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. 

Just Write, Damn It

We spend more and more time in front of our keyboards. We work, play, connect, research, all with fingers poised, eyes strained, and necks crooked. As writers, we’re isolated. Some of us are lucky to have agents and publishers, maybe even nominations and awards. But for all others? What keeps us going?

Obviously, the drive to create via the written word is a powerful life force. Mere creation is a joy, but is there more?

We can sometimes take for granted our gift of being able to string words together in a cohesive pattern.  The power of being a writer can be hidden in daily life.

You know by now that I’ve volunteered at a therapeutic riding stable dedicated to helping people with special needs learn to ride. Clients have a spectrum of issues from Down Syndrome to stroke injuries. Everyone is unique with their skills and needs.

Five years ago, I was paired with a client and we quickly became a team. Each lesson consisted of me leading her horse while she built her independent skills. We talked about our lives outside of the stable and laughed a lot.

One day, she presented me with a short story. The first she had ever written.

I cherish the many stories she has given me – all the more because she passed away suddenly in January.

Her sister asked me if I could help write the obituary and read a post I wrote about our friendship at the service.

The stable has asked me to speak at their annual fundraising gala because, well, they heard I could string together a few words pretty well.

So, write. Pour your heart into what you do and create. Don’t worry about the success of others with stories published, books in print, or awards won. Write what you love and conjure worlds. While you’re at it, kill off a few people and talk about your favorite murder techniques–you know, just to keep people around you on their best behavior.

But don’t stop writing. It might not look the same to all writers, but somehow, your daily life will be empowered by the written word.

THE WOMAN WITH THE 1000-WATT SMILE

This woman. Right there. With the thousand-watt smile. I've written about Kathy before. We met when I decided I needed horses back into my life and started volunteering at a therapeutic riding stable near my home. I thought volunteering for people with special needs would be a way to give back.

I was so wrong about who gave and who received.

At Windrush, riders may have been born with a challenge or life dealt them a hard blow. For Kathy, she was born healthy, then, at two years old, she contracted a virus. It's with a bit of irony that I tell you the virus was Eastern Equine Encephalitis, a devastating virus that causes inflammation of the brain. Many people die from it. Very few survive unscathed. 

Kathy was left with physical and intellectual challenges, but she was able to balance well in the saddle on her own. She didn't need anyone to help her stay on the horse. But horses can do unexpected things. My role as a horse handler is to make sure the rider stays safe from those unexpected things. 

In the picture to the right, you can see the lead line gripped in my hand. Kathy is effervescent. Evan the horse is calm. That lead line is the fail safe. The horse is always under the control of an "able bodied" person. You know, just in case.

Our pairing was random. No one saw what the other needed and put us together in some great spurt of inspiration. Kathy wanted to learn how to ride. I'm an experienced horse person and wanted to get a horse fix. That was over five years ago.

Kathy had been riding at Windrush for seven years before we became a team. She had never ridden independently, unclipped from a lead line. 

In our weeks together, I came under Kathy's spell and was flattered when she asked for me to be her exclusive partner. I began to understand her capabilities and saw her through the prism of what she could do rather than could not do. 

And then, one day when I knew she was ready, I unclipped the lead line and Kathy rode independently for the first time. Ever. She steered the horse in a small circle and I was never out of reach of the horse. You know, just in case. The instructor and other riders whooped congratulations. She squealed with joy and we both got a little misty eyed. Eventually, she learned to do a posting trot around the arena. Unclipped. On her own. In control.

Our time together was defined by simplicity. Nothing else mattered but what happened in the arena. Trail rides after the lessons were a treat. We both loved walking through the woods. We talked a bit on those rides. I told her about writing and books and my kids. She told me about her sister and cat. 

Each Wednesday at Windrush Farm, I'd get the horse ready and wait for her in the arena. She'd always meet me the same way...arms outstretched, a squeal of delight, and a hug. Each lesson, we'd laugh together and try new things. Sometimes we succeeded, sometimes we failed, but we always laughed.

She rode in the Special Olympics and won ribbons and medals. She made this picture of the two of us into a mouse pad and gave it to me for Christmas. As I write this, it sits beside me. Kathy's amazing smile urges me on.

My knees weakened one day when she handed me rumpled sheets of paper. She had written a short story. It was the first story she had ever written. I was humbled.

I learned more about joy and resilience from her than I can say. I fooled myself by thinking I was helping her learn. She helped me learn the lessons in life that are really good, wonderful lessons about generosity, love, and friendship.

Kathy passed away this week due to an unexpected and incomprehensible turn of events. I'm gutted.

