Meanderings of Melanie Sherman

Nesting Osprey

2012-05-27T20:00:00.001-07:00

This weekend marks the third year I've been doing this blog. I've found some new friends, and invited others to do guest posts. I've enjoyed sharing things with readers, like my idea for my new book, "Say Cheese Before You Die" and exposing my inadequacies in "The Earnestness of Being Important." But mostly I've enjoyed sharing my precarious relationship with the wildlife.

A couple of weeks ago I lugged a sixteen pound bag of cat food across the parking lot at the Jantzen Beach Shopping Center and heard the insistent call of a bird. I looked up in time to see an Osprey gliding overhead. But the desperate command continued, and I looked around the parking lot until I found it.

The Osprey nest, on top of a light fixture in the middle of the parking lot, was occupied. I used to see Osprey when I kayaked on the Northwest rivers, watching as they circled the river in search of a tasty fish dinner. The Osprey is a large raptor, though not as big as an eagle. Their nests are huge, and they like to use flat surfaces. I would think it would get warm on top of the light fixture. Will the branches catch fire?

Lovely birds.

Sophie Moss, The Selkie Spell

2012-05-09T21:28:00.002-07:00

A while ago, I entered a contest on a blog by Sophie Moss. The prize was a copy of her book, The Selkie Spell, and I won. Normally the only thing I win is drawing for random drug testing at work, so I was thrilled. The book was fabulous, and I wrote a review on Goodreads. Someone "liked" the review and I decided I liked her book so much, I should invite Sophie to do a guest post for me. She was hesitant, but after I sent her a bunch of questions, she gave in and answered them. Without further ado, here is the guest post from Sophie Moss, author of The Selkie Spell.

* * * * *

Tell us about your road to publication... Is this self-published or through a press? Why?
Thank you so much for hosting me on your blog today, Melanie! I’m happy to share my road to publication. Yes, The Selkie Spell is self-published. I decided to “go indie” for a number of reasons, but mostly because the opportunities for self-published authors now are tremendous. Self-publishing offers an incredible sense of control and ownership of the publishing process. It allows you to connect directly with readers and find and build your audience in a way that is fundamentally transforming the publishing industry.

Did you send out query letters?
I tried the traditional route: querying agents and editors, pitching at conferences, joining writers groups, and entering contests. But watching the indie author revolution take shape last fall, I decided why wait around trying to be discovered by a publishing house when I could jump into this publishing party right now?

Tell us a little bit about The Selkie Spell…

Photo by Joseph Mischyshyn

The first book in The Seal Island Trilogy is about an American doctor whose life is transformed when she travels to an enchanted Irish island and discovers she has the power to break a 200-year-old curse. At first, Tara Moore laughs off the villagers’ speculation that she is descended from a selkie—a magical creature who is bewitching the island. But when a ghostly woman appears to her with a warning, Tara realizes it was more than chance that brought her to this island. Desperate to escape a dark and dangerous past, Tara struggles against a passionate attraction to handsome islander Dominic O’Sullivan. But the enchantment of the island soon overpowers her and she falls helpless under its spell. Caught between magic and reality, Tara must find a way to wield both when a dangerous stranger from her past arrives, threatening to destroy the lives of everyone on the island.

How did you come up with the idea for The Selkie Spell?
When I was living in Ireland, I took a weekend trip to the magical, windswept island of Inishbofin. The moment I stepped off the ferry, I felt like I was home. It was the strangest feeling: being so far from home and yet sensing I belonged. After returning to the states, I discovered the movie, The Secret of Roan Inish, and first learned of the selkie legends. Intrigued by the thought of seals who can transform into beautiful women on land, I decided to weave my love of romance novels, Ireland, and fairy tales into one delicious novel!

Blasket Islands, County Kerry, Ireland Photo by Snalwibma

When do you expect to release the second book in The Seal Island Trilogy?
The Seal Island Trilogy continues with Caitlin and Liam’s story, The Selkie Enchantress, coming out this summer! As readers of The Selkie Spell know, Irish islander, Caitlin Conner, has been in love with professor of Irish folklore, Liam O'Sullivan, for as long as she can remember. But just when he's starting to look at her as more than a friend, a mysterious woman arrives on Seal Island and captures his heart. As Caitlin discovers the truth behind the woman’s lies, she realizes Liam is trapped in a dangerous enchantment and the only way to break the spell is to uncover a secret Irish fairy tale that has remained hidden for hundreds of years. But when the petals of a white rose grown in winter start to fall, the legend is set in motion. And Caitlin must find a way to change the ending before the last petal falls.

Sophie Moss

Author's Bio:

Sophie Moss writes contemporary Irish fairy tale romances. Her stories are full of magic, mystery, and small-town Irish charm. She is a member of Romance Writers of America and Celtic Hearts Romance Writers. She holds a B.A. in English from the University of Vermont. When she's not writing, she's tending to her garden. She has a strange knack for finding four-leaf clovers and writes best while sipping a Guinness. http://sophiemosswrites.com/

You may purchase The Selkie Spell by clicking HERE.

Elaine Ash browbeats me to write

2012-04-22T12:56:00.011-07:00

I met Elaine Ash on Twitter a couple of months ago. She invited me to do a guest blog on her blog, Ashedit. At that time, the post on her blog was, "I, Crappy Writer" and I mistook it to be the title of her blog. It kind of depressed me, yet still, being invited to write on a blog of that title must mean something, right? If one must be a crappy writer, one can at least be a great crappy writer.

Elaine assured me that was only the name of the post that day, and that her blog is a respected blog. She also mentioned she is a professional editor. While I may have been tempted to offer her a guest post on "I, Crappy Writer," I was not willing to submit a post on a nice, professional editor's blog.

I mean, really.

