GenreGoRound Review

Thanks so much to Harriett Klausner of GenreGoRound Reviews for her kind words:

In Missouri, after several years of abuse from Ollie Hardesty and not believing in divorce, Stella took care of business. The widow opens up a sewing shop and could wear a T-shirt that says “I survived domestic violence the old fashion way by burying my spouse”.

Stella also believes she needs to help battered women like she was as a form of redemption for putting up with Ollie much too long and as an avenging angel dispatching retribution on these bullies. Stella keeps an eye on Roy Dean Shaw, ex mean ass husband of gentle mom Chrissy Shaw. When Roy Dean abducts Chrissy's two years old son Tucker, Stella decides this punk needs a permanent lesson in how to treat a lady. She affirms her feelings about this abusive moron when she learns he is part of the stolen auto parts mob. Chrissy, upset with his taking her infant, has had enough. As Sheriff Goat Jones watches Stella with his dreamy eyes, she hopes it is for her body and not her activity asshe leads Chrissy into hell as they team up to take care of Roy Dean and his car ring associates to rescue the baby from the mob.

This is an enjoyable jocular frolic as middle aged Stella takes on the world with no looking back as to whom she runs over when she does. She makes the tale work although the rest of the key cast members are fully drawn especially Chrissy and Roy Dean. The latter will soon learn what the wrath of a lioness is as she and her sidekick kick butt to rescue the infant. A BAD DAY FOR SORRY is a good day or three for readers.

- Harriet Klausner

Professionalism is Important

So, you know that The Big Guy has sent you the most awesome agent when, upon being invited to a luncheon meeting with you and your editor and publicist, she responds:

"Perfect! I am for sure going to try and get into a bar fight."

Interview with Sean Doolittle

I had the great pleasure of interviewing Sean Doolittle last month. Tony Black was kind enough to publish the interview on Pulp Pusher.

Read it here.

Ashley is Smart

Last night - after the fireworks - my daughter and her friend Ashley, who is thirteen, were shooting the breeze with me. Talk turned to books, and Ashley was kind enough to ask about how the current one was going (you know, the one I'm turning in Tuesday). She listened politely as I described the plot, and then pointed out that I never explained what happened to the body.

And I realized it was because I didn't know.

I nearly had a heart attack. Luckily Ashley and Sal were happy to brainstorm with me and they gave me a few options.

Maybe this is why I had kids...

Some extremely smart girls

July Column

From the July issue of the San Francisco Romance Writers of America chapter newsletter, Heart of the Bay.
From The President

As I write this, the RWA National Conference is less than a month away, and I’m starting to prepare for real, which entails buying new mascara (does anyone honestly throw it out after three months? I’d still be using my Maybelline Great Lash from senior year if it hadn’t dried up) - stealing all my earrings back from my daughter, and retrieving the Spanx from cold storage, since I spend fifty-one weeks per year in sweats.

As much as I dread the planning and the packing, I love the excitement of all those writers and readers condensing so much living into a few short days. Is there anything better than talking about our beloved craft from the first rays of daylight until the wee hours of the morning? How about meeting our heroes in person? The fresh-minted smell of a first edition in the bookseller room? Making small talk with the person sitting next to you in the audience while you wait for a workshop to begin – and discovering a soul mate?

My first RWA conference was in 1997, in Orlando. I had two little children and I was so excited by the prospect of a few nights alone in a hotel room that I almost didn’t mind that I didn’t know a soul. I pitched a truly terrible book to a well-known agent. (She was kind.) I forced myself to talk to strangers. I went home with a suitcase full of newly discovered authors. (Well, not the authors themselves – they would have exceeded that pesky fifty-pound limit…but dozens of their books.)

One of the best bits of advice I’ve received in the last few years was to treasure the firsts. You only get one first finished novel, for instance - so sisters, when you type THE END for the very first time, I hope you celebrate. Dance around the kitchen, hug the dog, call your mom – but make it special.

