It's a Mystery!

The Stair Landing: Across the River

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 14:15:00 +0000

Across the River...to Mysterious Matters

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 15:58:00 +0000

I don't know who Agatho is, but I adore him and Mystery Matters.

Across the River...and on the Beach

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 16:27:00 +0000

The book-signing at Murder on the Beach was a great success and great fun, thanks to my mom and uber-social Aunt Theresa Natale rallying her book club and other friends. Bookstore manager Joanne Sinchuk was wonderful and hilarious. (Ask her what she REALLY thinks about Patricia Cornwell.)

This was icing on a cake that was already well-frosted the night before. I had gone straight from the airport to the bookstore just in time to catch Linda Fairstein's talk and pick up her latest, Lethal Legacy. As she signed my copy, I reminded her that I'd interviewed her a few years back for Mystery Scene magazine. "Of course! And you have a signing here tomorrow. I can't make it, but tell Joanne to put your book on my pile." Turns out she had put aside a stack of books to buy. Even better, the next day, straight-from-the-hip-shooter Joanne said, "Some people buy other authors' books just to be nice, then they leave them behind. BUT SHE TOOK YOURS WITH HER."

So now not only does the fair Fairstein have my book on her credit card, she may actually read it. Be still my heart!

Across the River...and Under the Palms

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 15:56:00 +0000

Trying not to hyperventilate about tomorrow night's speak-and-sign at Murder on the Beach. A tough act to follow: Tonight Linda Fairstein will be there talking up her latest, Lethal Legacy. I had the joy of interviewing brilliant, funny, just plain nice Linda for Mystery Scene a few years ago, and her history as the head of the groundbreaking Manhattan District Attorney's Sex Crimes Unit was/is fascinating. My plane should land in time for me to catch her in the act.

Then on to Sleuthfest. On Friday at 11 a.m., I'm co-leading a workshop with Oline Cogdill of the Sun-Sentinel on getting press coverage. (Those who can do, those who can't....) Saturday's 3:15 panel on Humor in mysteries should be---or BETTER be--a laugh. The pressure's on to be funny, but Elaine Viets and Rhonda Pollero will be on the panel with me, so maybe I can just sit back and enjoy the show.

Of course, it might be useful for me to finish packing and get on the freaking plane...

Across the River...to Law & Order

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 15:19:00 +0000

Well, looks like I'll get a chance to research the inner workings of the Florida police while I'm down in the Sunshine State for my book-signing and Sleuthfest. On Dec. 29, my mom was mugged in her local Publix parking lot. She-devil that she is, Jaye hung on to her purse--which did not foil the theft but did fracture one of her fingers. On Jan. 19, I found a message on my cellphone from "Latif," who somehow had possession of the purse contents (including my phone number, but also ID and credit cards, keys, irreplaceable family photos, and rosary beads blessed by Pope John Paul George Ringo), claimed that he knew who the thief was and wanted to contact my mother. I urged him instead to bring the items to the police, then hung up and immediately called the Palm Beach County sheriff's department. They put a detective on the case. But yesterday Latif turned in the goods on his own, and the DelRay PD wants Mom to come down to identify her belongings. So that's on our agenda for my week under the palms. FYI: The alleged mugger is Latif's son-in-law. "He's got a rap sheet," said my mom, an avid crime-fiction fan. As traumatic as this was for her, I loved hearing my 5'2" 77-year-old mom talk like Lennie Briscoe from Law & Order. Then my mother says she’s doesn’t know if she can ID the guy if they show her mugshots, but she’ll pray for him. To which I say, "Yeah, and in the meantime, he’ll be preying on other little old ladies. Take him down, Mom."

Across the River...with WHATSIS

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 03:53:00 +0000

While responding to Liz Zelvin's post on a Sisters in Crime forum recently, I coined a new medical malady:

Homonym aphasia: n. An affliction of middle-aged spelling-bee champions characterized by substituting sound-alike words (threw for through, two for too, etc.) in written communication

Want to join the E-Race for a Cure? (We who suffer from HA! are always erasing.) Liz is reaching out for new members of WHATSIS on her co-blog, Poe's Deadly Daughters.

Across the River...with an AARP

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 06:31:00 +0000

Just got my latest issue of AARP (named after one of several unfortunate noises the body starts emitting at regular intervals in middle age). Intrigued by the coverline "GLENN CLOSE: Why she's risking so much to erase the shame of mental illness," I quickly consumed the article. Turns out that the actress best known for boiling a rabbit is not herself mentally ill. Her shame (insert sarcasm here), it seems, is in having relatives with bipolar and schizoaffective disorders.