But Elaine is persistent, confident, and does not take "no" for an answer. All the things you'd want in a professional editor.

Please click here to see my guest post on Ashedit. And please feel free to leave a comment.

Help wanted, must be able to spell

2012-04-15T16:15:00.004-07:00

I want a chicken wap, and I want it my way.

The next time you hear someone say learning to spell (or learning to use a dictionary) is a thing of the past because of spell-check, ask them if they used to work at a Burger King in Lincoln City, Oregon.

What flavor is that cat food?

2012-04-09T22:57:00.004-07:00

I started a diet last month, and I've been doing pretty well. But Easter was one of the hardest days, so far. It started out with a breakfast buffet at the senior living place where my parents are. I dragged myself past the hot cinnamon rolls, pound cake, and cranberry scones, but even the small piece of cheese/asparagus quiche made my palms clammy with fear. Still, when breakfast was over, I thought I'd been successful. Then the little basket of jelly beans was placed in my hands, and my tongue swelled, forcing my mouth open. I'd probably scarfed down six or eight before my family could rush around the table and pry the little basket from my fists. The entire rest of the day I was starving. STARVING. Like I'm back to square one. The rest of the day I ate the pitiful meals, but I'm back to eyeing the cat's kibble and wondering if they'd miss a few morsels. And I tried to log in everything I ate, but I'm not sure if the numbers are correct, which is frightening because I'm inches from the edge of the cliff as far as my calorie goal.

When "sky blue" is actually gray

2012-04-01T18:47:00.007-07:00

This is the sixth straight day of rain. It is when people buying cars must be careful when the salesman says the car is "sky blue." He may be selling a gray car.

But there are still things in the Pacific Northwest that make me smile. As I sat in my home office, adding up mileage to and from doctor visits, listing all my medical/dental co-pays for 2011, and searching for the 10-99 from the Walt Disney Company, I spied this outside my window.

I snatched the camera, snapped the above picture through the window, and then ran to the front door, cringing as it squeaked open. I stepped out and aimed the camera at my field beside the house. It is fenced in, but the deer know the places they can get in and graze.

Four black-tail deer turned and stared at me, two adults and two yearlings.

The yearling on the right has a lot of white on him. That is rare, and I'm looking forward to seeing it when it is older, keeping my fingers crossed that the white will still be there.

Close up of the yearling with the white.

I'm always thankful for these brief interludes to remind myself of why I live in the vast Pacific Northwest.

It certainly isn't because of the weather forecast.

Day	Forecast	Description	Precip Chance
Areal Flood Watch
Today Apr 1 Details	Showers Hi:51°Lo:42°	Day: Showers. High 51F. Winds S at 11 mph. Air Quality:NA, UV Index:2	90%
Today Apr 1 Details	Showers Hi:51°Lo:42°	Night: Mostly Cloudy. Low 42F. Winds S at 10 mph.	0%
Monday Apr 2 Details	Mostly Cloudy Hi:59°Lo:46°	Day: Mostly Cloudy. High 59F. Winds S at 16 mph. Air Quality:Good, UV Index:5	0%
Monday Apr 2 Details	Mostly Cloudy Hi:59°Lo:46°	Night: Rain. Low 46F. Winds S at 6 mph.	90%
Tuesday Apr 3	Rain Hi:51°Lo:42°	Rain. High 51F. Winds S at 6 mph. Air Quality:NA, UV Index:2	40%
Wednesday Apr 4	Showers Hi:53°Lo:40°	Showers. High 53F and low 40F. Winds SW at 5 mph. Air Quality:NA, UV Index:4	40%
Thursday Apr 5	Showers Hi:54°Lo:40°	Showers. High 54F and low 40F. Winds W at 5 mph. Air Quality:NA, UV Index:NA	40%

The (Many) Things that Divide Us

2012-03-24T11:00:00.000-07:00

If you have ever been a substitute teacher, been taught by one, or heard of one,

No Substitute for Murder will have you laughing.

It is time for another guest post from Carolyn J. Rose. She has outdone herself on her latest book, No Substitute for Murder which had me snorting water through my nose at a restaurant when I got to one particular scene where the protagonist is as close to being a fly-on-the-wall as you can get, at her ex-husband's biggest embarrassment. Even covering my mouth with my hands couldn't withhold the guffaws from sneaking through my fingers. Leave a comment to be entered into the drawing to win a copy of this fabulous book.

Without further ado, here is:

Carolyn J. Rose

The (Many) Things that Divide Us

During the political season—which lately seems to be 24/7 and year-round—the beliefs, opinions, prejudices, and preferences that divide this nation are clear. Often they’re not only clear, they’re magnified or blown out of proportion by one side or the other.

But these “big things” aren’t all that separate us into groups and set our diverse agendas. Every time I check into a hotel, twirl the radio dial to a particular station, drive on the freeway, or select a sandwich spread, I make a choice that defines me or act according to one I made in the past.

Every day, every one of us makes choices that set us apart from others—choices that may be so ingrained and automatic we can’t remember when the opinion was formed or who influenced it or when it turned into a way of life or even—in extreme cases—came to be a symbol of our Constitutional right to certain freedoms.

I can almost hear you asking: “What the heck does she mean by that?”

Well, imagine you’re checking into a hotel and you don’t get a choice between smoking or non-smoking rooms. You could end up with the room you wanted, or you could be forced to breathe third-hand smoke or go outside to light up.

Chances are, you wouldn’t be happy about that. In fact, you might be furious. You might rage against the hotel and “that other group of people.”

Or let’s say you visit your aunt Matilda and she makes you a BLT but, instead of mayonnaise, she uses another spread. If you’re firmly in the mayo-is-best camp, it will be tough to choke down that sandwich.

Now suppose your aunt tells you to stop being so picky because “there’s no difference between mayo and the other stuff.”

