Party Like It's 1949

By Deborah Sharp

Despite what it says about my social life, I must confess that the rockin'-est holiday party I've been to this year was at my elderly mother's retirement home.

No kidding. Great food. Open bar. Groovin' tunes -- providing your taste in pop music, like mine, can stretch back to the 1940s and peak in about 1989. Hey, Sinatra's not too shabby. Neither is the Miami Sound Machine. ''Rhythm is Gonna Get You'' indeed.

My mom, confused at age 97 but still spry, seemed to believe the whole event had been planned just for her. What do you think of my party? she asked my sisters and me, somehow overlooking the 25-or-so other Royal Palm residents also enjoying the festivities with invited family members.

She danced. She ate. She knocked back three glasses of wine. They were short glasses, but still. My husband added a sugar cube or two to each one so that the classy Chardonnay they were pouring would taste more like the super-sweet pink wine she used to adore. (The party picture shows my hubby, Kerry Sanders, and me flanking my mom, Marion Sharp)




If you've read my books, you may recognize sweet pink wine as something the fictional ''Mama'' enjoys. It's not the only trait I stole from my real mom for my character. The fictional mama is central to each of my books' plots, and is known for driving her three grown girls crazy. Lovingly, of course. I'll just say that in real life, my mother hasn't driven me that crazy. We've always been close.

Earlier this year, I agonized over moving her into assisted living. It's an awful, hard choice faced by countless adult children. Taking control of a failing parent's life. Making complicated, painful decisions. It doesn't feel any easier to know you're trying to make those decisions in the best interest of your loved one.

Ask me sometime about facilities I rejected. Long, dark corridors. An overwhelming smell of urine. A staff member who answered my doorbell summons as a cold, unfriendly voice over an intercom.

Yes?

I was wondering if I could come in to talk to someone about a possible room for my mom.

Long pause. Some scratchy, electronic squawks. Thinking maybe I was being buzzed in, I rattled the steel gate. Nope. Still locked tight. I stood there, waiting on a baking asphalt parking lot in South Florida in July, so hot the heat rose in shimmery waves off the blacktop.

I rang again. Perhaps drawn by the sound, an unkempt, ancient man shuffled toward the entryway, on the inside of the gate. I could see him through the metal bars. His zipper was open, and he was playing with himself.

Finally, the intercom echoed again with the disembodied voice: You'll have to come back later, when the owner's here.

Sure. When hell freezes over.

By contrast, the first time I stood at the front gate of my mom's retirement home, I looked into an outdoor courtyard. Parakeets chattered in a birdcage. Flowers bloomed. A fountain burbled. When I rang the doorbell, a smiling nurse's aide popped her head out the door of a resident's room: Hi! I'm Sue. How can I help you?

That cheerful, caring attitude has surfaced over and over in the months since Mom moved in. No, it's not home. But they try to make it like a home. For the holiday party, members of the multicultural staff each brought favorite dishes from their homelands: Haiti, the Caribbean, the Philippines, Latin America. Guests included some family members of former residents. Even though their loved ones passed away, they came back for the holiday party.

My mother's short term memory is spotty, at best. But when I visited this week, several days after the party, she was still talking about it. She didn't remember exactly who'd come, but she did remember the music, the food, and festivities.

We sat in the courtyard. Lights from a decorated Christmas tree shone in her eyes. That was the best party I ever had! she said.

Me, too, Mom.

Werewolves vs. Vampires

In this corner, fighting for the ultimate modern female dream lover, coming in at 180 pasty, bloodsucking pounds we have…The Vampire! [applause] And in the opposite corner, coming in at 200 snarling, hairy pounds is…The Werewolf! [applause] Who will win the hearts and libidos of millions of women? Only one way to find out. LET’S GET READY TO RUUUUUUMMMBBBLLLLEEE!

“I don’t get it.” This sentence has been uttered from quite a few of my male friends in recent years. Their wives, sisters, even daughters have all fallen under the spell of these mythical monsters, this writer included, and they can’t understand why. It is a decent question. In the past five or so years the Scoundrel Duke or Highlander have been replaced as women’s ideal romantic hero by a walking dead man and/or bi-polar man-dog. (Their words, not mine.) What is it about these creatures that we ladies find so sexy? And is there a place for both in our hearts? Can you be both Team Edward and Team Jacob? Let’s explore.

