YOU ARE NOT ALONE

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

I’m not a big joiner. If I see a crowd of people heading in one direction, my inclination is to head in the other. On social media, I’m more of a lurker. If I do post, I lean toward the positive and humorous. Supporting my author friends is important to me, too. The last thing I ever want to do is to add to the noise or the fear-mongering. We get enough of that without my two cents.

This past week something changed. I recall a line in the movie, NETWORK. You know the one. “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore.” Yeah. I felt kinda like that.

I needed to *do* something. For me, screaming into the void hardly helps for longer than it takes the post to load and that’s not very long.

So, I did a couple of things. The first was to find an easy way to call my representatives. Hunting around for phone numbers or trying to craft a succinct statement or voicemail was going to take more time than I had. Plus, what is one measly phone call going to do?

I found a website and app called 5calls.org. It does the work for you by summarizing the issues, providing talking points, and listing your reps and phone numbers by zip code. Don’t see your pet issue? It’s still helpful to find your reps.

It takes a little over five minutes to make my three calls to my two senators and one rep. I’ve mostly left voicemails but spoke to staffers a few of times too. Shy? Call after-hours to ensure you’ll get into voicemail. Your call still counts!

I still needed to do more than phone calls. I live close to my state’s capital and saw a nationwide call to march to your statehouse. I had gone to a handful marches in the past and wanted to be a part of whatever else was happening. The marches were to bring attention to the opposition to Project 2025. When? On 2/5/25 of course!

The first thing I noticed was that information was fragmented. There was no clear direction of who was organizing or where and when to meet. Many posts talked about “false flag” or other misinformation to discourage going. There are people smarter than I am about these things, so I won’t comment, but the logic was off. It felt like an organization that didn’t want a large showing of support was posting for a march that wasn’t going to happen? Several friends urged me to be careful, but I went anyway.

And I’m glad I did.

First and foremost, democracy is about the support of the people. (I know, DUH!) And this means visible and quantifiable support. Maya Miller of the New York Times reported today that the congressional phone system has been jammed with tens of millions of calls from outraged constituents contacting their representatives. Alaska Senator Lisa Murkowsky said the number of calls received by the senate jumped from 40 to over 1600 per minute! And showing up at your reps office counts, too, as well as marches at your statehouse. Even holding a sign on your town common can make support visible.

 

And when support is visible, it’s harder for politicians to hide when they try to push through unpopular actions.

Yes, Wednesday’s marches were disorganized. In large part I believe this was because of the short notice from idea to delivery, but the two groups – one through 50501 and the other through Indivisible.org – found each other and the crowd grew to thousands. The mood of the crowd was decidedly “game on.” It felt to me that the people there were committed to being heard and knowing that the march was likely to be the first of many.

It was emotional. Some people covered their faces completely. Perhaps they did so from the cold, but perhaps they did so out of concern for future reprisals. Expressions of fear and determination creased the faces of the people I could see. The signs ranged from the typical pithy and funny to heartbreaking. By far, most were homemade with whatever tape, cardboard, glue, markers, and whatever else folks could find in the back of their closets or pilfered from their kids.

I poked my head up from my lurking and posted, emailed, and chatted about suggested actions. One author said, “We are the drops in the bucket. That usually implies an action is insignificant, but here each drop helps fill the void.”

Find what works for you and do it.

Your voice matters.

WEBINAR: LEGAL CONSTRUCTS OF A GREAT MYSTERY

What do you need to write a great mystery? Imagination, of course, and a certain approach to logic and clues that can unravel the most vexing crimes.

Going to law school honed my skills of seeing beyond the obvious and red herrings. For me, getting a JD was my writing BootCamp, although I didn't know it at the time! I foolishly thought my conflict-hating self would just love that career. Nope. Not so much.

Instead, I learned how to parse fact from fiction and how to present a case with (hopefully) airtight logic. I learned that creating a compelling mystery is like formulating a winning strategy for a case using one carefully planted fact (a.k.a. "clue") at a time.

On Tuesday, March 7, I'll present "Legal Constructs of a Great Mystery" to Florida's Treasure Coast chapter of Sisters in Crime. This is an updated talk from the well-received keynote I gave to the League of Vermont Writers.