The world is an emptier place today. Joy like Kathy's is hard to find. I will miss her.

SHORT STORY PUBLISHED IN MYSTERY WEEKLY MAGAZINE!

December 2018 Mystery Weekly Magazine featuring

"The Brew" by Connie Johnson Hambley

Christmas came early for me this year! I'm thrilled my short story, "The Brew," was published in December's Mystery Weekly Magazine!

Here's a writer's truth. "The Brew" is one of my favorite short stories that I've written. It was inspired by a local brew pub in nearby Ipswich, Massachusetts and named after a rock band my sons' 

friends started in high school that gained a decent following. I know local folk will recognize both the place and the band. Sitting at the brew pub's bar made from a single plank of a historic local tree* and sipping a pint of amazing oatmeal stout, I wondered about a boy who never left his small hometown and another who fled after high school to follow his dreams. What if they were best friends? What if one did the other wrong? What if they loved the same girl?

So, I wrote the story and submitted it to an anthology I have been published in before**. I waited and waited for news, then...it was rejected! I've received other rejections for other works--what writer hasn't? But this rejection smarted. Instead of shrinking back into the dark and writing (which is actually a very healthy response for a writer!) I did something I have never done before...I submitted the story to a magazine.

And viola! The cover says it all! A touch of sweetness is added that circulation/readership of Mystery Weekly is larger than that of the anthology! Anger has its upsides. Maybe there's a story there, too?

So, at a hand-hewn wooden bar surrounded by hipsters and familiar faces, my story sparked to life.

In “The Brew," a rock star visits his home town, while his best friend teeters on the edges of sobriety and murder.

In this issue, I share the pages with:

Tom Mead’s “Invisible Death” is a gothic mystery in the golden-age tradition, inspired by the work of John Dickson Carr. It features a seemingly impossible locked-room murder in a snowbound country house.

In “Mrs. Bott’s Finest Christmas” by Michael Thomas Smith, a bar patron recounts a chance meeting with a notorious criminal who performed an act of kindness that didn't go as he expected.

“Outrace The Snowfall” by Dave Creek provides a hated billionaire, a snowed-in mountaintop mansion, and a fresh supply of poison—what could go wrong?

In “Nice Grammar, That Guy” by Andrew Welsh-Huggins, Susan and Allen Horton seem the perfect couple, which makes Susan’s bludgeoning death at the hands of a homeless man outside a Providence restaurant after a 10th anniversary dinner all the more shocking.

“Rolls Upon Prank” by Jeff Somers—even in sleepy backyards, guarded by the timid and the well-fed, murders can be committed ... and upset the balance of nature.

Try out your own sleuthing skills with “New Year’s Thieve”—a You-Solve-It By Laird Long.

The magazine is also available on digital newsstands and Kindle Newsstands subscriptions: https://www.amazon.com/Mystery-Weekly-Magazine/dp/B01N4NJL91

Give yourself or a friend a gift of a one year subscription. Click through for more information. http://www.mysteryweekly.com/subscribe.asp

NEW! Enjoy Mystery Weekly FREE at over 30,000+ libraries and schools worldwide through their online system called Flipster. Ask your librarian for details!

Want to read "The Brew"? Click on one of the URLs above! 

Snow, Snow, Snow, Murder! Mystery Weekly Magazine Dec 2018 in Print @ Amazon—Digital and NEW Mobile @ http://mysteryweekly.com/ & Kindle Newsstand (free 30 day trials) #MYSTERY

http://MysteryWeekly.com

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* For you tree lovers out there, the tree had become diseased and was at risk for falling on the neighboring houses. The good news is that much of it lives on as furniture...and bar tops.

** Serendipitously, Andrew Welsh-Higgins and I share the pages in Best Crime Stories of New England: Snowbound.

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

~~~~

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.

~~~~~

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.

~~~~

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. 

~~~~

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.

~~~~~~

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!

~~~~~

A Glimpse Inside an Author's Life

Okay. I'm writing this in an exhausted state. For all of you who think being an author is a life of writing by the warm hearth with a mug of steaming tea by our sides, with the occasional foray to events in our literary honor, stop reading and slap yourself upside your heads.

Maybe its like that for a few lucky souls, but let me tell you about my week.

It started with every emerging author's rite of passage. I submitted the full manuscript of my WIP, Find Cally, to two agents and a publisher. Yay! I had pitched to them at Crime Bake 2017 and was thrilled to receive their interest. In truth, the submissions were long delayed because my personal life detoured, but I was determined to submit the buffed and polished MS before this year's Crime Bake. (My WIP is a new venture and direction from my trilogy, so a fresh start makes sense.)