I’ve always loved monsters. I’ve seen so many horror movies and read so many books since childhood I couldn’t stop myself from writing a few. (Mind Over Monsters, out now!) In my book, the main character Beatrice Alexander finds herself caught between these two creatures as they both vie for her attention. My werewolf, Will, is shy, gruff, hates what he is, but is still responsible and a capable team leader. My vampire Oliver is playful, roguish, and though 500 years old suffers from a massive case of Peter Pan Syndrome. One is the kind you bring home to Mama, and the other you put behind you in your promiscuous twenties. Yet both hold equal room in Bea’s heart (as they do in their creator’s). Before I started writing I made a conscious decision to include these two monsters into my menagerie because I couldn’t chose which I, and in turn my readers, would have more fun falling in love with. Both spoke to different parts of what I want in a fantasy man (besides one who could take out the trash without being asked, but I can only fly so far from reality). But what are those parts?

Vampires weren’t always suave Counts or sparkly teenage heartthrobs. In folklore they were more akin to the zombie: mindless, flesh eating, decomposing. Even Bram Stoker’s Dracula was more ghoul than sex machine. It wasn’t until the story “The Vampyre” in the early 1800s that the sexy vampire came to life. This “vampyre” was based on Lord Byron, the bi-sexual poet who slept with anything that moved (including his own sister), leaving destruction in his randy wake. Women were driven mad by him, and their standing in society was lost. It wasn’t until Bela Lugosi that the yummy vampire reached the zeitgeist and really never turned back. But through all its incarnations a few things have remained constant: they’re dead, and they eat us. So why would this be appealing to us ladies? It’s akin to necrophilia with a leech. The answer is because they’re dangerous. They play to our desire to change a man. That we alone can save him from his evil ways. That though he’s been alive for centuries, we’re the only woman who he’s loved because we’re unique and spectacular. He’s the Scoundrel Duke but with more magic and bite.

The werewolf is the same in most respects. Their legend hasn’t changed much through the ages: a man is cursed with this ailment that turns them into a savage beast at least once a month. In modern times they just have better abs. They’re a dark prince under a curse, and once again our love is the only thing that can tame their savage beast and free them from their turmoil. We can save him. And even still he’s manly, strong, in touch with his animal side, yet loyal to the woman he chooses as his mate. He’ll take care of you come what may. Who wouldn’t like that?

These creatures have a lot in common, but also seem to be polar opposites, always in opposition (at least in my books). Why can’t they get along? A vampire has no life, yet the werewolf has so much life he can’t seem to contain it in one form. The vampire always seems to have boundless charm and charisma, blending in with humans for survival, but the werewolf can’t seem to fit into normal society as he’s too untamed. They’re both alpha males who represent different things to us. Vampires are all about cold seduction, tempting us with their magic and beauty, convincing us to give into our sexual desires in spite of the danger. Werewolves on the other hand wouldn’t go to all that trouble. They’d just grab us, throw us on the bed, and take us with wild abandon. Hot or cold? Seduction or passion? Rock and a hard place, I know.

The battle rages on between these two alpha males. At least in my estimation, the vampire has a firm lead, at least in terms of books written and movies made about them. Bella ends up with Edward, Anita Blake’s boffing Jean-Claude more than Richard, and for every Ginger Snaps there are twelve Fright Nights. Maybe that will change, maybe not, but these rivals will continue to hold a place in our hearts and romantic imaginations for years to come. Now excuse me, I have to go buy my boyfriend a cape and fangs. J

So, are you a werewolf or vampire gal? Both? Do you agree with my assessment or am I seriously far off the mark? Are werewolves getting their equal share of the spotlight? Why not? Discuss.

Happy Holiday's!

Jennifer Harlow

You Asked For It!

Because the Last Laff Mysteries feature a stand-up comic, I thought it would be fun (crazy?) to include some actual stand-up comedy in my book event presentations. When I blogged about it earlier in the year, some of you Inkers wished you could have seen it. Now, thanks to this great website I’ve just recently discovered, YouTube, you can!

(Yes, this is definitely a case of be careful what you wish for. And remember, I’m a writer, not a stand-up comic.)

This is from the book launch party for KILLER ROUTINE at Barnes & Noble last May. The actual “stand-up” part starts about halfway through Part 2. (I had to divide the entire thing into four parts.)

For my book events to promote the about-to-be-released DEADLY CAMPAIGN, I'll need some new material, so if you have any good knock-knock jokes, please let me know!

BTW, I’m the guy with the clipboard.

Part 1

 

Part 2

 

Part 3

 

Part 4

 

(Thanks to my sister-in-law for the video!)