Pre-registration is required:

https://sistersincrime-org.zoom.us/webinar/register/WN_5xxSVhCCRhCNT0oKCTEL0A


After registering, you will receive a confirmation email containing information about joining the webinar.

BOOKWORM CAFE!

What could be better in life than curling up with a good book on a cold winter morning with home-baked muffins and coffee on hand? How about adding chowder, conversation, and supporting local readers and writers?

If you answered yes, then I have an event for you. The Bookworm Cafe has been a staple in our community to bring together authors and readers in a relaxed atmosphere. Authors talk about our craft to give readers a behind-the-scenes look at the writing and publishing process. I'll be giving a talk at 11:00 and sharing tips on how to get that story idea out of your head and different writer groups that can help.

There will be a little something for children, fiction and non-fiction lovers, and folks curious about memoirs!

When: Saturday, February 4, 2023

Time: 9:00 am to 2:00 pm (my talk is at 11:00)

Where: First Congregational Church, 175 Main Street, Rowley, MA

THE MOST NERVOUS SPOUSES OF ALL

My crime-writing friends often joke about their search histories being stuff of NSA nightmares or of the sidelong glances received when overheard in public sussing out gory scene details.

Then, there are the nervous smiles from our spouses.

One friend couldn't decide on which poison to use to kill a pesky antagonist. Arsenic? Too common. Cyanide? Too traceable and the bitter taste a dead giveaway that could stop a victim from drinking a lethal dose. After sounding ideas off her husband, she gave him an iced lemonade made without any sugar to see how much he would drink before stopping.

He took a sip, put down the glass, and asked, "We're happy in our marriage, right?"

Long live the long-suffering spouse of a writer.

I thought my husband and I were beyond such misunderstandings or fear. After a year of 24/7/365 togetherness, all fears and worries should have been dispelled, or at least thoroughly aired out.

A Zoom writers' group proved me wrong.

We start each session with a prompt and write for five minutes. I've posted a few of the responses in this blog and it's always fun to see the different ways we continue from a single beginning. This time, the prompt read:

The last few nights she had a recurring dream about ...

I continued with:

"...killing him.

The delicious thought wrapped her in layers of warmth. No more leg twitches. No more snorts and grunts. No more stale flatulence.

She'd be free.

The wave of happiness receded with wakefulness. "Damn it," she said as she pulled on her robe.

Night after night. Happy. Wake. Happy. Wake.

She couldn't take anymore.

Then the dreams invaded her days. She couldn't stop the thoughts. Her only respite came in planning actions. Gun? Too messy. Poison? Where to buy? Accident? How? When? Where?

The thoughts wrapped her in happiness.

Then...he didn't wake up. She nudged him. 

She took the pillow from his head. 

Nothing.

"No! No! No! It can't be!"

She woke to a snort.

He rolled over. "Morning," he said.

"Morning, Love. Coffee?"

We read our responses aloud to one another, laughed at our follies, and continued on with our session. Afterward, my husband appeared at my office door. He gave me a nervous smile. "That's not the first time you killed a husband in your writing."

I scoffed. "I haven't! That was the first."

He then listed other times my characters' husbands or significant others met untimely ends. His memory stretched back into years.  

"We're happy in our marriage, right?" 

Sisters in Crime New England at the Newburyport Literary Festival!

Make a Mystery with Sisters in Crime New England Authors

 

​Join Sisters in Crime New England authors Richard Cass, Lorraine Sharma Nelson, Gerald Elias, and Connie Johnson Hambley as they build a story with YOUR clues while pulling back the curtain on the writing process! You’ll provide names, setting, motives, weapon and more. From each suggestion, the authors will talk about what goes in to each decision and how one small detail can alter an entire story. Join us for this interactive and fast-paced improv with authors and enjoy the fun as they create a brand new murder mystery on the spot!

Go to: https://newburyportliteraryfestival.org/ to learn more about registration for this FREE event.

 

 

The Writer's Community - Video Interview

Writers are always wondering how to reach readers. Take a look at this brief interview to learn how writing and author organizations can help you connect with readers, too!

Writing Prompt

One prompt. Four authors. We all gelled around one word. Venice. And on the wings of one word, four worlds took flight in the five minutes we gave ourselves to create. 