The beginning of the week was doing what writers do...revising, second guessing, revising, and hitting SEND.

Now a bit of backstory. I'm VP of the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime and on the board of this year's Crime Bake, a premier writers' conference. Being a hot-wired, detail-oriented person, I was doing my hot-wired, detail-oriented follow through on all things Crime Bake. As hotel liaison, my role was more Project Manager than Supreme Commander, but if something went wrong, it was my job to fix it. Oh, it was also my job to make darned sure nothing went wrong to begin with.

And then, on Monday, the boxes started to arrive.

Ever wonder about those nifty conference totes attendees get? Or about what goes in them? Yeah. Details matter.

Along with my real life and my author's life, I have a volunteer life. As a horse handler at a therapeutic riding center, I've worked with one woman for years. Physically and intellectually hobbled by a childhood illness, her positive spirit and our bond gives me far more than I could ever give her. Since we've together, she has ridden independently for the first time and claims I have inspired her to write.

On Wednesday, she gave me a short story she had written. My heart swelled.

The day before Crime Bake should have been a day of last minute follow through. Instead, I had to see MY PEOPLE! Equine Affaire is an annual conference of all things horse. The four-day event draws over 100K attendees. I've been a panelist and speaker there for the past two years and have been signing books at Taborton Books ever since The Charity was published. To be surrounded by horse-loving, book-reading people is wonderful and catching up with fans I only see there is better than you can imagine.

I sell a lot of books and (hopefully) make more fans.

Yes, I drove three hours to meet, greet, and sign for seven hours the day before a three-day conference.

And yes, after I arrived at the hotel Thursday evening, I treated myself to a dirty martini. Very dirty.

Friday morning started with a meeting of the Crime Bake team with the hotel staff. Co-chairs Edith Maxwell and Michele Dorsey pulled together a great team and the Hilton Hotel's staff, from the General Manager on down, met with us to pour over final details.

In truth, the next 72 hours are a bit of a blur. I absorbed the words of our Guest of Honor, Walter Mosley, in his Master Class and felt both unworthy of the title of "author" in the shadow of his incredible talent and inspired to persist.

Authors and fans know this is a time of being surrounded by their tribe. Sessions range from drilling down into craft techniques, to learning the fine points of criminal investigations and forensics, to insights into writing cinematically. The intimate size of the conference fosters connections in a relaxed atmosphere. My local library will be thrilled with a personalized signed copy of Mr. Mosley's newest book.

Board Members of Sister in Crime New England with our very
own Sherry Harris attending as Sisters in Crime,
national president. SinCNE president Edith Maxwell is
seated to Sherry's left.

Bright and early Saturday morning was a board meeting breakfast of Sisters in Crime New England. (I have much more to talk about and I'll be sharing SinCNE news with you soon.) After breakfast, I bounced around from attending sessions to addressing those pesky issues and details that inevitably crop up. From rearranging risers and podiums to ensure all audience members could see panelists, to working with the hotel to fix an agent's room needs, I did what needed to be done and completely ignored Rule #1. I did not keep to my dedicated time to write. Emails and trouble-shooting notwithstanding, I did not write one word. Nada. Zilch.

Honoree Kate Flora with author
Connie Johnson Hambley

Saturday evening's banquet honored Kate Flora with a Lifetime Achievement Award. Kate is talented, accomplished, and generous. Her influence inspires minnows like myself more than she realizes. After sharing a glass of wine and a conversation that ranged from cases to craft to family, she greeted me the next morning with a copy of her newest book, SHOTS FIRED, and dedicated it to my daughter who is embarking on a career in law enforcement. Kate is all class.

Sunday's panels had everything an author could want. Even with a packed house, the atmosphere was warm and friendly.

After the last of the attendees packed up and returned to their own writing lives, my job continued. Sunday even included a search for a purloined bouquet of flowers that were given as a gift to outgoing SinCNE president Edith Maxwell. (The Hilton ordered a replacement and personally picked them up from the florist!)

Once again, I deployed the secret weapon all authors should have and packed the car for the return trip home. Challenged by most things spacial, I never would have been able to fit all of this (and more!) into my car without my secret help.

Sunday night I filled my home with boxes of stuff I'll be holding on to for the next events of SinCNE and Crime Bake. I was finally able to give my 91-year-old mom a call and fill her in on all the details...who was there, how everything went, what everyone wore, and yes, what I ate and if I slept well.

The whirlwind is over and some folks said I'll miss the activity.

Maybe. As much as I love being surrounded by my tribe, I adore the solitude of writing. So, I'm still in my jammies as I write this, mug of tea beside me.