The article--through no fault of the fabulous and lucid Ms. Close--is ironic at best. Here the Oscar-nominated Emmy winner is "headlining a campaign intended to diminish the stigma of mental illness" and the writer makes mental illness seem indeed to be a stigma. You'd think she had confessed to a virulent case of chlamydia or to offering Barack Obama's Senate seat to the highest bidder.

Exactly what Ms. Close is risking "so much" is unclear. Ostracization from Hollywood--at the tender age of 61? It is clear how the entertainment world treats the mentally ill: They're given a Grammy Award and chauffeured to the Sony/BMG after-party. (Note to Britney Spears' folks: Erratic behavior in early adulthood is a classic sign of several disorders. Get her diagnosed and treated NOW.)

Ms. Close is lauded as one of 10 "heroes who inspire us," and her cause is certainly worthy. But what about her relative who had to make the choice between a new coat for her child or a visit to her therapist? We don't learn what her final choice was and how it affected her and her family. (I'm hoping Ms. Close just wrote her a check for both. Not that that solves every problem.)

The most heroic people I know get up each morning to face a battle raging in their own heads, with little relief. I don't know how they do it. Some choose not to do it after a while. Over 90% of people who die from suicide have one or more psychiatric disorders. Just ferreting out the proper treatment, if that ever happens, would test the strongest mental health.

But like Ms. Close, I am still surprised by how uncomfortable most people are talking about these issues. It's estimated that 5 percent of the population has some form of MI, from severe depression to schizophrenia, and it affects one out of four families. If not you, then someone who shares your bank of work cubicles, sits in your pew at church, works on the same PTA committee. In this let-it-all-hang-out world of reality shows, why does dealing with mental health issues merit less attention than Jeff Conaway screwing up in rehab?

In discussions about my novel, only a few readers/reviewers comment on Cat, the bipolar twin sister. Those that do confide about their own family members. They speak of them with much affection, not shame. Mental illness doesn't take away our loved ones' sense of humor, intelligence and straight-to-the-heart observations.

And sometimes they cope better then the rest of us. When I admitted to my brother that it's hard for me to be happy when people I love are in pain, he said (actually, he yelled), "I'm not in pain! I'm bipolar! Get over it! Enjoy your life!"

That's why I love him and why I agree that, as he always says, he can't be killed by ordinary weapons.

Across the River...and into the Clouds: Bouchercon 2008

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 17:59:00 +0000

Like any mystery writer with a dollar and a dream, I made it this weekend to the ultimate writer/fan conference, Bouchercon, held this year in Baltimore. In my practical (read: cheapskate) way, I combined it with a stay with my sister in Virginia and a meeting with her book club on Wednesday night, which had wisely picked my novel as their monthly read. The delightful A-list of Ashburn (you're lookin' at 'em, at right) gave me great feedback, and it all ended with sugar overload and everyone singing sitcom theme songs from our childhoods. (Despite the 10-year-average age difference, someone else knew all the verses to "The Monkees" too.)

The joy continued Thursday at the conference where I was overwhelmed by the size of the crowd, but immediately saw a familiar face and friend, Chris Grabenstein, who writes the wonderful and funny Jersey Shore/John Ceepak mysteries. (A former stand-up comic, he hilariously hosted a charity auction the next night, where books, character names and other goodies went to the highest bidder.)

After a round of panel discussions, I made it, late, to the lunch sponsored by Sisters in Crime. But slinking into a seat at a back table, I found myself closer to the buffet, so it was all for the best. Luckier still, I won a copy of the anthology Sisters on the Case--remarkable not only because I rarely win ANYTHING but because I didn't know I had entered the raffle. (It seems just by attending, I was eligible==saving me from getting my hopes up.)

Well, I can never say that again, because something else happened later that made me feel I had won life's lottery.

The last Saturday panel, titled "Red, Red Wine," was moderated by Laura Lippman, who was Bouchercon’s guest of honor. She--along with panelists Harlan Coben, John Harvey, Lauren Henderson, S.J. Rozan and Jim Huang--were gathered to whine about the business of writing. But bottles of appropriately named red wine (such as "Jealous B*tch" and "Fat B*stard") were also being raffled off. Anyone from the audience could write his/her name on a slip of paper, and at the end, if your name was picked, you could ask the panelists a question and get a bottle. But there were at least 300 people in the audience, so what are the odds?