Is she serious?

That’s like saying there’s no difference between black and white, summer and winter. Sheesh.

The Great Sandwich Spread Skirmish could turn you against your aunt if she refuses to budge on the issue and admit that there is a difference and you have a right to your preference. The dispute could even escalate, dividing your family and turning you against anyone who doesn’t agree mayonnaise is the right stuff. You might take to picketing stores that carry other spreads and even (gasp!) allow them to mingle with the mayo on the shelves.

From there, it’s a short hop to setting up gated all-mayo communities and working to pass laws to outlaw other spreads. And it’s another short hop to taking aim at other divisive issues:

Dark vs. Milk Chocolate
Coffee vs. Tea
Dogs vs. Cats
Classic Rock vs. Rap
Cheese Puffs vs. Corn Chips
Dieters vs. Those who can eat all they want
Neatniks vs. Slobs
Procrastinators vs. Get-there-on-timers
Speeders vs. Slow-pokes-who-drive-the-limit
Shaken vs. Stirred
Well-cooked vs. Rare (or even raw)
Toilet Seat Up vs. Toilet Seat Down

Fortunately, most of us will never get that worked up. And for many of us, the lines of opinion blur and we slip back and forth across them in the course of our lives. We learn to appreciate things we didn’t like when we were young—types of music, kinds of food, the need to be more organized, the reasoning behind posted speed limits.

But if you’re like me, there are lines you’ll never cross, opinions you’ll never compromise on until and unless you’re forced to. That’s why I’ll make a sandwich my way until I scrape the last smear of mayonnaise from the bottom of the last jar on earth.

What are the division lines in your life? What are you willing to be flexible about and what would you never give an inch on? Leave a comment and get your name in the drawing for a copy of No Substitute for Murder.

Bio:

Carolyn J. Rose is the author of a number of novels, including recent titles A Place of Forgetting, An Uncertain Refuge, No Substitute for Murder, and Hemlock Lake. She and her husband, Mike Nettleton, penned two cozy mysteries, The Big Grabowski and Sometimes a Great Commotion.

She grew up in New York’s Catskill Mountains, graduated from the University of Arizona, logged two years in Arkansas with Volunteers in Service to America, and spent 25 years as a television news researcher, writer, producer, and assignment editor in Arkansas, New Mexico, Oregon, and Washington. She lives in Vancouver, Washington, and founded the Vancouver Writers’ Mixers. Her interests are reading, gardening, and not cooking.

Loaded down with garbage

2012-03-22T20:44:00.004-07:00

Second Day of Spring

We don't get a lot of snow in Vancouver, Washington, and certainly not in the spring, so what was the deal with four inches of snow in my yard this morning? And I don't like to be the first one to slide down this hill because halfway down it drops off on either side into a creek. Add all the trees bending down in their white splendor, waiting to sink their bare branches into my car's paint, simply adds to the tension of the commute.

But worst of all, I wasn't able to drag my garbage can 200 feet through the snow to the end of my driveway. My dad would have done it. Barefoot. Uphill both ways.

I'm a weenie.

And I suspect my neighbors watched the news predicting snow overnight and ran their cans out before they went to bed last night.

Another example of "Eavesdroppers never hear good"

2012-03-19T20:14:00.005-07:00

It is no secret that writers are encouraged to eavesdrop on stranger's conversations in order to observe and write mannerisms, inflections, tone, and attitude. No, really. But once in a while we overhear things that have nothing to do with research. And sometimes what we hear is about ourselves. And it isn't good.

The other day, as I walked toward the accounting office off the front lobby, four of my co-workers (a tooling manager, an account manager, the document control specialist, and the procedures manager) were having a heated discussion at the front desk. Their backs were to me as I approached, heading past them to the accounting door. Just as I reached out to grasp the handle, I heard the procedure manager's charming voice rise above the others, "All I'm saying is that purchasing shouldn't be on there. Purchasing doesn't know anything."

I screeched to a halt, my open hand inches from the knob, turned my head toward the group, and cleared my throat, preparing to ask for an explanation. Four heads turned to me and jaws dropped. Time hung suspended for at least five seconds, everyone still like a freeze flash mob. Finally, I shook my head, said, "Yeah, I don't want to know," turned the knob and escaped into accounting.

It isn't easy being the only purchasing person in a company.

Later, the procedure manager slunk into the office, giggling, and tried to explain they were talking about the procedure for when it is okay to release a tool to a customer, in which, really, the purchasing department has no involvement. After trying in vain to stifle her chortles, she said she was trying to save me from having to do useless paperwork, and that I should thank her.

She's right. I should.

But it is hard to thank someone for saying the purchasing department (just me) doesn't know anything. I would have been a little bit more inclined to thank her if she had just added "about this particular thing" to the end of her sentence.

Would that have been too much to ask?

Drawing with Phia Video

2012-03-06T20:14:00.004-08:00

One of the members of The Dead Bunny Club, my critique group, has an amazing daughter. She is about five years old, and knows how to draw birds. What is more, she knows how to teach you to draw them too. Ginger told me about her daughter's bird drawing video, where she starts with the letter "S." It is so easy, even I can do it.

Ginger's husband, David, is a cartoonist, and she assumed he had taught Sophia how to draw the bird. But he hadn't. Neither had her mother or the neighbor. Ginger has no idea how she learned it, but it is pretty clever and she is an adorable girl. See her video at Jars of Giggles, Ginger's blog: Drawing with Phia

Adrift in Pirate Waters, Part 2

2012-03-01T21:15:00.005-08:00

My Costa cruise isn't for months, yet I'm still planning ahead.