+++++++++++++++++

From Maggie:

[Winner of the Mom's Choice Award of Excellence for her children's book.]

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

... a fish jumped right out of the water!

"I haven't seen fish in the canals for over 30 years," Victor said to his grandson.

The fish smiled, dove back in, swam in a circle just below the surface and then said, "Every dark cloud brings a spring rain of freshness."

And then he was gone.

"What does that mean," asked the child through his mask?

The grandfather led the child to a nearby bench and pulled him in close.

"The fish is telling us to always look for the silver lining...even in the darkest of times."

+++++++++++++++++++++

From Cyd:

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

I smelled incense. So late in the evening the streets were quiet enough for me to enjoy the canal, watching flecks of lights dancing on the ripples and hear a gentle lap, lap lap splash the stone wall.

I followed the aroma around a corner and came upon a queue of people filing out of a doorway and following a man who carried high an antique lantern. I intended to drop back, wondering about the purpose of the procession when from the doorway I hear a man speak to me in Italian, "After you, I apologize," gesturing for me to follow the line ahead of him.

For some reason, I did.

+++++++++++++++

From Donna:

[First Place winner for the Indie Book Awards 2020, Best Children’s Picture Book, illustrated, for children 6 and up.]

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

... I suddenly realized I was lost—hopelessly lost. 

How many bridges had I crossed, two, three, four? I tried not to panic, I picked up my cell phone to hit the tour director’s number. Dead, no service. I checked my watch, what time was it? We were all supposed to meet at St. Mark’s Cathedral at noon for a tour. I watched groups of tourist’s pass me by, laughing and calling out to each other. 

I felt trapped like a mouse in a maze.Then I spotted a pigeon flying over my head. I followed his direction, but I couldn’t keep up. I had hoped he would lead me to the famous St. Mark’s Square... And then I saw more pigeons coming in waves...

+++++++++++++++

From Connie:

[Two time winner of EQUUS Film Festival Best English Fiction.]

I was walking down a street in Venice taking in the ambiance when...

I turned the corner toward the canal. the streets were empty. Buildings sighed their loneliness. the virus had taken the people from its streets, but not Venice's soul.

I felt heavy. My feet did not to touch the ground, but hovered somewhere above the cobbled street.

A gondolier floated by, pushing on his long pole, his face in a mask of sadness.Behind him, a dolphin arced from the water.

In death and illness, a healing had begun.

"You're here," said the dolphin.

"I'm everywhere now," I replied.

"Was it hard?" The soft grey eyes implored me into its truth.

Time had changed. I had changed. I had died and now was here, in this beautiful and timeless city, wondering at its healing energy.

"No. It was not hard. I lived. I died from the virus, but it somehow healed me."

The dolphin turned. Others waited. "It healed us as well."

SISTERS IN CRIME NEW ENGLAND AT NEWBURYPORT LITERARY FESTIVAL

April 25, 2020, 3:00 pm via ZOOM

Pre-Register here

Mystery Making with Sisters in Crime New England

Newburyport Literary Festival, Newburyport, MA

​

Give a panel of talented authors names, setting, motives, weapon and more, then sit back and enjoy the fun as they create a brand new murder mystery on the spot! Join authors Joanna Schaffhausen, Bruce Robert Coffin, Carolyn Wilkins and Connie Johnson Hambley as they build a story while pulling back the curtain on the writing process! Special Note: This will be the first time our popular Mystery Making panel will be presented via video, no doubt adding to the fun for all!

One Page Horror: When the Earth Swallows the Good

A recent writers' gathering asked us to create a one page horror story. Horror means different things to different people. Ghouls and ghosts? Paranormal activity? Aliens? Sure, why not! For me, true horror was something completely different. Read on. -cjh

=============

When the Earth Swallows the Good

by Connie Johnson Hambley

She gripped the hand of her five-year-old, hugged her swaddled baby to her chest, and hoped she didn’t drop her pack as the crowd shoved her forward.

“Mom! Are we there yet?”

“Almost, Sweet Cheeks. Almost.”

She saw her daughter’s lower lip quiver, trying to be brave. “You said that already.”

“I know, Honey, I know. Just a little bit more.”