Long story longer: The discussion went on, and ended on the panelists talking about their favorite “lesser known” authors (one of MY favorites, Allison Gaylin, was mentioned). Then the name picking started. A few folks did get to ask questions and get their bottles, then time ran out. So Laura Lippman just drew names to get rid of the remaining bottles.

Naturally, with my usual New Jersey underdog attitude, I'm thinking, "Figures. I won't get to ask a question and, I almost never win anything, so forget the free vino too." Then I heard Laura Lippman say, “Cheryl...oh, I’m going to get the last name wrong, Sol—im-ini. Cheryl, I should have mentioned you as one of the new authors to watch for! I read your book and loved it!”

If I were Jewish, I would have plotzed. Being Italian, I f*cking plotzed.

At the suggestion of my book editor, Michele Slung, I'd sent Laura (we're on a first-name basis now) an advance copy of Across the River. That was six months ago. I figured it had landed on a pile somewhere, or more usefully, was under a shaky table leg in her Federal Hill brownstone. So to say I was blown away by her recognizing my name and remembering my book, is like saying...well, I'm so blown away I can't even think of a simile that's of Category 5-hurricane-like proportions.

Okay, so at that point everyone was already getting up to leave and walking noisily out the doors. Some people’s heads snapped around but (I realized later) my name tag had flipped backward and I was anonymous for all intents and purposes. Not exactly a Hallmark Hall of Fame moment.

But I know what happened, and that's all that counts. That sounds like modesty, except of course I'm writing about it on my blog in the hope that a half million people or so will stumble across this entry and know about it too.

I saw Laura the next morning, said something inane, then had to find her again and apologize for saying something inane, and thanked her properly and hugged her, which I was sure put me at the top of her Stalkers List. But then a little later, at the weekend’s final session, where she was interviewed by Michael Koryta, I got the chance to ask a question from the audience. When I stood up (I was practically at the back in a room of 300+ people), she said, “Oh, hey! Hi, Cheryl!”

More heads snapped around. Then I realized I’d never helped her pronounce my last name! If only!

But I’m still flying. Pretty exciting for my first Bouchercon! And I got a free book and a bottle of Jealous B*tch, which, after this weekend, I am no longer.

Across the River...Seven Years Ago Today

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 23:43:00 +0000

Sept. 10, 2001. What were YOU doing the day BEFORE 9/11?

That was the date I had chosen to begin writing a mystery novel. I'd had a dream that sparked the plot idea in 1998, and thought it might be something to get to in...oh, 20 years. Then the group of magazines I wrote and edited were shut down. In a crystal-clear moment, I decided this was a sign to pursue my dream, literally. The next day, of course, was a nightmare...and the day after that and the next. Until I realized this--the possible end of the world as we knew it--was all the more reason to follow that dream wherever that dream might lead. (As Elvis sung in the 1962 movie of the same name.)

But more frightening is what U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld was doing that Monday. He was giving a speech at the Pentagon. His topic addressed "an adversary that poses a threat, a serious threat, to the security of the United States of America.... It disrupts the defense of the United States and places the lives of men and women in uniform at risk."

What was it that got little Donald's panties in a bunch? "It's the Pentagon bureaucracy."

He hadn't a clue what Osama Bin Laden would effect the next day. In fact, he thought all the bad guys were already gone. "You may think I'm describing one of the last decrepit dictators of the world. But their day, too, is almost past, and they cannot match the strength and size of this adversary."

You want irony? His was the kickoff address at the DOD Acquisition and Logistics Excellence Week. It’s still on the Defense Department Web site. Read it at: http://www.defenselink.mil/speeches/speech.aspx?speechid=430

He ended his talk with an anecdote about a donkey, as is befitting.

Later that day, CBS News later reported Rumsfeld as saying, "According to some estimates we cannot track $2.3 trillion in transactions,"

Go ahead. Vote Republican. The Real Donkey Party.

Across the River...to My Hometown

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 13:40:00 +0000

Oh, what a night! Family, friends old and new... A particularly sappy episode of This Is Your Life, and I loved every minute of it. Immediately recognized faces I hadn't seen in 40 years. A smile never changes.

Barnes & Noble bookstore manager Neda Rose had a good night too. So much that she invited me to apply for a vendor seat at the Edgewater Arts & Music Festival on Sept. 14...even though, in a sense, she would be taking business away from herself. NOTE TO AUTHORS: Make booksellers happy and they become invested in your success. But maybe that's just my hometown--they take care of their own.