After the Costa Allegra suffered a fire that crippled the ship, shutting down the engines, generators, air-conditioning, and ice machines at the cocktail bar, some passengers waited along the rails to be boarded by pirates. Luckily the pirates do not have CNN, or Huffington Post, and did not get the "A-Ok" to rush to the helpless vessel's location. Instead, a French tuna boat received the SOS alert and clawed its way to the aid of the toilet-less ship. Once there, the fishing trawler tossed a line to the distressed crew, and towed the ship to port.

I don't know about you, but I'd be embarrassed to be hauled into port by a tuna boat. I wouldn't have minded being aboard the tuna boat hauling a cruise ship, however. For one thing, they probably had a functioning head. For another, it is my bet they had hot coffee and cold creamer. Third, it would have been fun to be on deck, chugging into port as the hero, cheered by a thousand passengers and crew.

In deference to the tuna buccaneers, plunging into pirate infested waters to save a drifting ship, I've discussed it with Sandra and we both agree we should add a couple of cans of tuna to our "personal insurance plan" discussed in my last post.

I've also taken the initiative of ordering a myriad of inflatable pillows that will fit into my suitcase. I like a lot of pillows--small, large, thin, fat, firm, soft, long, short--and it is my opinion you can never have too many. Sometimes they fall on the floor, but that just provides a soft landing if one should fall out of bed. As the pillows come in, I'm sewing little pillow cases for them. Now, I could ask Costa Cruises to provide an extra pillow or two, but I'd hesitate asking for seven. That would just be greedy (unless the ship is empty because of cancellations).

Besides, air pillows float.

Just sayin'.

Adrift in Pirate Waters

2012-02-27T22:04:00.008-08:00

Have you ever wondered if you shouldn't have spent the money, even if it was a bargain?

Costa Cruises Concordia off the coast of Italy

January 2012

Photo by Rvongher

I'm going on a cruise. Not just any cruise, but a Costa Cruises cruise. The prices were really good, nearly half off, so I talked one of the ladies, with whom I sailed in Belize, into going with me. We've plunked down the money, bought the "insurance," scoured the various travel sites, picked up our airline tickets, and decided on before and after hotels.

Winnie, also on last year's sail, narrowed her eyes and shook her head. "You're going with Costa Cruises? Isn't that the same cruise lines as--"

"The Costa Concordia?" I supplied.

"Yes," she nodded.

"Oh, yes, it is," I said, picking a piece of lint off my shoulder. I yawned, stretched, and sent her a smug smile. "We got a great deal."

Winnie snorted. "Yeah, I'll bet."

"No, the prices are great and, really, it will never be safer. That cruise lines is not going to take any chances. None. For the next few months, those ships are going to perform flawlessly. They'll be the safest cruise ships out there."

Photo of the Costa Allegra by Jean-Phillipe Boulet

So today, the headline accosting my senses was:

Onboard fire cripples Costa

cruise ship

Costa Allegra, with 636 passengers on board, stranded in Somali pirate waters

It wasn't long before Winnie dropped into the chair on the opposite side of my desk. "So, I understand there was a little problem on a Costa Cruise ship today."

I looked up and tapped the tip of my pen repeatedly on the clear spot on the desk. "It was just a little fire. They put it out," I defended.

She leaned back in the chair and folded her arms across her chest. "Yes. And now they are--"

"Adrift, helplessly afloat in pirate infested waters." I said. "So what is your point?"

Winnie straightened a stack of papers on the corner of the desk before returning her gaze to me. "Well, how many boats does Costa Cruises have? Will there be any left by the time you go on your cruise?"

I angled my chin up. "We bought the insurance. If we get sick, or break a leg, or they run out of ships, we'll get our money back."

Sandra came over at that point. "You talking about the cruise?" she said, smiling.

"If there are any boats left, after today's disaster," Winnie said.

Sandra had not heard of the newest disaster. I told her, trying to make it sound less intimidating. "It was just a little fire on the Costa Allegra, and now it is adrift, but there is a large fishing boat in the area and tugs are on the way. Should be there tomorrow."

"In the meantime, the waters are infested with Somali pirates, and they are helplessly adrift," Winnie expounded.

"Yeah, but they have armed guards aboard," I countered.

Sandra's mouth dropped open. "They have armed guards on a cruise ship?"

I shrugged. "Just a few."

Sandra and I have talked about it. If they haven't gone through all their ships by the time we leave for the cruise, we are going to wear our life jackets to dinner, and sleep in our bathing suits. "I'm kind of hoping they'll move us up to a better cabin. Right now we're in steerage."

"Oh," said Winnie, "you'll probably have your choice of rooms."

This morning's article went on to say:

The fire knocked out power to the ship's engines as well as to its lights and air conditioning.

Since the Allegra may be stranded without power to operate the vast kitchens, Sandra and I have decided to take some snack crackers, a can of cheese whiz, and a couple of boxes of breakfast energy bars. We'll lock them in the safe. If I can figure out how to smuggle some coconut rum aboard, we'll do that too. We'll call it our "personal insurance plan."

After all:

Today's fire-caused loss of propulsion on the Costa Allegra comes 15 months after a cruise ship operated by sister line Carnival was left adrift for days following an engine room fire. The 3,006-passenger Carnival Splendor was off the coast of Mexico at the time of the incident and eventually had to be towed back to California.

The people on the Splendor had to eat Pop Tarts that were dropped onto the ship while it was being towed to port.

Sandra plans to take some seasickness pills. Being adrift is a lot rougher than being underway. I'm taking my computer with me. As long as there is power and wifi, I'll keep you informed.

I wonder if the people aboard the Allegra got a good deal on their passage?

High Tea and Motives for Murder

2012-02-19T19:05:00.001-08:00

Today I had high tea with a group of ladies living at an Independent & Assisted Living Seniors complex. It was a great place to conduct research for "Say Cheese Before You Die." After introducing myself, and explaining what the book is about, I asked the ladies to tell me what their husbands do/did that made them want to kill them.