They weren’t going back. Ever. There was nothing to go back to. The earth had swallowed the good and spit out the bad. The bad pushed them forward more than the teeming bodies.

“I’m tired.”

“Me too, but you’re being such a good girl helping mommy carry your bear and your pack!” She gave a silent prayer of thanks her voice was strong even as she wasn’t. She carried their food, blankets, water. All the heavy things needed for life. Her daughter carried her bear and all the light things needed for life.

The crowd surged. A mother called for her child.

She could see over their heads. The checkpoint, a line of shining wire separating them from an expanse of green that held promises for no one but hope for all, was only a little more. Just a little more. Families hugged each other and wept on the other side. Families clung to each other and wept on this side.

“Present papers! No exceptions!”

She raced through her mental checklist of their frantic packing this morning. It was dark, the bad was closer than before, people panicked and grabbed what they could. They left what they could.

Another wave of bodies almost trampled them, wrenching them apart. She rooted her feet to the ground and plunged her arm down. Searching.

Tiny fingers gripped her hand. The cold panic receded even as she saw the black uniforms and the huge rifles of the guards loom closer. White buses, belching black exhaust, idled on this side, waited for their cargo with open maws. The wind carried the stench of diesel and the cries of the passengers to her.

Photo credit: Gabriela Soto

The drama unfolded again and again. Separation. She was lucky. They were going to be lucky. Everything was in order. She had checked and rechecked. They were going to be fine.

At last. “Papers?”

She reached into her pack, surprised to find one long yellow document. Her picture. Her baby’s certificate.

“Papers?” This time, to her daughter.

She watched the lower lip quiver. “Mommy. I lost my pack.”

A Decent Proposal and a New England Road Trip

If you know me a little bit, you know that I'm president of the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime. You also know that my stomping grounds encompasses six beautiful states, and a little bit of New York, too.

One mission I gave myself this year is to meet as many members as I could in their native habitat. I wanted to see the countryside they call home and meet their extended writer tribe. 

When a Vermont member said, "C'mon up!," it struck a happy note. We decided on a local brewery in what I thought was in a forgotten corner of the state. But it's summer road tripping time, and surprising discoveries are what it's all about. Right?

The Harpoon Brewery in Windsor, Vermont is a hangout haven. Outside, lush plantings surround badminton and volley ball nets. A lawn filled with corn hole platforms and bean bags encourage plenty of friendly competition. Picnic tables and Adirondack chairs wait under shady trees for families and friends to sit and relax a spell. Live music adds to the laid back vibe. 

Once inside, you're greeted with a wall of beer proving this place is far from a forgotten cubby hole.

Our group was six writers strong and pulled from northern Vermont, New Hampshire and even a Canadian ex-pat. Our host traveled twenty minutes. Another traveled more than ninety. Over shandies, stouts, and IPAs, our conversation touched on all aspects of our writing life. 

And the lobster in hand cuffs? For folks in-the-know, the mascot of New England Crime Bake (a mystery and crime writers' conference for those of you out-of-the-know) is a recognizable friend. The day's host, Genie Parrish -- a member of Sisters in Crime New England and a past attendee of Crime Bake -- won a book basket raffle with a tiny version of our mascot duly perched on top. Genie helped set the tone by bringing it along, and it quickly became the star of the day. Our conversations continued and we became aware of another ripple of excitement.

The excitement wasn't about our mascot. At the next table, a young man in a blue-striped shirt got down on one knee in front of a very surprised young woman. He said something. She dabbed her eyes. He slipped a ring on her finger. She dabbed her eyes some more. Our road-tripping destination was their proposal location. The daughter of our host paid their tab as a gesture of love and support. 

I, being the ever-nosy author, wanted to hear their story.

Chris and Emily met online over five years ago. He wanted to meet in person. She said no. He said let's go for a walk. She said she wasn't ready for anything more. He said we can just be each other's friend. They've been inseparable ever since and were already planning to buy a house together, but Chris decided a rock on his sweetie's finger would make a house an even better home. 

So, the Crime Bake mascot added a bit more lore to its legend, and this writer got a road tripping story I won't soon to forget.

Promptly Late Again

Five minutes. One writing prompt. Five different responses. 