 

Alan

Everything I Know About Writing I Relearned From My Son’s College Essay

My oldest son, Andrew, is a high school senior and has just finished the college application process.  As his utterly biased mother I need to tell you he’s wonderful, brilliant, gorgeous and a great athlete.  (There is corroborating evidence to support the athletic claims, but feel free to take the rest with the appropriate box of salt.) The one thing Andrew isn’t, however, is an enthusiastic writer.

            But, no problem, right?  After all, while it’s basically de rigeur, at least amongst his friends, to hire an ACT tutor, a college coach and/or someone who specializes in helping the kids polish their essays to the point where even the admissions people at the Ivys feel inadequate, Andrew was in a unique position.  First off, he is a diver and was being recruited by a number of schools, so a spot in the 2012-2013 freshman class was his to lose.  To make sure that didn’t happen, he also had me, his mother the writer, to consult on that concise, honest, coherent, reflective of himself as an individual, factually accurate, vivid, likable, controversial if possible, smart, cautiously humorous (per the online how-to articles) all-important essay.

While Andrew focused on the crucial pieces of the puzzle—having an awesome time being flown around the country hanging out with various dive teams and filling in his parents names and occupations on the college app from wherever it was he’d spent the weekend on the plane ride home, I took on the job of worrying about how he was going to write that damn essay. 

With 6 questions to choose from like Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you there was plenty to worry about.  More troubling was Andrew’s totally relaxed attitude about the whole thing.  Despite my incessant pestering about when he was going to settle on a topic and insistence this was going to take hundreds of drafts to get right, his proverbial page remained blank.  One sleepless night, I thought out a deeply heartwarming, wryly humorous essay (in his voice, of course) about our 2006 trip to China to adopt his sister.  I could barely wait until morning to bestow my sure-to-wow-them-in-admissions essay topic on my son.

“‘K,” he said, by way of thanks.  “But, I’m not like all deep and spiritual the way you make it sound and I wouldn’t write it that way anyway.”

“Just write it,” I said.

“No worries, Mom,” he said.

The November First Early Action deadline loomed larger and larger and I didn’t see so much as a balled up piece of paper in his trashcan.  I’d like to say I didn’t scream, shout, panic, threaten and foretell of a grim future where my son, a promising student athlete who could have been someone had he just penned one lousy touching essay about holding his beautiful adopted sister in his arms for the first time, was looking forward to a career that involved the phrase, “would you like to supersize that?”

One night, October 29^thto be exact, Andrew came into my office.  “I’m ready to write my essay,” he said.

“Okay,” I said, managing somehow not to add, it’s about damn time and start ranting and raving from there. 

“And it’s not going to be about Eliza’s adoption.”

“Okay,” I said again.  (And yes, through gritted teeth).

             “I’m going to write about what it feels like to stand on the high board, about to do a dive I know I’m going to fail.”

“Well,” I said, trying not to sigh. “I guess that fits into essay prompt #6 – Topic of Your Choice.” 

            He nodded.

Time being of the essence, I opened a word file and said, “Sit down, close your eyes and I guess we’ll see what comes out.”

            He began to speak (with the help of a little professional editing on the part of yours truly.)

 I am on the diving board standing backwards, three meters above the water. Ideally, I will jump, do two-and-a-half flips in the pike position, kick open and dive into the water.

            The chances I will actually succeed are about one in thirty-eight.

Like Spidey sense, my Writey sense began to tingle.

             I’ve never done this dive before and I don’t feel ready.  My preparations on the low board have been decent, not great.  I feel like I’m not jumping high enough and I am flipping slow.

             I’m going to do it anyway.

            He was definitely writing, or in this case speaking, what he knew.  

            After all, Wenbo Chen, the former Chinese Olympic coach and my coach for this week of dive camp, is watching.  So is 2008 Olympic Silver Medalist Kelci Bryant.  The other divers at camp and that halfway-cute girl named Carly are watching too.

            So, I stand, nearly naked, but for the Speedo I will never totally get used to wearing, almost ten feet above the water.

Take the reader somewhere they probably haven’t been before.  Check.

            There are cheers, but I’m not listening.  My eyes register the black strip at the base of the board and the white ceiling of the natatorium, but I’m not looking.  I hear the slosh of water below me, but I can’t see it.

            Wenbo counts, “One, two, three.  Go!”

            I start my approach.  I oscillate the board three times to prepare for the big jump that is the actual dive. 

            I press and I know I should stop.

            Instead, I chuck it.

Show don’t tell.  Check.