At first the ladies' flowery china cups stopped halfway to their mouths, and their eyes grew large. One of them choked on a blueberry muffin, while another slapped her on the back, dislodging her hearing aid. "Oh, my husband was wonderful," one said. "He was always there for me when I needed him."

The other ladies nodded. "Yes, my husband is such a sweet man. I'd never want to kill him," another said.

I sipped some decaffeinated, herbal tea and raised one brow. "So none of your husbands ever did anything to annoy you? They never did anything to make you want to give them a knuckle sandwich?" The china clinked as I set the cup on the saucer. My gaze circled the table. "They never left the toilet seat up?"

Their expressions changed from angelic to demonic. "Well, as a matter of fact, there was something my husband used to do that annoyed me," Agnes, a tiny woman with a string of pearls resting on her gray angora turtleneck, said. The rest of the women pushed their walkers out of the way and scooted closer to the table. "We lived in a very nice neighborhood, with a large garage, and a driveway big enough for both of our cars, but he would always park on the street whenever he wanted to go out again."

The ladies gasped, and one patted Agnes on the hand in commiseration.

"And my Franklin, is always forgetting people's names," Maria said, as she straightened her napkin over her soft plaid, Pendleton woolen skirt. "So I will say, 'Franklin, you remember Margaret and Herb, don't you?' so that he has their names. Instead of just saying, 'Yes,' he says, 'Of course I remember them,' like I'm stupid for having thought he didn't."

There was a chorus of low growls.

"That has often made me want to hold a pillow over his face," Maria said.

"And no one would blame you," Margaret agreed.

Now the ladies seemed eager to discuss annoying habits. "Oh, and my husband likes to feed the cat on the counter by the sink." Edith chimed in. "It just makes my skin crawl. You know where those paws have been."

Everyone shivered.

We spent the next hour discussing extenuating circumstances for murder, amid tea cookies and muffins. When the wall clock clicked onto 4PM, I excused myself, took all the china cups out to the kitchen, and washed them. When I finished, most of the ladies were still gathered around the tea table. "That was a most enjoyable tea," one said, and they all smiled and nodded.

I love research. As my co-worker said after spending a couple of hours discussing this same subject over lunch, "Time flies when you are planning murders."

What does your spouse/significant other do that annoys you?

***********

Editor's note: Melanie Sherman does not advocate murdering your spouse, even if he leaves the seat up. This was research for a fictional murder.

Say Cheese Before You Die

2012-01-25T21:11:00.001-08:00

I've been thinking about writing a murder mystery, called "Say Cheese Before You Die." It is about a young woman, a photographer, who discovers--too late--the man she married is abusive and violent. She wants to leave him but he threatens to hunt her down and kill her if she does. He has money and the means to track her. She's trapped, tortured, terrified.

She decides to kill him. Slowly. Little by little. Every day she takes another step toward murder, toward freedom. She attends cooking classes and learns to make cheese cake, macaroni and cheese, cheese sauce, cheese balls, cheese enchiladas, cheese fondue. She tosses feta over salads, melts cheddar into quiche, and grates Parmesan onto vegetables. Occasionally, for a change, she feeds him Fettuccine Alfredo, with garlic cheese bread, and serves a cheese crepe for dessert. All the while she claims she is vegan, eating only beans, rice, fruits and vegetables.

He never suspects anything while he dominates and exerts his power over her, but then one day he clutches his chest, gasps for breath, falls to the soft cream carpet, his eyes wide and vacant, one hand outstretched, fingers splayed as if he is reaching for one final cheese doodle.

She leans over and tucks a small photo album under him, containing pictures of him eating a cheese dog at the ball park, nachos at the Cinco de Mayo festival, cheese and crackers at the Art and Wine celebration. She strolls into the kitchen, scrubs the cheese grater clean, deletes all the cheese recipes from her hard drive, takes her packed suitcase from the closet in the extra bedroom, and shuffles out the back door to his Lexus.

At a sunny resort in Belize, she meets a lactose-intolerant retired detective who becomes suspicious when he learns her husband has just died and she is showing no signs of grief.

Anyone think this is a good book idea?

Better your life with Amazon deals

2012-01-24T21:29:00.000-08:00

My email inbox is littered with "deals". Google deals, Living Social deals, Best Buy deals. But the one that caught my eye today was this one from Amazon:

Half Off Facial - Portland Eastside / Vancouver

I should get this one. It would be so great to have the bottom half of my face removed. It might prevent me from putting my foot in my mouth in future.

Isn't it pretty? Can we eat it?

2012-01-23T21:10:00.000-08:00

The cats are curious, and hungry and they have no respect for nature.

A couple of years ago I had a sick 100 ft Douglas fir. I hired a guy to hack it down before it fell on my house, but asked him to leave 20 feet standing for wildlife. The guy left 40 feet. I guess I shouldn't complain, after all it is housing an entire ecosystem for even the tiniest wildlife. When the cats led me to the back window yesterday to point out our newest neighbor, I thought they were sweet. A beautiful Pileated Woodpecker was making his mark on the dead tree, and the three of us watched for a couple of minutes. But then I heard the cats doing the little clicking sound cats make when they want to pounce on their prey and eat it.

Good thing the window was closed.

Fiery Sky in Morning

2012-01-14T22:00:00.000-08:00

What good would life be if one could not pull over on a busy road during the morning rush hour, and take a picture of the sunrise while being buffeted by the squall of passing log trucks? This was the rise over Mt. Hood, taken from Vancouver a few days ago.

Thanks to the following authors

2012-01-09T21:25:00.000-08:00

Thanks

It is important to acknowledge people who have made a difference in our lives. It is also important to acknowledge people who have made a difference to our blogs. I’d like to thank the following people.