What would you write? I find I usually pull a thread of something I had heard or experienced in the week leading up to the group meeting. This week, the news was filled with Jon Stewart shaming lawmakers to take action on the 911 First Responders bill. You'll see his influence in my response.

What did we write to?

"Where did everyone go?" I shouted...

======================

From Maggie:

"Where did everyone go?" I shouted...but they were all there...kind of.

Grace sat in the back of Doug's pick up truck, parked in the usual spot between the trees in the cherry orchard.

Hot boxing was new to her and seemed weirdly intimate.  Inhale deep from the joint, then cup your hand and blow directly into your partner's mouth.  Getting high wasn't unique at these parties, but this went to a whole new level.  The effect was akin to hallucination but fairly short lived...thankfully.  

Grace peered out of the flatbed and saw her crew swirling around.  She fell back and drifted off.

===============

From Donna:

“Where did everyone go?” I shouted. But they all promised they would stay to the bitter end! “I can’t do this alone it is too scary!”

As I stood there wondering what to do next the front door creaked open and a hand came out, wrinkled and deeply veined, it wrapped itself finger by finger around the outside knob of the door. I gasped, sweat streaming down my back, “Give me my cat back! You mean old witch! She didn’t do any harm to your stupid cockatoo! Your bird attacked my sweet little kitten. Your bird is the killer!”

The hand moved opening the door wider, now I can see a skinny arm and a bush of long straggly grey hair. Whoosh, out flew a cockatoo heading …

All is good!

===============

From Cyd:

"Where'd everyone go?" I shouted, but

no one answered. Why did they leave so suddenly?

I jumped off Mariana to let her get a drink and that's when I saw it. A huge water lizard in the sand. Hissing with its wide jaws as it moved toward us.

My big beautiful doe began snorting. She grunted, jumped, spit, and made other sounds I'd never heard before. Seeing her step between me and the monster made me angry. 

If that ugly beast draws a drop of blood from my tall-leg's white coat, I will kill it. Kill it with my small hands. I was afraid before but now I would lose my life protecting hers.

I will be like my spirit animal. The tall-leg. 

=================

From Bette:

“Where did everyone go?” I shouted but… There was no one there to answer. What the heck? “Hello!” I( had been to the loo for a quick pee, and – Where did they go?

Smoke! I smell smoke. The house is on fire. I ran to the nearest slider, and tugged, but it wouldn’t open. I tugged, saw the board set there to keep out an intruder and knew to go to a different door. The front door was open and I went through it. “Hey! Where is everybody?”

Nothing. What the heck? “Hello!” I heard laughter. Where? Down by the barn. But it was dark, and there were brambles. I tripped along, slipped on a rock and fell on my butt. Guys! Where are you?

Peels of laughter. “Ah! Don’t touch it!”

==================

From Connie:

"Where did everyone go?" I shouted, but ...

no sound came out. I moved, but my fingers didn't twitch nor legs flayed. I filled my lungs to scream, but my chest didn't rise.

That's when a fear crept inside me. 

I had been at my company's fancy breakfast. The city laid out before me on an amazingly clear day. I thought I had been in the buffet line, reaching for the eggs Benedict.

I was.

I had been.

Then nothing.

"Where did everyone go?"

But I was falling. Then nothing. 

Then...

I wasn't moving. I had become nothing. I had become one.

Everything had become me and I had become them.

Not them.

One.

I was one.

Memories blended in a timeless way I had never known.

But I remembered one standing Twin Tower as I fell.

A Colorful Way to do Writing Prompts

Some writing prompts are more fun than others.

Cyd's recent trip to a museum gift shop turned up this amazing find of Paint Chip Poetry. You know those crazy names of colors found on your hardware store paint chip strips? Well, somebody who had a bit too much time on their hands decided to cut the strips into single color swatches and arrange them into poems. 

The kits comes with hundreds of color chips and a deck of random titles for poems.  It also comes with very clear instructions of picking chips and a title and arranging them into original works of word art. Of course, we quickly ignored the instructions and came up with our own way of creating a fun writing prompt.

What we did was place the chip cards face down and take twelve of them. Then we chose one title card that we all had to write from as a prompt. We gave ourselves ten minutes to use as many chip colors as we could in our flash fiction pieces and received an extra pat on the back if we could all twelve.