Across the River and Back Again

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 21:16:00 +0000

Okay, so Page Six didn’t cover it, but a good time was had by all at the Mysterious Bookshop! About 40 folks trekked from various points north, south, east and west to share the joy...and the sugar! One--my poker pal Failey Patrick--even won the Candy You Ate As a Kid raffle. That's four pounds of glucose, from Almond Joy to Zagnut. Even some wax lips. Who couldn't use a set of those?

The bookstore's own Dan Seitler shot video of my talk and two weeks later it appeared on YouTube. Turns out, this was the first time The Mysterious Bookshop was trying this, and now, through the staff's clever editing, I'm "virtually" and eternally linked to Janet Evanovich.

All in all, I'm in good company.

Across the River...literally

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 15:56:00 +0000

In a few hours, I'll be crossing two rivers to Across the River's launch party at The Mysterious Bookshop in New York City's Tribeca. My head is about to explode.

If everyone who RSVP'd comes, it will be over 40 guests from almost every chapter of my life: family, Manhattan- and NJ-based friends, poker buddies, ex-colleagues-still-friends from every magazine job I've ever had, a group from my PA exercise classes--even some folks I've worked with but never met face to face. It's like a wake without the big stinky floral arrangements. Better yet, I get to go to the "reception" afterward and eat!

So come. I can never have enough friends, and you might make a new one too. Grab a Yoo-hoo and a snack--but don't eat the Pixy Stix until the end of Chapter 15!

Across the River...a little lower in the water

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 15:05:00 +0000

Woo-hoo, Yoo-hoo and Pixy Stix! My Milford, PA, book-signing was loads of fun, with visits from family, friends and local folk and 36 books off the shelves. The Yoo-hoo was flowing and the Pixy Stix went like hotcakes. I got a contact hypoglycemic buzz.

Just as gratifying was learning that Mill Run Booksellers owner, Barbara Buchanan, loves Across the River. She admitted that she isn't always enamored of the books she's hosting, but she picked up mine and couldn't put it down. And she's not even a third cousin once removed!

One thing you always hear at writing conferences is how important it is to establish a relationship with booksellers. It certainly helps if they like the book! But the store staff also noticed my posters around town--it was a last-minute gig but I managed to get 20 announcements up in public areas and four press releases placed (almost word for word) in local papers and online news sites. Barbara appreciated that too.

I left five books in the store and stuck a Pixy Stix in each. Wish I could package one with every book with the warning: Don't eat until you finish Chapter 15!

Speaking of indulgence. One month from today, at my Edgewater, NJ, signing On August 14, I will be reuniting with grammar-school classmates that I haven't seen (and who haven't seen me) in 40 years. Should I have had that celebratory sundae on Saturday night?

Across the River...with Joyce Carol Oates

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 16:34:00 +0000

Well, blow me sideways! In the years before my mystery novel was published, it was rejected (despite glowing praise for the writing, characters, setting, etc.) for having a plot too much like the real Jon Benet Ramsay story. Yes, that still-unsolved tabloid case was part of the inspiration, though it was merely a jumping off point for other issues I wanted to explore.

Today I read that Joyce Carol Oates, the Morticia Addams of the literary world, has written an even more blatantly ripped-from-the-headlines fictional account. Hey, Joyce, I was there first! I thought up mine in 2000 and started writing seven years ago, while you probably came up with the idea last week and finished on Friday. (She IS notoriously prolific.) And her interview on BookPage could be mine, with its intimations of Christianity and tabloid hell.

Note to Joyce: Really, changing Ramsey to "Rampike"? Even I could have done better than that!

Across the River...and into the Blog

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 18:38:00 +0000

Did I mention I am a lousy blogger? Lousy, lousy, lousy. Across the River debuted at the Deadly Ink conference last weekend, I appeared on three panels that Saturday, and that night my Amazon.com sales rankings were like a ride on the Palisades Park Cyclone--from 427,983 to 37,634! Of course, it sped downhill to 163,984 the next day, but, oh, what a thrill! I may have wet myself.

On the following Monday, my iMac imploded, just as I was about to send out an E mail blast for ATR's official release date, Tuesday, June 24. Luckily I had a full arsenal of curse words, in English and Italian, at my disposal. So if you saw a mushroom cloud over northeastern PA at about 10 p.m. EST, that was me unleashing a 3.8 megaton blast of che cazzo's over the region. I'm still working to restore my database on a spanking-new iMac with a screen as big as the old Hackensack drive-in.