1. Lilith Saintcrow

Lilith is the New York Times Best-Selling author of a number of urban fantasy and young adult books and is a fabulous, caring person. I don’t have to tell you she is a fabulous writer, because you don’t get on the NYT best-selling list if you can’t string two sentences together to make a reader laugh, cry, or fidget on the edge of their seats. When she talks, people listen. And when she tells people they should read a blog, they do. Immediately. She is the reason “Confessions of a Seven-Year-Old” and "It may seem as though I don't like Christmas" are on my ten most popular blogs list.

Check out her books here.

2. Bill Cameron

Bill is a clever murder mystery writer, who tortures his protagonist with great cunning, while incorporating fabulous bits of Portland into the book. He wrote a guest-blog on here, A Dream to Some, A Nightmare to Others, which remains on my top ten blog list. He is one of the sweetest men I know. On twitter he told of his ukulele lessons, and I asked him to post a video of it, which he did. It was endearingly pitiful. Reminded me of when I took piano lessons in second grade. Oh, no, he was much better than that, come to think of it. Throughout the video, I smiled.

Check out his books here.

3. Linda Collision

I found Linda Collision when I was researching The Pirates’ Reckoning. She writes nautical fiction with a female protagonist and does a ship-shape job of it. Although I’ve never met her, she has been very helpful and encouraging, even agreeing to write a guest-post, Tension and Conflict on the High Seas, which also remains on my top ten blog list. If you liked Master and Commander, or the Horatio Hornblower books, you’ll enjoy her books. Word of warning, however, is to refrain from reading about the surgeon's mate’s shipboard surgery while eating your lunch. It’s enough to make you queasy.

Check out her books here.

4. Carolyn J. Rose

I want to thank Carolyn J. Rose for the awesome guest posts she did for me, Coping with Rejection and Self-torture Techniques for Writers. Besides being a good friend, Carolyn has taught me how to not be a bad writer. Now all I have to do is put into practice all she has taught to become a good writer. Carolyn writes great novels, well worth the read, from love stories set in the 1960s to murder mysteries involving the entire bizarre population of a fictional coastal town in Oregon. Both of Carolyn's guest blogs are in my top ten blog posts, but you'll notice the self-torture one is #1. Why? Because people from all over the world enter "self-torture techniques" into their search engine. Who knew?

Check out her books here.

Cat or Rats?

2012-01-01T13:11:00.000-08:00

The government is like a cat. Sure it can be silky and cuddly and its purr can lull you into a feeling of contentment, but, like a cat, it can purr one moment, and draw blood the next.

The New Year is here, and I imagine the government is going to want us to pay taxes all over again. What did they do with this year’s taxes? Did they play with the dollars until the life drained out of them, or did they buy every cat toy on eBay, for double the price, and have them sent FedEx Overnight? I’ll bet the government is going to start whining about taxes, just like it did last year. And, like a cat, they’ll keep meowing, and meowing until you give them what they want. If you don’t, you’re likely to feel the sting of claws raking down your legs.

You may think it is worth it, that they appreciate you, and want to use the money to make your life better, but my cat just let me know I’m chopped liver. He got a new cat tower, and he no longer wants to snuggle into the bed I have for him in whatever room I’m in. He wants to sleep on the top level of the tower and to heck with which room I’m in. It is the same with the government. They’re in the top level of their towers and do they care if you are living in your car, or a cardboard box? Well, they might care about the cardboard box—cats love cardboard boxes—but they don’t care about you. All they care about is the food bin or your wallet.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the government actually worked for the money, but they spend their entire day, eating, sleeping, bickering and spitting at each other, playing with toys, making a mess, and expecting you to clean it up. They overindulge, eat forbidden things, hawk it up, and expect you to continue on as if you don’t know they’ll do it again the moment your back is turned. Local government is just as bad as the feds. Rest assured they will want you to pay your property taxes, sales tax, and local income tax all over again, even though you paid them last year. Have they never heard of recycling?

And don’t think that a gray cat is better than an orange cat, a tabby is better than a calico, or a Siamese is better than a Persian. In the long run, they all want the same thing. They want you to support them in the style they’ve decided they deserve. You can try to limit their intake, but the moment you leave the room they are up on that counter, pilfering from your dinner platter.

So why do we put up with it, with them? The rats. R-A-T-S. They have us convinced rats carry various plagues and without government/cats, all of mankind would succumb. Nations would collapse. We’d all be reduced to pirating passing ships.

Admittedly, they eat the occasional spider, and protect us by shooting down incoming birds. Once in a while they refund a stimulus shrew, or give us a gopher. There is no denying they provide that sense of well-being only the vibrating purr can offer. And on that rare occasion, their antics even provide a laugh.

Might as well dust off those 1040 forms.

Happy New Year.

Miracles at Christmas

2011-12-27T20:59:00.000-08:00

Christmas.

A time for miracles.

They don’t have to be big, like the parting of the sea, or water changing into alcoholic beverages. They can be itty-bitty and still be miracles, right?

My mother found a pretty, airy red scarf, with white and green Santas, accenting her red coat, and the red and green hat she wore to church on Christmas eve. After church my parents and I drove over to my sister’s house, where they were serving savory dinner crepes, sweet dessert crepes, cold champagne and warm memories. At the table, my mother threw her scarf over her shoulder and it landed on the Christmas tea candles behind her on the buffet. Luckily, my daughter, whom I've always thought of as a heroine, leaped up, dashed around the table and smothered the flame before the rest of us even knew of the problem. No damage, except to the offending scarf. A miracle.

