Yoga Can Be Murder

A yoga student approached me after class recently, looked at my bookmarks, and frowned. He phrased his next comment politely, but the gist was this: “What kind of demented yoga teacher writes books about murder?”

I stammered and stuttered a lame, joking reply, assuring him that no yoga students had been harmed in the making of my books. Looking back, I should have reframed the conversation. Instead of assuring him that I wasn’t psychotic, I should have told him why I write yoga mysteries. If I could re-do the conversation, here’s what I’d say.

My light-hearted mysteries allow me to share my love of yoga with people I may never meet.

Good fiction immerses the reader in a world they might otherwise never experience.  I hope to show my readers that yoga is for everyone—especially those of us who are far from perfect. Even better, I hope my book is entertaining enough to entice a reader or two to try yoga.

Kate Davidson, my novel’s protagonist, is a yoga teacher. Unlike the models in Yoga Journal, Kate has laughably tight hamstrings, chubby, cellulite-ridden thighs, and she drinks a bit more wine than she probably should. Kate tries to live up to yoga’s principles of satya (truth), ahimsa (non-violence), and karuna (active compassion).

She often fails.

Kate has temper more like a fighting rooster than the Dalai Lama, and she sometimes acts impulsively, only to regret it later. Yet she believes in yoga and dedicates her life to sharing it with others. If Kate loves yoga, anyone can love yoga—even mystery fans who have never considered trying it.

People are murdered in my work, but death isn’t the only theme.

Solving crime definitely takes center stage in my books, but murder isn’t the only focus.  My agent says that my first book—Murder Strikes a Pose—is ultimately about love. I didn’t realize it until I heard the words, but she’s right.

The book illustrates how love can damage us, if we let it.  Throughout its pages, normally good people do extreme—some might say evil—acts to protect those they love. But beyond that, the story shows how love transforms us, when we are ready. Overall, it promises that love saves us.

If my books were movies, they’d be rated PG-13—at most.

The Downward Dog Mysteries are written in the cozy mystery genre.  Cozies are typically light-hearted, often funny (I think mine are!) and written to appeal to the faint of heart.  Gore is minimized; killing takes place off screen; sex happens behind closed doors.  My mother read Murder Strikes a Pose, and she still thinks I'm a nice girl.

Last but not least, I love it!

But if I’m honest, the real reason I write yoga mysteries is simple. I’m a huge mystery fan, my life-work is yoga, and I’m absolutely, embarrassingly, head-over-heels crazy about my German shepherd, Tasha.  I write about a yoga teacher who solves murders with a wacky German shepherd sidekick.

Writing about yoga, dogs, and murder….What could be more fun?

Namaste

Tracy Weber

Come visit Whole Life Yoga in Seattle, and join my author mailing list for updates on MURDER STRIKES A POSE, available January 8, 2014 from Midnight Ink!

Down, Dog! I'm Writing.

By Deborah Sharp

The question is common at book-signings, workshops and panels: How do you deal with writer's block?

During my days as a newspaper reporter I learned there's no such thing, I tell people. Take one ill-tempered editor with the power to fire you, add a looming deadline you know you must not miss, now sit down at the frickin' computer and write. Abbacadabra, writer's block disappears!

The truth is even the best writer's flow can hit a snag. Not saying MINE has . . . just sayin.'

There's all kinds of advice out there for overcoming that blo ... er, snag. John Steinbeck counseled blocked writers to pretend they're writing to an aunt. P.J. O'Rourke said: ''Write badly. Bad writing is easier.''

The Internet is rife with offers to unblock through meditation and yoga. Hmm ... I've practiced yoga for many years. I wonder if this yogic writing thing could work for ... er, a friend?

I have my doubts about yoga helping my concentration, though. I usually spend about two-thirds of my class thinking about food. Indian food, in particular. Though sometimes I dream about layer cakes, too.

I’ve dabbled in yoga for almost 20 years. But I’m old, so my down dog refuses to learn new tricks and my half-moon pose is more of a crescent. Even so, I’ve pretty much grasped the physical aspect. The meditative part has always been a bit more slippery for me.

Here's my typical yoga class:
Instructor, employing guided imagery: Imagine the tension in your neck and shoulders floating away.

I’m with her---picturing the stress of the day soaring off; a gray ball of bad energy cushioned in a cleansing white cloud.

Instructor: Now, relax the muscles in your jaw and throat.

I swallow. My mouth waters. I think: Wow, some tandoori chicken would taste REALLY good about now.

My meditation skills are even more lame. The teacher is chanting OMMMMmmmm, and I’m compiling a mental to-do list. She instructs us to center ourselves to the soothing sound of ocean waves. That makes me think of water, which reminds me my dishwasher needs to be unloaded, and the water heater at my mother's house just sprung a leak.

I crack open an eyelid and steal a glance around the room. Am I the only one incapable of clearing my mind? Hey, who's the hottie with the buff biceps? Haven't seen him in class before.

Finally, the instructor clinks her little finger cymbals together: Binggg . . . Binggg . . . Binggggggg. Class is over. We’re at one with the universe. And I’m that much closer to dinner.

Still, I might be getting more mentally from yoga than I realize. A recent episode convinced me something might be sinking in. Near the end of every yoga session, we can hear the Abs-Workout people clamoring outside the door, wanting in. They’re the stalking tigers of the gym, versus yoga’s fluttering butterflies. When the studio door finally opens, in rush the abs people, nearly trampling the mellow yoga folks.

A few days ago, a twenty-something taut-ie grabbed a floor mat right out of my hand as I was trying to put it away. Once upon a time, I’d have growled, tiger-like, and yanked it back. Instead, I smiled serenely, and bid her Namaste.

My spirit salutes yours, it means. Which was true in a way, since I had centered myself by imagining her head as a giant slice of coconut layer cake.

Step aside, Frosting Face, I chanted to myself. Nobody makes me late for dinner.

What do you do to clear your head? Writers, have you ever tried meditation as a cure for blo ... er, a snag in your writing flow?