Though my own efforts to get the word out are floundering, the absolutely hilarious and kind Terrie Farley Moran plugged MY book on her Women of Mystery blog. If Terrie's energy could be harnessed, there'd be no need to look for alternate fuel sources and the troops would be home tomorrow.

But I don't want to go too long before saying wonderful things about all the lovely folks who I reconnected with and others I met for the first time at Deadly Ink. Like gracious guest of honor Jane Cleland, who I had the last-minute good fortune of questioning in front of witnesses on Friday night; class act Robin Hathaway, who works both sides of the Delaware River with her Dr. Jo Banks mysteries and Dr. Fenimore series (she received DI's Lifetime Achievement Award last year, about 30 years too early--I don't care what her age, Robin looks like a teenager and her literary career is just getting started); that other Energizer Bunny, Chris Grabenstein of Grabenstein Industries, who's producing three books a year and somehow makes it look fun (but I know better); toastmasterly Troy Cook the One-Minute Joke Assassin; my fellow DI Press author and silver fox Ed Rand; my-brother-in-another-life Steve Rigolosi, of the ingenious Tales from The Back Page series; and newcomer Renaissance man Philip Cioffari, who still hasn't made up his mind whether Hiram's or Callahan's has the best hot dogs in Fort Lee. This was also my first chance to meet Chris Lupetti, who took the breath-taking view of the GWB on my book jacket, who is as nice as he is talented. We are related, but we haven't quite figured out how. A DNA connection, for sure.

Once I reconfigure my iMac, pictures will be shared. That should be easier to manage than blogging. I'm thinking that since my book is set in the not-so-distant past, I will blog in the not-so-distant past. Retro-blog. Write about what happened two years ago, until I get to the present day. Which will then be the past. About which I would blog. Does that make any sense to you? Nah. Me neither.

Across the River...and into The Park

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 17:43:00 +0000

The weirdest thing...after I'd gotten my picture taken for the book jacket, I was walking to lunch with my publisher, Debby Buchanan. We passed an art-print store and saw a old poster of Palisades Amusement Park, framed and on sale. Another sign? "I give to you for $80." Hey, I'm from New Jersey, this park was right above my house, it's mentioned in my book, it's mine. "Why not $75?" "Okay, but cash." Now it is mine, after I borrowed $12 from Debby.

Across the River...with a Brain Like a Sieve

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 19:40:00 +0000

Okay. I'm a lousy blogger. I admit it. Shiny objects distract me, so that a week, a month, er...two years go by and...what was I just saying? Life happens. In my case, it's usually a family emergency, the pressing need for gainful employment, or a new season of "Lost" that takes my attention away. The main thing is, my book is finally coming out. It won the 2007 Deadly Ink conference's Best Unpublished Mystery Award, and it will be the first mystery published by Deadly Ink Press.
I had to get a book jacket picture taken, my first in 10 years. I went to one of those places where they do your hair and makeup because I never learned how to do my own. I blame the Sixties.
So this (at left) is what I look like when a stranger fusses over me for 40 minutes.
This is what I look like (right), left to my own devices:

Across the River...with a very short paddle

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 15:03:00 +0000

Has it only been two years since I last blogged? A lot, or very little, has happened since then. I had a great time at the 2006 Sleuthfest, the panel I was on went well and I had a meeting with an editor at Harper Collins who enthusiastically asked to see my manuscript. As luck would have it, my agent was also a speaker there and was able to talk with her as well. Sounds great, right?

Well, not so great. The editor felt my book was too "cozy-like" for HC and my agent has since faded from view. You'd think after all this time in publishing I'd have developed a thick skin against rejection, but maybe it's better that I haven't. One of the things that drew me to my former agent was his assessment that my novel was "humane." The characters aren't black or white; the good guys have flaws and the bad guys have soft spots. My soft spots are turning into flaws.

The agent felt there was nowhere else to offer the book, and so communication ceased. Ouch! Funny, when I was first looking for agents, I sent my query to the usual suspects, but also jumped at anyone whose last name ended in a vowel. I figured they'd understand the Italian American stuff. Then it winds up that the agent who really "got it" was not a extra from The Sopranos, but someone with a name right out of Masterpiece Theater.

Luckily, right after that disappointment, I got a well-paying gig writing Web site content for a major woman's magazine, so I didn't have much time to brood or blog. Unluckily, eight months later, the editor who hired me was let go. With 2006 on its way out, I gave my manuscript one last shot. I sent it in to the Deadly Ink unpublished novel contest.