So, here we go! I've underlined the color chip names and title prompt.

Maggie:
(Kudos to Maggie for trying her hand at writing a Deka - a ten syllable poem with the first stanza of two syllables, the next with three and the final stanza with five syllables.)

Deka:

New Leaf

Green as Spring

Next comes summer fun

Far, far away

Mist swirled in the shadows.  The damp floor board of the dingy creeped against the weight of the three bodies and rolling waves.  If they survived, life would be a blank canvas.  Starting afresh as the new leaf of Spring's first bud.

Bria, head in hands on the boats gunnel, peered into the graphite sea.  She glanced a Jack.  A feeling of love washed over her like a whale song - bonding, loving and understood only by them.  Bundled in his arms lay Cheesepuff, their 3 month old son.  No proper name yet.  They had decided to wait on a name until they reached the bone colored shore their dreams had been filled with since long ago and far, far away. 

============

Donna (with an extra pat on the back for using all twelve!):

Far far away, a blackhole looms beneath the sea, the color of obsidian. Fish the color of quick silver dart over the darkness as if it were no more than a puddle. Above the sea the sky glows like the faded denim of a favorite pair of blue jeans! 

In the distance glaciers rise and fall melting into Spring. The purple mountain majesties sing their hallelujahs like a choir in St. John’s Cathedral!

Further inland the open meadows march and grasses wave as the inch worm wakes up and crawls to his breakfast of crunchy leaves scattered about the garden nursery floor. There he will meet the apple of his eye, a tasty dish of the first sprigs of green, the beginning shoots of red gladiolas, green hosta la vistas, and blue hydrangea. 

=============

Cyd:

Far, Far Away
Feroz was careful to stay upwind and silent.

Usually he stayed far, far away from the herd. He’d already suffered from the wrath of Palomar, still bore a few scars. None worse than the scars in his gut from two years spent seething.

Standing in the oaks on the rise above the corral, he used the dappled sunlight to keep hidden while he watched Palomar's offspring. The light would soon drop into a sunset and this was his last chance step closer. The seedlings were young and supple and only made a whisper when he brushed by them.

Although he drew near to the filly—they called her Koko--now was not the time to fight. Feroz didn’t fear Palomar. The colt feared little, not coyotes, black widow spiders, lightening, bear caves.

He feared only one thing: losing the fight for revenge. Feroz would be patient and wise before the time to be brave.

Stealing Koko would be the best revenge, and he would seek it or die.

=========

Connie (with an extra pat on the back for using all twelve!):

It was before the Harvest that the Monsoons hit. The Great Plains--that once stretched out far, far away and as far as the eye could see--were nothing but Mud. Gone were the Key Lime green fields that spring each spring like a Fountain of Youth.

I yearned for the cloistered days of my childhood. I pined for the simplicity of the joy found in hugging my Black Cat or bobbing my Rubber Ducky in the pool during my sister's religious Lap Swims in the community pool. I didn't know where to start to fix the devastation. I was shattered.

The rains did more than wash away the red clay that always reminded me of my grandmother's Antique Rose coverlet. I want to go back to those days.

But the past was closer to me than I knew. The rains had flooded critters from their homes. Rats and Rattlesnakes slithered and scurried.

My ankle burned. A bite. Two small holes.

Faces of ancestors danced around me. I thought I was home. I was wrong.

I was going home.

Forget Me Not.

In Praise of Public Libraries

The New York Review of Books recently published an article by Sue Halpern with the same title and it got me thinking. My relationship with libraries has changed a bit now that I'm an author, but the core of that relationship is the same.

My earliest library memory is walking through canyons of books. The library in my rural New York town was grand by small town standards of the day--which isn't saying a whole lot except we had a distinguished-looking brick building with one big room filled with towering shelves. My mom showed me the one corner in the library feral children like myself could safely stay. The children's corner had a wooden box of worn toys and one narrow three-tiered book case. The large print and colorful colors on the covers told me this is my place, a place I could belong.