The next day, after dropping my parents off at their apartment, I waited at the light to return to my sister’s house. There is ongoing construction at the freeway on-ramp/off-ramp, which is confusing enough for frequent visitors, so I cannot imagine being there, just for the day. Some poor soul turned up the freeway off-ramp and started to climb toward the freeway. Because of the construction, there is no shoulder, no room to maneuver to avoid collision. I gripped the steering wheel and scrunched my head into my shoulders, squeezing my eyes shut. I heard the horns, the screech of tires, and the wild racing of my heart. But not the gnash of metal on metal. No screams. I opened one eye and saw the cars exiting the freeway had come to a stop a few feet from the front end of the disoriented vehicle. Another miracle.

Then, on my way home, as I crossed the Columbia River separating Oregon from Washington, I sped by Government Island and on a tree right next to the bridge, a bald eagle shimmered in the sunlight. Sunlight. In winter. In Washington.

Miracle.

How about you? Did you experience any Christmas miracles?

Christmas Carols and Apricot Brandy

2011-12-22T21:06:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas

This morning it was 22 degrees. It warmed up to 32, and I was called upon to shiver outside on crunchy, white grass, still covered in frozen fog.

It reminded me of Christmas caroling with my family, years ago. We used to snuggle into ski jackets, hats, scarves, and brave the winter cold in the Bay Area in California, caroling around whichever neighborhood had not yet called the police on us. Sometimes we’d enlist the help of friends, telling them people loved to hear us sing. This was not true. We were the only ones who loved to hear us sing. Everyone else threw the dead-bolt, pulled their curtains and turned up their televisions.

One particular year, the temperatures dipped below 50 and our breaths blew white puffs in the glow of streetlights and blinking green and gold bulbs. We had made up books with the words to carols we could sing in harmony, and we strolled along the quiet neighborhood, blasting out our Christmas cheer, ignored by all humanity. Our heads were covered with the usual assortment of Santa hats, reindeer hats, moose hats and polar bear hats and my mother’s hand-knit mittens covered our hands, but the cold seeped through our jackets and reddened our noses. We began to wonder if it was all worth it.

My mother slid a hand inside her parka and extracted a flask of apricot brandy. My mother, the woman who warned against the dangers of alcohol, and only broke out the wine at special occasions. A little brandy mixed with a cup of eggnog once a year was the extent of my brandy knowledge. “Well, look what I have here,” she said.

“Where did you get that?” I asked, my mouth dropping as wide as my frozen jaw allowed.

“It was a gift,” she smirked. “I think this is just the time to open it.” And she did, right there in the middle of the sidewalk, with red, green, yellow, and blue Christmas house lights reflecting on the brown glass. She tipped her head back and took a swallow, like a hoodlum from West Side Story. My mother! She plucked a white, embroidered hanky from her sleeve and wiped the rim, holding up the bottle. “Who’s next?”

I was probably twenty-one, and possibly still in college, and contrary to the stereotype college student, I rarely drank, and only if there was a designated driver.

But we were walking.

My hand extended toward the bottle. “Lemme have a swig,” I said, in my best gangster drawl. Surprisingly, apricot brandy was yummy out of the bottle. The hanky wiped away any deadly germs and I passed the bottle to the next person. It was like being part of the cast of “A Pocket Full of Miracles.” We sang, we sipped, we strolled, we snickered and we sang some more. What is more, we no longer cared when someone drew their drapes and doused the lights. We harmonized, giggled, crooned and guzzled, until we’d circled the block.

As I shivered outside today, listening to the lecture, and noticed the other people huddled in jackets and coats, teeth chattering and feet stamping to keep the blood circulating, I thought about that apricot brandy. It was not the place to sing Christmas carols, or tipple a toddy, but I smiled when I thought of that evening of Christmas caroling with my family and friends, and I felt the warm flush of memories.

May your Christmas be filled with warmth, and music, and family and friends. And perhaps a nice, hot, buttered rum.

It may seem as though I don't like Christmas

2011-12-17T10:00:00.000-08:00

Really, I do like Christmas. Honest I do. I wanted to write a nice, Christmas story to warm the reader's heart, but Bruce Murdock, from Portland's K103 radio station made me veer off the road with a story from Richland, Washington, yesterday. During a living nativity scene in front of the Cathedral of Joy, one of the shepherds burst into flame. They think his robes got too near the campfire and set him alight. While he tumbled down a hill, the three Wiseman tackled him, beating out the flames with their frankincense and myrrh. He was rushed to the local medical center with first and second degree burns to his hands and face.

After a short delay, the show went on.

Bruce Murdock went on to tell about his own Christmas experience back in about 1977. Like me, his house backed up to the woods and he was used to seeing the usual Pacific Northwest wildlife in his yard; raccoons, possums, etc., but as he stood at the kitchen sink, he glanced out of the window and spotted a sheep.

I've never spotted a sheep in my yard. I've had possum, raccoons, rabbits, deer, coyotes, snakes, bobcats and bears, but never have I had a sheep. Apparently he hadn't either.

He noticed it had a collar around its fluffy neck and scooped up his dog's leash, carefully approaching the animal, and slipping the hook onto the ring. He led the walking fleece into the front yard and tied it to the porch railing. Then he dialed 9-1-1.

"Oh, are you near the church?" the police asked.

They had been doing a living nativity at their neighborhood church when something frightened the sheep, causing a stampede out of the manger.

It was probably the flame from the shepherd’s robe.

A coworker told me nativity scenes are really dangerous, even the non-living ones. As a child, in Denmark, his father set up a small scene on his mother's sewing table. His dad had paper colored like stone, with a rough texture, that he'd drape across the table. He then placed Mary and Joseph and the baby, Jesus, into a little manager area made up of moss and rocks, surrounded by sheep and cattle, finally adding the shepherds and Wisemen on the outskirts.

After several years of this, they came home from the midnight service on Christmas Eve and lit the tiny candles to reflect on the coming of the Lord before going to bed. A little spark from the wick drifted down and set the three-year-old-moss on fire and the entire scene when up with a whoosh.

