-you-enough for being here” speech. Hey, we all want to be appreciated, right?

Then in his shaky voice, he continued, “I gotta tell you. You really need a breath mint.”

Yup. That’s my dad. Never a dull moment. And always a lot of laughter.

So I’m here to celebrate my release date with the man from whom I inherited a lot of my best and maybe wackiest qualities. Then tomorrow, we’re going into the hospital to have a mass removed that they found on his lung. We’re thinking positive, that everything is going to be fine, and we’re gonna laugh our way through another recovery. I truly believe that, too. But if you get a minute, send some positive vibes our way. This Daddy’s Girl can use all the support she can get.

Thanks….

Crime Scene Christie

P.S. If you get a chance, please come visit me at the BookEnds' blog today - http://bookendslitagency.blogspot.com/. Tomorrow jump over to Fresh Fiction’s blog where I’m the guest blogger: http://freshfiction.com/blog/ I promise you, this one will only make you laugh and maybe. . . fan yourself a bit. Yup…it’s hot. Oh…there’s also a contest. So go check it out.

In Moderation

With the holiday season upon us, I was reminded of a motto that I have a tendency to purposfully forget. Thanksgiving day, my husband and I were at my parents' house for the traditional feast (well, we're from Louisiana, so our traditional feast includes dirty rice and baked beans, but hey, who's complaining), along with my brother, sister-in-law and my niece. My niece, who will be three in January, usually doesn't miss a trick unless distracted, and that's exactly what I did. I distracted her with a giant stuffed cow and baby cow.

She was so busy hugging her new toys that when her mom said "what do we say?" trying to prompt her "thank you," she replied instead with her comeback for when you ask her if she wants a piece of candy - "in moderation." I have to admit, it never ceases to tickle me that a two-year-old has a better grasp of that term than I do (even if it is occasionally misued when enamored with stuffed cows). So it immediately sent me off thinking about how the holidays are not really a time that moderation is the foremost item on people's mind. With all the food, gifts, decorations, etc. one could never call the holiday season moderate.

When we were on our way home, it occurred to me that romance novels don't subscribe to the "in moderation" motto either. In fact, they seem to beg for the exact opposite. The heroine can't just be cute with a good personality - she's got to be beautiful with a flaw like a hangnail. The hero had to be strong, ripped, must actually listen to the heroine AND remember what she says, must love children and cats, and must never, ever get impatient when one doesn't drive a stick shift or know tools the way he does. All the characters must be larger than life and it's even better if the setting is so unique and alive that it becomes a character of its own. And heaven knows the sex is not moderate. The hero must be able to pull off a nickname like "the walking tri-pod." He must know how to perform and enjoy foreplay and must never, ever fall asleep immediately afterward. Longer, faster, harder, more, seem to be what the readers want (especially if my editorial notes are any indication).

And you know what - I think it's great! Romance books are SUPPOSED to be the fantasy. Romance books are SUPPOSED to be the escape - the place where every woman gets to live her dream through the actions of a character she's bonded with. Who wants to pay $6.99 to read about a sink full of dishes, a cat with a hairball problem, and a man who leaves his dirty underwear on the floor and won't take out the trash? Not me!

So bring on the gluttony of romance. Moderation is over-rated anyway.

Deadly DeLeon