The library was located right across the street from the post office. Normally, this wouldn't be important except that my mom was a chatter. Any errand she dragged us three kids on would become a marathon of chat. We could either wait quietly at her side, or bake in our wood-paneled station wagon during a time when such a thing was "good for kids." As the youngest, I was held on the shortest leash, but once I earned her trust that I would look both ways each time I crossed the street, a trip to the post office was no longer the excruciating slog it had become.

I could go the the library!

I remember being reprimanded more than once to keep my voice down and not to run through the stacks. The library was a place I could go. I was welcome.

Years later, fate would have it that I met my husband in a library. Years after that, he and I would bring our three children to our local library. When we first arrived in town, the library was housed in a squat, century-old building off of the main street. Half of the large basement area was dedicated to children's books, puzzles, games, movies, music and even puppets. Passes to Boston museums and attractions were there for the asking. We both held full-time jobs and reconnected with our children at the end of the day through a bed-time ritual that included reading one chapter of Harry Potter and one book chosen, and hopefully agreed upon, by the kids. My husband became a library trustee. I frequented the book club.

Our habit was go to the library each month and fill a wooden milk crate with books. When the town built a ravishing new library, we were the last patrons to the old site and crammed as many books as we could into the crate. The library would be closed for a month as it moved from the old location to the new. During that month, we missed the cozy building and the spontaneous pizza night outings where the kids would chose movies while I urged them to hurry before the pepperoni and sausage pies got cold.

We were the first family through the doors of the new library and marveled at its size and beauty. 

Some old-timers grumbled at the expense of such a "frivolous" thing as a public library. A controversy erupted over displaying stuffed birds. New folks wanted changing displays of local artists and regional history. Old folks wanted familiarity and continuity. 

With its new looks came new ways to reach out to the community. Children and seniors have a place there. Yoga, lectures, movies, concerts, painting classes and so much more happens because a plucky little library in a small New England town became the heart of its community. 

Writing Prompts and The Detective

Reading responses to a writing prompt is like interviewing witnesses to a crime. No one says the same thing, even though the impetus is the same. The gunshots sounded, nothing can change that. The prompt is what it is, no one dares to change that. Everyone comes to the prompt (or the crime) with their own biases and sees things from their own angle. Witness or writer, each has something important to say.

One of my writers' groups starts each monthly critique session with a different line chosen at random from pages of one sentence prompts. We never do the same prompt twice and allow less than a minute for each of us to write the prompt at the top of our pages. Then we have a firm five minutes to write the first thing that comes to mind. We read our responses to the group, with a combination of embarrassment, frustration, futility, or...very rarely...pride.

Today, I'll try something a little different and play detective with my only clues being the words on the page and my knowledge of the each author. Okay, I'll be cheating a little bit because I collected the responses via email and know the answers. But, even without remembering who read what aloud or seeing the emails, I'd be able to match respondent with response. My deductions will follow each prompt and may help you get to know my Pen Friends a little bit more. -cjh

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The professor stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when…

...the student stood up.

The young man was silent. Silent, serious but not menacing, with eyes as black and shiny as obsidian.

The professor gestured for him to continue, then waited patiently. He understood indigenous people carried a deep well of silence that persisted even in their descendants.

During this pregnant silence, some students squirmed in their seats, others shot meaningful looks to their friends. The athletes, male and female, threw their heads back to take a long-awaited nap.

“You tell us,” the young man finally spoke, “our horses came here with the Europeans.”

“Yes,” the professor replied eagerly, glad that the conversation was about classwork.

“But you’re wrong.”

Students’ eyes widened, heads perked up.

“My people have always had horses.”

If it wasn't mentioning horses, or alluding to their history, it was in grounding the response in "indigenous people" that was the dead giveaway that Cyd Raschke wrote this. Cyd is working on a wonderful YA novel of the first horses brought to the New World. She has meticulously researched equine history and the Native American tribes in what we know as Texas. Horses, history, and Native Americans gave this the tri-perfecta of clues.

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The Fishes’ Perch

   

The professor stopped dead in the middle of the sentence when...

... a fish fell from the ceiling onto the stage in front of where he stood.

The fish was a large sea perch. The kind of perch that really no one cooked or ate at all anymore because ocean stocks had dwindled so alarmingly.

           

The fact that it had been a perch was vital to the unfolding investigation and figured largely in the reason that two hours, twenty-seven minutes and forty seconds later the professor was removed from the classroom in hand cuffs.