           Everything is a blur.  I’m flipping slowly, slower than I’ve ever flipped before.  I am in a little ball.  I have no idea where I am, but I know it’s not the right place. When I think I should kick out of the dive, I kick out and I see the ceiling where my feet should be.  I locate my feet and realize they are pointed horizontally, not vertically.  In that instant, I know with absolute clarity I will hit the water perfectly parallel, flat on my back.  Hard.  What I don’t know is when.

            I smack.

           Every story has been told.  It’s all in the telling.  Check.

           A shock rips through my body.  I can’t move or breathe for three seconds of forever.  I curl into the pain, open up and paddle to the surface.  Finally, I catch a shallow breath, swim to the side, put my head on the rail and listen to the applause from the other divers who always clap hardest when you eat it hardcore.

           Wenbo appears beside me, reaches out his hand and helps me out of the pool. “You did everything wrong,” he says.

           I sneeze away the chlorine in my nose and shake away the pain.

            “Try it again.”

           I don’t want to try it again, but I want this dive.  I tell myself the reward is worth the temporary pain.  I tell myself that practice and perseverance will allow me to accomplish what I set out to achieve.  I want to get the dive.  I want to compete dive 205B.

           I nod, dry my legs with my shammy and climb back up the ladder.

            Nothing like being schooled about the essence of storytelling by your seventeen year old reluctant writer…           

Finding Your Inner Puppy

You guys know the scene. Distraught writer sitting in a pool of light from her laptop in the pre-dawn darkness. Tap, tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. PAAAAAUUUUSE. Sigh. Shift. Sip coffee. Tap, tap. Rinse. Repeat.

I had to drag every single syllable from the basement of my brain with bowling balls attached to them. Time slid by and the word count flatlined. The dog—the relentless, demanding, who-agreed-to-dogsit-a-beast-with-a-morning-walk-routine, dog—stood in front of me wagging her tail, panting and making it plain the walk deadline had arrived.

Timber clearly didn’t understand my dilemma. Nora needed to be in the empty farmhouse in the middle of the night so the villain could pull a gun on her. But how was I going to get her there in a plausible—or at least plausible in the mystery world—way? Time was running out. Not for Nora, but for me, who has a regular life and day job and a word count woefully unfulfilled.

Sentient beings can be so distracting and inspiration so illusive. I slapped the laptop closed, dressed, and in a grumbling fit of impatience, rounded up my snowshoes, poles, and the gators hiding at the very bottom of the winter accouterments box where I’d tossed them last spring.

We had the first big snow dump of the season the night before and I was not looking forward to trudging through a freezing forest in the gray dawn. Not. At. All.

Timber, on the other hand, was ecstatic. She raced ahead, dodged trees, dug and scooted and zoomed, acting way more like a puppy than the her fourteen years on this Earth would belie.

This isn't a great picture of Timber but, hey, it was really cold to have my bare fingers exposed to click the pic.

The crisp air started to blow away the heaviness of my mind. I laughed at Timber’s antics and bypassed the short loop, deciding my plotter’s brain needed fresh air and exertion to problem solve. Natalie Goldberg, among others, recommends walks to jumpstart inspiration. My solution rested just beyond that snow-crusted pine.

The sun burst through the morning clouds sparking snow diamonds and dazzling the forest around us. I spent so much energy I had endorphins dancing through my system all day. And I felt good. No more grumpy-gloomies.

I know you were all expecting that when I found my inner-puppy the answer to my plot tangle would miraculously present itself. It didn’t. But I was a better human being for letting go of the frustration and gaining clearer perspective. The words won’t come by damming myself with a wall of frustration. Even if the floodgates don’t open because of my commune with nature and Timber, I’m sure my coworkers and the Man With Endless Tolerance (MWET) were pleased with my improved attitude.

This isn't Timber but she was having this much fun.

It wasn’t until much later, while sitting in the hot tub listening (or making a face as if I were listening) to MWET discuss the pros and cons of refinancing and the likelihood of renting as opposed to selling, I had my Eureka! moment. Perhaps my slacker imagination enjoyed the mini vacation and coughed up the nugget I needed as reward. Probably not. At any rate the romp in the snow didn’t hurt and it might have helped.

What about you? What do you do when the words won’t come?

Speaking at Libraries

Back in 2007, I wrote an article for the Colorado Independent Publishers Association (CIPA) for publication in their April, 2008 Signature newsletter about "Authors, Speak at Colorado Libraries!" During my November book tour, one of the stops was at the Highlands Ranch Public Library, where my tour partner, Ann Parker, and I gave a presentation. That presentation reminded me of my article, and I thought I'd pull it out, update it for 2011 and share it with you Inkspot readers. Hopefully it will be useful for authors and aspiring authors planning to speak at libraries and helpful for librarians and readers hoping to arrange for author speakers at your local libraries. Here goes!