Across the River...with a Singapore Sweetheart

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Sat, 25 Feb 2006 00:17:00 +0000

A week of slogging through mystery Web sites and blogs in prep for my panel discussion has left me with “web brain,” the cybersurfing equivalent of the alcoholic’s “wet brain.” My skull cannot expand to fit my swelling cerebellum, and my eyeballs feel as if they are being pushed out my sockets to make room. I’m sure my liver has been damaged somehow. Call 1-800-WebAnon.

In my search for cybersavvy, I had the odd experience of finding myself quoted in a 16-year-old Singapore girl’s blog, Oct. 1, 2005: http://samology.blogspot.com/, and given credit (thank you, Samantha!). She must have read a Family Circle article I wrote about parenting; "See yourself through your child's eyes." Who knew the publication has a Singapore issue. If I’ve influenced the life of one Singaporese/Singaporian/Singaporite teenager, I’ll die happy and feel hipper than I ever have thought possible.

Across the River...and Under the Sun

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 20 Feb 2006 22:44:00 +0000

After a two-week delay, the ATR Web site was finally linked to my name on the Sleuthfest attendees page (www.sleuthfest.com). Sleuthfest is an annual crime fiction conference presented in Fort Lauderdale by the Mystery Writers of America’s Florida Chapter—well-attended, well-run and well-fed fun-in-the-sun. I managed to get on an “expert” panel on how to attract media attention. This is appropriate, as at last year’s ‘fest, I attracted a bit of attention—only, not in a good way.

At first, I was invisible, so invisible that people took notice. Whenever I raised my hand to ask a question in a panel discussion, the moderator failed to call on me, even when mine was the only palm waving. The first time it happened, one of the panelists, Blake Stewart of Bleak House Books, made eye contact and waggled his eyebrows in puzzlement. I shrugged and muttered, “I guess I forgot that I had on my Harry Potter invisibility cloak.” Finally, audience members on both sides of me were pointing and calling out, “She has a question!” The moderator still hesitated, but eventually sighed, “Okay, the young lady in the gray jacket.” I looked around. Someone said, “He means you.” My jacket was green and I ain’t so young, but I asked my question anyway. I don’t discriminate against the color- or age-blind.

During the next panel, I raised my hand. Raised it again. Raised it again. Raised it…. “Okay, you—oh, sorry, time’s up. We have to empty the room.”

Number 3: The crowd was much larger this time. Raise, raise, raise. A woman was walking around with a microphone to hand to anyone who asked a question. Raise, raise, raise… The mike lady kept coming over to me (I was on the AISLE, ferchrissake), even she assuming that this time, no this time, maybe this time…. Raise, raise, raise. Again, my fellow audience members rose to my defense—literally standing up to call out, “Hey, she’s been waiting!” I was grudgingly given the floor. When I sat down, someone said, “That was a good question.” I said, “I hope it was worth waiting for.” I put those Sleuthfest-ers on my Christmas card list.

Final panel of the day: Ten people in the audience. Two of us had our hands up. The moderator pointed to the other hand. One of the panelists, the kind and gallant mystery author Cecelia Tishy (www.ceceliatishy.com), stopped the moderator and gestured at me, “No, pick on THAT lady! I was in the other panel when she waited so long to ask her question!” I put Cecelia Tishy in my will.

Wait. It gets worse. At the Friday night banquet. Christopher Whitcomb--guest of honor, ex-FBI agent, terrorism investigator, overall great-looking guy--finishes his very charming talk about his real and fictional adventures and opens the floor to questions. Yep, up goes my hand. At least 350 people are in the cavernous ballroom, but I’m the only one with my hand raised. He looks around. “No one has a question?” Someone at another table, who has perhaps scratched her nose but does not have her hand up, points to me. Whitcomb calls on her. She shakes her head and points to me again. Whitcomb calls out, “The lovely lady in the pink jacket.” That’s the woman next to me. (My jacket is still green, but I’m at least as lovely.) My tablemate loyally shouts, “Not me—her!” Whitcomb says, “Okay then.” So I say, “This may be a little anticlimactic at this point, but now that you’ve told us all this, do you have to kill us?” Whitcomb looks away and mutters, “I get that all the time. Anyone else?” This is why the terrorists are winning.