            

It fell to detective Smith-Collins to untangle the market chain in order to follow back to the origins of the perch.

            

Detective S-C began with a walk around the desk where the professor had stood in beginning his lecture.

            

“Why would he have placed the fish above,” the detective asked no one in particular, while looking up and stroking his goatee in that manner that drove his wife crazy.

           

He noticed that not just one perch had been stored above in its’ lofty perch, but dozens of other fishes, all of endangered species, were stored there as well. There were rows of swordfish, cod, mussels and even salmon.

The first clue? The respondent sent their response neatly typed with a title! That was the dead giveaway that the author takes her writing and presentation very seriously. Only a freshly minted MFA recipient would take the meticulous steps to present a five minute work product with such care and a title! Geez!

The second clue? The subject matter. Sustainability issues and protecting endangered species, whether fish, fowl, or fauna, tipped the deductive scales to Elizabeth Rose. Elizabeth is writing a memoir of her travels to Guatemala to help people with issues surrounding poverty, farming, clean water, and literacy. She is a gladiator, and even a simple five minute prompt provided an outlet for her warrior spirit.

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The professor stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when...

... the black shaggy pup scrambled up the three short stairs to the stage. The class, afraid to be too disruptive, twittered softly to one another. 

The puppy trotted proudly across the stage and sat, with ceremonious dignity on the foot of the professor. The professor reached down and picked up the little fella. He held him an arms length away from himself and with a look of disgust, asked, “To Whom does this belong? Please claim him.” 

At that point my face had turned cherry red. I slipped out of my seat and approached the stage…out of the corner of my eye I saw a squirt!

A puppy? Wholesome drama? A scene that could have been plucked from a Disney movie? Oh, yes. It must be Donna Burke Seim! Donna's recently launched, middle grade targeted, Cheeky and Charlemagne is populated with adorable animals and playful drama. I don't know how Donna does it, but each of her responses channels an innocence of another time, and you don't have to be a kid to love her writing or her books. 

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The professor stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when...

...he saw me standing in the doorway. I wasn't sure it was him, but when he stuttered over his words and blushed crimson, I was sure.

Thirty years and a lifetime, and now I had found him.

We were each other's first lovers when war tore us apart. He came back to a changed world. I had married. I had to marry, but I made the most of those years.

It took him all this time to emerge from the Hell war had torn into him.

It took this time for life to free me from a marriage that was fine, but without love.

When he stuttered, "C-c-class d-d-dismissed," we stood and looked at one another and the years vanished.

The class emptied and we stared.

I took a halting step forward. He said, in halting phrases, "I've been waiting."

Okay, no deduction here. This one is mine. Usually I try to have a murder or a crime be central to the prompt concept, but this time, I tried for love. Remember when I said that each writer or witness brings their own set of biases? Well, the readers do the same thing! I got a kick out of hearing the other writers were waiting for the narrator to kill the professor.

Does writing about love mean I'm losing my edge? I hope not. Killing people on pages is too much fun.

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The professor stopped dead in the middle of his sentence when… 

… that freakish-looking girl waddled in – more like swaggered, if you can imagine that – this big, wide girl, swaggering.

Well, good for her, I thought, studying her straight bangs that circled her head midway up the back of her scalp. Yipes! She had used a bowl, with that below, at the back, shaved. She took off her coat and was instantly more statuesque.

Professor’s face had gone red. He picked up his chalk piece – to send it from hand to hand – then shoved it in his pocket. “Are you quite comfortable, Miss - ”

“It’s MS, and no, I’ll need a minute to set up my desk. I once pinched the inside of my arm on one of these swivel tops.” She sat down then, after adjusting her leopard skin coat. Faux, I’m sure. No! there was a stain of orange paint – wet! I could smell it, edging

And this is when the timer goes off leaves us all wishing we could complete our thoughts and shape our responses. Oh, if we writers only had more time! Observing and capturing snippets of life is what Bette Lischke does with her writing. We've all seen backs of heads shaved with the tops untouched, but bowls! As a style guide! Only a person wearing a leopard coat would think of such a thing. But was it faux? Hmm, I wonder!

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