Same thing for your first conference. This is the only time in your life that you’ll walk into the throng and realize that all these women gathered in one place share your love of writing. It’ll take your breath away. Enjoy the panels, the spotlights, the publisher signings; queue up for Nora and Susan Elizabeth and Jennifer; meet a new BFF or three at the luncheons.



And for a few short days, forget the to-do list, the carmudgeonly boss, the demands of the kids. Refuse to consider limitations. Allow yourself to be inspired. Develop brash, lovely scenarios of your own future success – and give yourself the gift of believing in them.

If this isn’t your year, if you’re staying home instead of heading to DC, invest a day or an afternoon or even a single hour in nurturing your inner author. Remind yourself that you really can write your words today; that words turn into paragraphs, which turn into pages and chapters. Think about starting a fund for next year. It’s going to be in Nashville, baby – how can we not have a blast there?

Booklist Review

From the Booklist Folks:

Stella Hardesty’s sideline business—delivering justice to men who abuse women—has earned her a reputation far beyond her home in rural Prosper, Missouri. By day she’s the sole operator of Hardesty Sewing Machine Sales & Repair, started with her wife-beater husband, Ollie, before he died (after his head connected with the wrench in Stella’s hand.) When Roy Dean Shaw gets a very pointed warning from handgun-toting Stella to stay away from Chrissy, the wife he beats, Stella’s job seems to be done—until someone takes off with Chrissy’s 18-month-old son. Stella’s concern for the missing child is great enough to involve Sheriff Goat Jones in the case but not before launching her own clandestine and well-armed search, along with a newly fierce Chrissy. Ass-whuppin’ 50-year-old Stella is nothing if not inventive, from using high-quality sexual restraints on abusers to going toe to toe with some very bad Mafia types; she’s ably backed up by Goat, a divorcee who sends Stella sexual vibes and winks at her vigilantism. Littlefield puts a new spin on middle-age sleuths in this rollicking, rip-roaring debut.

Thanks, Big Guy

Hang on to your hats, all you tough padres, 'cause I'm gonna get sloppy now.

A little over a year and a half ago I went to Bouchercon, the big mystery conference, in Anchorage.

I knew a couple of people, but they were busy with all of their published-person stuff - I'd see them standing in groups talking and laughing with the other Published, and while they were unfailingly kind, I was so intimidated I could barely put words together and so fraught with longing that I felt like a violin's E string wound so tight on the peg it was ready to snap.

I had written so much, for so long, and I just couldn't get a break. I was starting to wonder - not in my conscious mind, because my conscious mind is a badass and never gives up - deep down in the craggy dark places if I would ever sell a book. I was not at my best, and I have a few mortifying memories to prove it - I was trying too hard, overcompensating, and I didn't know when to quit. (That's that relentless mind of mine. Great asset, great liability.)

Because I'm me, I didn't go back to my room and mope like a sensible person. I forced myself to keep trying. Earlier in the day I had met a beautiful, gracious woman in line for something or other - and for no good reason at all that I could figure out, she gave me her cell number and suggested I call her if I was looking for something to do that evening because she'd be out with a group of friends and she was sure they'd love to have me along.

I was pretty sure she was just being polite, but I called her anyway. She named a bar across the street. I went. Her friends were nice. They sang, they danced, we all had a few drinks. At the end of the evening she said she'd see me soon, and even though I wasn't at all sure that would happen, I was deeply grateful to her for including me in the evening. Because of her kindness, I calmed down a little, got up the next day, and kept going.

A lot's happened since then. Today my issue of Romantic Times came in the mail. I opened it up to the mystery section and found my review for my first book - and right across from it, on the facing page, her review, for her fourth. I immediately called her up and left her a half-rambling, half-choked-up message. Because, see, we're still friends. In fact, we still hang out. Since October 2007 we've shared about a thousand laughs and a few tears. There was an incident with a knife...another with a toy poodle and mayonnaise...well, I digress.

It pains my cynical heart to admit it, but once in a while life/The Big Guy gives you a gift for no good reason at all. And that night the gift was J.