Wait. It gets WORSE. The next day ex-attorney/mystery author Lisa Scottoline is the luncheon speaker and will be signing her latest book. Ms. S and I have a history. The year before, at the Mystery Writers of America annual symposium in New York, she was the guest of honor and I had, of course, asked her a question, a two-parter, from the audience: “Do you think the Italian-American aspects of your novels are a part of their appeal to readers and is there room for another Italian-American writer in the mystery field?” “Yes!” Ms. S pumped her fist in the air and went on about writing what you know and what you are, and OF COURSE there’s room for another Ital-Amer! Then caught up in her own fervor, she thrust her arm out and shouted, in front of 200 witnesses, “I will get you published! Send me an E mail!”

I’m no lawyer, but I know that what someone says when standing on a stage with a microphone in her hand can’t be upheld in a court of law. But I sent Ms. S. an E mail that night, at 2 a.m., before my own adrenaline rush had subsided. I’m still waiting for a reply. But now, what’s the harm of reminding Ms. Scottoline of her promise, all in fun, while she’s signing my copy of her latest book at Sleuthfest? So I’m mentally preparing for that when the lunch plates are being cleared and she steps up to the podium. Coffee is being poured and the woman next to me asks if I could pass the cream? It’s in a rather large carafe but I get a grip on it and hand it to her. She takes it…and drops it. Milk splashes up onto my face, down the still-green jacket, into my lap, into my shoulder bag with the sample chapters I’d brought to give the agent I’d be meeting with that afternoon, into my shoes. Even the copy of Lisa Scottoline’s new book that I’d just bought is doused in dairy product. My other tablemates gasp in horror, the males offer to mop up whatever’s landed on my bosom, and the perpetrator, without a drop on her, is almost in tears. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” She wants to clean me up. So we exit to the ladies’ room, she tries to dry me off, offers to bring my jacket to the dry cleaner—not enough time before my meeting—but arranges to have it blown-dried. In the meantime, whatever landed between my legs is heating up nicely and giving off a bleu-cheese fragrance. “Well,” I say cheerfully, “I’ll just tell people I’m lactating.”

Returned to the banquet room just in time to hear Ms. S say, “Does anyone have any questions?” She answered without any publishing promises. As the book-signing started, I ran to my car, changed into a clean shirt (yes, I foresaw some sort of wardrobe disaster), grabbed more copies of my chapters, slung my shoulderbag over the stained side of the jacket and went back inside. As Ms. S autographed my slightly soggy copy of “Killer Smile,” I brought up the publishing promise. “Paesan’! Sure, send it to my agent Paul!” The thing is, at the end of her talk she had told EVERYONE in the audience to send their samples to her agent Paul. So much for our Italian-American Social Club bond. But Ms. S is a hoot and all is forgiven.

Despite it all, I’m looking forward to Sleuthfest again. I won’t be wearing that green jacket, though. This year my blazer will be blue, bright enough to be picked up by color-blind moderators or by any spy satellite.

Across the River...and into the Oven

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Fri, 10 Feb 2006 23:30:00 +0000

A few days ago, two ’60s icons passed away: Betty “The Feminine Mystique” Friedan and Al “Grandpa on ‘The Munsters’” Lewis. They wound up on the same NYTimes obit page, and it seems they had a lot in common. Both were long-time New Yorkers, both were politically active, both spoke up for the downtrodden (desperate housewives and Death Row inmates, respectively) and both favored the same makeup techniques, judging by the photos of a young Betty in a vampish pose and a youngish Al in his vampire costume. Their resemblance only grew stronger with age. You can’t tell me those pics weren’t a deliberate choice by the Times’ layout editor.

Speaking of death, I now understand why Sylvia Plath wanted to take a nap in her Hotpoint. After publicly launching the Website for ACROSS THE RIVER, I had to publicly admit it had at least two major glitches. 1. AOL’s browser will not transfer the Feedback form data and sends a blank E-mail from anyone with an aol.com account. Can’t figure out to fix that beyond suggesting that AOL customers copy and paste the questions with answers into the E mail and send them that way. How annoying. 2. Chapter 1, the excerpt on the site, is in three sections. Some folks didn’t realize a link at the bottom of the first two scenes would let them read more. Even worse, Scene 3 was mis-linked, so NO ONE was able to read it. I created the site, so I have only myself to blame; that’s why people hire professional Web designers, to have someone else to blame. This has been fixed now, but only fuels my suspicion that those who sent such lovely comments about the chapter were only being polite.

But just when I started thinking of firing up the Amana range, I thought of Oprah. She admitted HER mistake in front of MILLIONS, whereas I only look like an idiot to maybe a couple hundred. So what can I do for complete redemption? WWOD? (What Would Oprah Do?) Maybe dump some of the blame onto James Frey.