Might be how the shepherd's robes caught fire up in Richland.

Editor's note: Melanie Sherman does not know if it was the three Wiseman who beat out the flames of the shepherd.

Be careful what you say

2011-12-12T20:33:00.000-08:00

In the last post I mentioned I sometimes have conversations I don't remember later, even when I was young. It is what people who are running for president should remember. Anything you've ever said or done can be used against you later.

It is amazing how something you say can have a lasting effect on someone else. Something that was so unimportant that you don't even remember it, can color a person's entire perception of you for years to come. What brought this to mind was a co-worker's story not long ago, when I was training a new person. Someone I'd worked with for years said to the new employee, "Oh, Melanie is a good person to have train you. She knows how to make you feel at home."

I stared at her, puzzled. I couldn't remember ever making an effort to make someone "feel at home."

"Don't you remember?" she asked. "You trained me."

I shrugged, vaguely remembering the training ten years before. "I guess."

She turned to the new worker. "It was my first day, and Melanie was showing me how to do the invoicing. I was very nervous, and at some point I opened my mouth and my gum fell out."

You'd think I'd remember that.

"What did I do?" I asked, sure I would have laughed, pointed and maybe handed her a bottle of glue to stick the gum back in her mouth. Or maybe I whipped out a pad of paper and pen and jotted it down, saying she would be in my next book.

"You looked down at the gum," she said, "then back at me, nodded and said, 'Oh, yeah, you are really going to fit in with the rest of us. We made the right choice.'"

I don't remember that at all, but it apparently made her like me from that moment forward. I didn't have the heart to tell her I probably wasn't being kind, but suspect I was merely stating a fact. She did fit in. It was just good fortune she took it as kindness.

But ever since then I wonder how many times it went the other way. How many times did I say something that made someone uncomfortable, or unhappy. I apologize to anyone I've insulted, demeaned, ignored or belittled, including that boy I called a pig-headed freak that time on the bus, riding home from middle school. And no, I'm not running for president, but Santa is certainly checking on his naughty and nice list.

Oh, and I'm really thinking of putting the gum incident into my next book.

I didn't forget, I deleted it

2011-12-05T21:06:00.000-08:00

When I was younger, I used to have entire conversations I didn't remember later. There was a time a co-worker and I were discussing reporters, paparazzi, and journalists. We had been talking about how awful it must have been for Jackie Onassis, having tabloid reporters snapping pictures from near and far, with no regard for her at all. I mentioned that sometimes people who work for the tabloid media can be pretty obnoxious. My co-worker said, "Yeah, like that time that reporter was interviewing Abe Lincoln's widow?"

I turned, narrowing my gaze, wondering if this was something she had learned in school. "What reporter interviewed her?"

My co-worker smiled. "You know. When he said, 'Well, besides that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?'"

I laughed. "Yeah, that is the type of thing I'm talking about. How did you come up with that?"

She stared at me while the clock ticked, and steam rose from her coffee. "You told me that joke a month ago," she said, scratching her nose and tilting her head to check me for obvious signs of blunt trauma.

I chuckled. "Oh, yeah," I said.

But I didn't remember it at all.

It isn't that I forgot. It is just that I had to delete that joke from my memory because my RAM was full and I needed to remember something else. We only have so much ram, you know. Our minds are like computers. It is my theory that people with kids use up their RAM faster than childless people, because you have to remember your own things, plus the things your children are supposed to remember, but don't. So, when your RAM gets full, and you need to learn something new--like a new computer program at work, or your doctor's appointment--then you must delete something you don't feel you need any longer. In this case, it was the Mrs. Lincoln joke.

This makes life so much easier. Using my theory, you don't ever have to forget anything again. If you come home and your husband says, "Did you remember to pick up my shirts at the cleaners?" and you hadn't, it is because you had to delete it in order to learn something else. Certainly there are times we end up deleting something we probably should have maintained. These are unfortunate computer glitches. Occasionally they can be retrieved, but not without a lot of effort.

My motto is, "It isn't that I forgot, it is just that I had to delete that."

I'm running toward the sunset years, and I worry about it. I'll be deleting more and more as time goes on, and I don't know how to run my brain's defragmentation program.

Black Friday is not for the dogs

2011-11-30T20:32:00.000-08:00

My cats were really happy to see me go back to work on Monday, after I'd had four days off with them. Apparently, I annoyed them. I wouldn't let them fight, or saunter across the counters, or snuggle on my black, velour jacket. The worst part of it, though, was while I was sleeping through the madness of the middle-of-the-night-Black-Friday-frenzy, one of them knocked over my purse and took my credit card. Later, just in time, I found him at my computer. He was on the Petsmart website, trying to buy cat treats. He already had 700 dollars worth of cat toys in the shopping cart.

Wilson Afonso from Sydney, Australia

Meanderings of Melanie Sherman

Nesting Osprey

Sophie Moss, The Selkie Spell

Elaine Ash browbeats me to write

Help wanted, must be able to spell

What flavor is that cat food?

When "sky blue" is actually gray

Today

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

The (Many) Things that Divide Us

Loaded down with garbage

Another example of "Eavesdroppers never hear good"

Drawing with Phia Video

Adrift in Pirate Waters, Part 2

Adrift in Pirate Waters

High Tea and Motives for Murder

Say Cheese Before You Die

Better your life with Amazon deals

Half Off Facial - Portland Eastside / Vancouver

Isn't it pretty? Can we eat it?

Fiery Sky in Morning

Thanks to the following authors

Cat or Rats?

Miracles at Christmas

Christmas Carols and Apricot Brandy

It may seem as though I don't like Christmas

Be careful what you say

I didn't forget, I deleted it

Black Friday is not for the dogs