Authors Speaking at Libraries

In the early rush before a book release when authors busy themselves setting up signing events at bookstores, conferences and other retail venues, many forget about the resources of local libraries for arranging author appearances.

Libraries bring in authors to speak to their children’s storytimes and adult/teen book clubs and writing groups, they often set up author panels or talks as part of special programs, and some library systems organize annual author showcases to expose their patrons to local authors. At many of these events, authors may be paid a small stipend (to cover travel expenses, for instance), and at most they’ll be allowed to sell their books, either directly or through a Friends of the Library organization or via an arrangement with a local bookstore. For authors, this equates to good promotion opportunities in front of the book-reading public and the likelihood of getting your books on more library shelves. For librarians, it means providing interesting programs for library patrons to attend and encouraging them to visit libraries more often.

So, how does an author go about arranging library appearances? To obtain a list of all the public library systems in your state, go to the Public Libraries website, then click on the link for your state. Those libraries with websites will have their websites listed, and you can click on the links to explore the library programs. Start with your local library, and if the setting of your book is not in your home town, check out the website for the library there. Focus on library events in those two locations first before spreading out to the rest of the state.

Storytimes, Senior Socials, Book Clubs, and Writing Groups

Search for cyclical events on the library website suited to your book, find the contact librarian’s name and phone number in the event listings, and call. Introduce yourself as a local author or someone who has a book relevant to their area. Then briefly describe your book and why you think it’s suitable for the Thursday morning children’s storytime, the monthly adult mystery book club, the biweekly senior discussion group, or whatever. Give the librarian your website address so she can research you and your title.

Do not press for a commitment at that time. Instead, give the librarian your phone number and email address, and ask him or her to contact you after he or she has had a chance to decide whether or not to accept your proposal. Then call back in a couple of weeks if you don’t hear from the librarian. Be aware that adult book clubs, in particular, will often schedule a whole year of selected readings at once. If they pick their titles for the next year in November and you call in January, you may have to wait 13-15 months for an opportunity to discuss your book with the group.

Special Events

Many of the larger urban library systems have author showcase events or conferences where local authors are invited to speak on panels, present workshops, and/or participate in a group signing event. I’ve listed some example events in my home state of Colorado below. To find out about such events, contact the library system’s Special Events Coordinator, Public Relations Manager, or someone with a similar title to ask if they have an annual author event. Obtain contact information for the committee chair, call or email that chair, and get your name on a list of interested authors. Since these events are planned months in advance, you usually need to contact the appropriate committee chair well ahead of time to have a chance to participate.

Englewood Public Library: Meet the Faces Behind the Books
Pikes Peak Library District: Mountain of Authors
Manitou Springs Library: Author Fest of the Rockies
Parker Library: Bookapalooza

Also, if your local library system is planning a Literacy Month, an All-City-Read program, or some other month-long or multi-week program to bring patrons into the libraries, you have the opportunity to design and propose a weekend or evening presentation as part of that overall event. For instance, I was one of five mystery authors who presented a panel at the Louisville, Colorado, library as part of their “Get a Clue” adult summer mystery reading program and at the Aurora, Colorado, library as part of their “Power of One Book” adult mystery reading program. A multiple author presentation is often more attractive to libraries than a single-author talk, so you may want to band together with other authors who have complimentary titles.

Helping Librarians Find You

To help a librarian looking for authors find you, you need to network in the local literary community to gain name recognition. I recommend attending a conference of your state's Association of Libraries to learn what libraries are doing in program development and to forge contacts with librarians in your state. A list of state library associations is HERE, and the Colorado association is HERE.

If your state has an author's speaker bureau (the Colorado one is HERE), make sure you create a detailed entry, listing what topics you can speak about. Lastly, network with other authors in your area to find out from them about library speaking opportunities. In Colorado, I have obtained librarian contacts from fellow members of Pikes Peak Writers and Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. Many of these organizations maintain their own speaker bureaus, or you can gain experience and obtain a reference to give librarians by speaking to these writing groups.

I’ve had many rewarding experiences when speaking at libraries, and I hope other authors will reach out to libraries and gain just as much from this mutually beneficial activity.