Across the River...and into Cyberspace

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Mon, 06 Feb 2006 17:04:00 +0000

By E-mailing everyone I know, I have just publicly launched the Website for ACROSS THE RIVER, which includes the first chapter. And I had the idiot idea of asking for feedback. This feels like a combination of my three most often recurring nightmares: showing up for the final exam without having studied; showing up at an important event in only my underwear; and showing up at the election booth and accidentally voting Republican. Which may be what Woody Allen meant when he said, “Ninety percent of life is just showing up.”

So to distract myself, I will, like everyone else in the known universe, comment on the flap over James Frey and his fiction-based memoir, “A Million Little Pieces of Bull Dinky.” Oprah’s getting lots of pats on her broad back for having the “courage” to “admit her mistakes” and “confront” him on her "show." Com’on! Humiliating a writer is SO easy! Just tell him that you bought the book a few months ago but haven’t read it yet. That the first chapter was good, but it kind of went downhill from there. That the book reminded you too much of “The Diary of Anne Frank.” If Oprah had been truly Oprah-like, she would have staged an intervention, with Frey surrounded by his loved ones and a competent psychiatrist to get him to admit his addiction to falsehoods. But she didn’t even bother to drag out Dr. Phil to harangue Frey about his “truth issues.” Where was the compassion, Oprah? Where was the group hug?

And face it, O, this was all your fault anyway. You and Phil Donahue started the whole public confession industry back in the ’70s and ’80s. Eventually, we would have HAD to run out of sensational-but-true stories, which is why we now have TV “reality” shows, which is like a Peeping Tom going to a strip joint (where’s the fun in sneaking a peek when it’s all for show anyway?). Frey tried to sell his book as fiction first, and no one was interested. Now suddenly, as a memoir, it was a masterpiece? Like most struggling writers, he probably just wanted to be published, for goodness’ sake, and didn’t think anyone except his mother would actually read it. An Oprah pick? In your dreams!

Even when a book is clearly labeled fiction, though, everyone wants to believe at least part of it is true. In author interviews, I too have inevitably asked the question, “How similar are you to your main character?” Profiles very often include biographical data that links the author’s own life to details in his fiction. Wouldn’t we all feel cheated if it came out that John Steinbeck had never even visited Salinas, California? To bring it all back to my own novel, of course, I’ve had workshop buddies insist that my true details could not possibly have happened and that my fake stuff rang so true it just had to be real. And they are always disappointed when I tell them that I made up my fiction.

Maybe the solution is to give memoirs the same disclaimers that are perfectly acceptable at the end of blockbuster movies: “Based on a true story” or “Inspired by true events.” A few fudged truths didn’t stop “A Beautiful Mind” from winning all those Oscars and making millions.

And the Bible...well, no disclaimers there. Yet whether you file it under "fiction" or "non," over the years it has inspired quite a few folks to kick some bad habits.

This blog was inspired by actual tongue-in-cheek opinions briefly held by the author, as she remembers it and without anesthesia.

Across the River...without a paddle

noreply@blogger.com (CheSol) — Wed, 01 Feb 2006 20:03:00 +0000

“Raoul thought he had never seen a more magnificent creature. As he stroked her gleaming chestnut flank, he felt a stirring in his own haunches...”

Okay, now that I have your attention, let me tell you about my career coach. She's a lovely woman who calls herself “Gina Hiatt” (but I suspect that’s the name they gave her in the Witness Protection Program). She suggested that I regale casual cyber surfers with tales of my adventures in the publishing trade via blog, thereby building an audience of would-be readers should my novel ever be published. After I laughed until my eyes bled, I thought, "Why not? What a wonderful opportunity to be ignored by a whole different class of people in a whole new genre!"

After 20 years of editing and writing for many national magazines with "Woman" or “Family” in the title, I blithely began writing a mystery novel, titled ACROSS THE RIVER. Perhaps if I had actually named the main character "Blythe," it would have gone easier. It didn't help that I chose September 10, 2001, as my start date. Herein lies the story. Or rather, I'll try to share the current situation, while throwing in confusing "Memento"-like flashbacks. Sound intriguing? Let me know.

Oh, by the way. My mystery novel has nothing to do with Raoul and his four-legged love interest. The actual opening lines are:

“The double doors of The Rock Bottom swung closed behind me, shutting out the lazy light of a mid-June afternoon. Even in the gloom, the smoke-hazed saloon seemed smaller than I remembered. But then again, the last time I'd been in here, I was wearing chaps, a holster and a ten-gallon hat.”