My Scary Day Job

 

Last week I was telling a woman about my murder mystery series, and she shivered and asked me how I slept at night after imagining such spooky scenarios. The truth of it is, penning fiction isn’t frightening – not like my “day” job, the profession I entered eight years ago as a way to counter the isolation imposed by writing.

I’m an agent. Not a secret agent, special agent, double agent, or FBI agent… I’m a real estate agent, and danger lurks outside my door.

Take the obvious first: safety. There don't appear to be any real solid statistics on the number of agents who fall victim to murder, rape, assault, or robbery, but practicing real estate almost by definition puts us in potentially hazardous situations. Agents often meet customers for the first time in front of a vacant house, or drive or ride with them to an appointment. It is not uncommon for an agent to be alone in the office late at night, finalizing an offer or catching up on paperwork, and some agents still go door to door looking for listings.

My current book, KILLER LISTING, begins with the murder of a real estate agent at her own open house. Sadly, this scenario isn’t wholly fictitious. The real-life murder in 2006 of Sarah Ann Walker in McKinney, Texas, was definitely in my mind while I was writing. Ms. Walker was presiding over an open house at a new housing development when she was stabbed 27 times. More recently, real estate agent Ashley Okland (pictured below)was shot to death in April while holding an open house in West Des Moines, Iowa. No arrests have been made in the case.

I usually take precautions when I meet a stranger at a property, either bringing along another agent or my husband. (I used to take my chocolate lab, but now that my canine companion is a toy spaniel, that option’s out.) I lock the office door if I’m alone at night and try not to share too much personal information on-line. My series protagonist, agent Darby Farr, is even better prepared: she carries pepper spray and knows Aikido. Like me, Darby has had some frightening experiences while on the job.

I once worked with a white-haired, elderly man who turned out to be a very capable con artist; emailed back and forth with an eager Japanese doctor revealed as a fake; and showed the sprawling oceanfront home of a man who once threw his wife in a dumpster. I’ve encountered sellers who hoard garbage and others who hoard cats. I’ve looked at a customer’s dazzling waterfront estate and then spotted his photo in the paper a month later as he’s taken to prison for scamming millions of dollars from investors in a phony insurance company.

I’ve known desperate sellers, greedy buyers, and agents who are both.

Houses themselves can be creepy. Some are soul-less shells; others so scarily organized they scream Stepford. One of my listings contained a hidden “Armageddon Room” stocked with provisions for the end of the world; another, a basement brimming with porn. Some places are stigmatized properties, where murders, suicides, or other tragedies have occurred. A few contain strange odors, dead vermin, or unidentifiable suspicious stains. I once stepped on something in a garage drain that looked like a miniature “Creature from the Black Lagoon.” Somehow I managed to continue flawlessly with my spiel describing the house.

There are frightening house-eating creatures that lurk out of sight, such as poria incrassata, a mold that lives in dank cavities and makes mummified skin out of studs. There are blatant examples of greed, not only in the present but also in old deeds, a scenario I wrote about in A HOUSE TO DIE FOR. There are so-called “spite” wells that are placed near property lines to prevent someone else from building. The list goes on and on.

One of the oddest things to cross my path happened only a few months ago at a new listing our office viewed. The owner, a kindly man in his 70’s, showed us the snapping turtle he’s tended for 37 years in a plastic kiddie pool in his basement. He’s periodically provided his “pet” with other turtle playmates, but, he told us with a wink, they always end up eaten.

Despite the inherent dangers, stress, and the ever-shifting housing market, I enjoy real estate. The money I earn allows me to splurge on writing conferences; the hours give me flexibility to write; and the camaraderie keeps me sane and connected. I’ve found that I use my time more efficiently when I’m busy, and I enjoy transitioning from my public persona as Realtor to private role as author, and vice versa. Even with the oddballs, I have many, many delightful clients.

I think of it this way: real estate is my profession, while writing is my career. I feel very fortunate that the two overlap in my mystery series, and that I’m able to put the wackiest of situations (watch for that turtle…) to good use.

 

Top producing Realtor Vicki Doudera uses high-stakes, luxury real estate as the setting for a suspenseful mystery series starring crime-solving, deal-making agent Darby Farr. A broker with a busy coastal firm since 2003 and former Realtor of the Year, Vicki’s next mystery, DEADLY OFFER, takes Darby to a winery where murder, mayhem, and Merlot all mingle. As in the popular KILLER LISTING and A HOUSE TO DIE FOR, Darby discovers a dangerous truth: real estate means real trouble. Read more about the Darby Farr Mystery Series and Vicki at her website, www.vickidoudera.com.