On Book Festivals and Waiting for Workmen

First up - you will notice a pretty little widget to the right of the blog - that's so you can browse inside of the new book. Enjoy!

Instead of working this morning, I've been waiting for the air conditioner repairman - the umpteenth in a long line of people attempting to fix a leak in our system. He's late, and so I am blogging, because I don't want to interrupt the flow of words to deal with the mundane. 

A fabulous time was had by (almost) all at the Southern Kentucky Festival of Books this past weekend. I was lucky enough to have a friend in town, brilliant author chick Deanna Raybourn. If you don't read her, and follow her blog, you simply must. We ate barbeque and went shopping and did honkytonking Ellison style - which means Patterson House, Oak Room, Merchants and Past Perfect with a brisk walk past Tootsie's and Legends - and sandwiched in a trip north to Bowling Green for the festival. It's one of my favorites, always drawing a crowd of fun and interesting people, as well as a few, shall we say, odd ducks. 

With so many authors and readers in a single room, you really can't go wrong. There was something for everyone, and I counted the day a complete success, not only because my stack of A DEEPER DARKNESS was gone within the first two hours, but I got to panel with a few of my favorites - Will Lavender, David Bell and Rick Robinson, who are all fascinating, and make faces at Deanna, who was right across from me, and sit next to one of the sweetest girls ever, who was so gracious and happy to be a part of her first event that I couldn't help but smile every time I looked her way, and spend some serious quality time with Heather Graham and hubby Dennis. Talk about a blessing - good friends, awesome fans, a well-run event - yep, it was a good day.

But y'all know me - my glass is always more than half-full. Meeting readers whilst surrounded by a stack of books is my idea of a good time.

One little housekeeping note: you'll notice I've turned off comments. Because we normally talk on Facebook and Twitter, and I deal with legions of spam, it seems the right thing to do. You can now come, read and move on with your day without feeling compelled to leave a comment or jump through the CAPTCHA hoops. I hope that works better for us all!

AC man here and gone, thankfully, so I'm off to revise Edge of Black. Have a super day! 

The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly Celebrates National Poetry Month

Happy Friday the 13th!

My friend Gerald So runs an amazing poetry site that features original and unique works by many artists - with the lovely added touch of an audio recording of the week's poem. I highly recommend the site. Gerald has asked a few of us to pick our favorite poem from the 5-2, and share it with you.

Since I am so drawn to works about stalkers, this evocative poem by Nyla Alisia completely caught my eye. Look at how the words mingle love and lust. Look at the masterful presentation of the question: Is this wrong? Or is it right? Love allows for all sorts of peccadilloes. If this is a lover, these unknown caresses may be welcome.

But... if this is a stranger, consider the violation, the fear, the very hair-raising quality of these innocuous words, words often used in a very specific context: closer, touching, kiss. It shoots ice water into your veins, doesn't it? It is masterful use of confusion. You cringe, you want more. You fear for the subject's life, you wonder if she allows this behavior.

Good poetry creates questions, as well as guidance. It pulls your emotions every which way. With so many things to consider here, I'll leave you with a simple declarative statement. I love it!

ENTER THE SANDMAN: 31S LOVE AFFAIR

Dark glasses at night,
disguise the unblinking white,
hide well my lover's stare,
that follows you, everywhere.
Your lips move beyond my hearing,
but not for long,
I know it's me you're simply daring,
to just come ...closer,
like when I bend over,
while watching you sleeping.
Some call it peeping,
but what do they know of this?
Over and over,
breath sucked in from an almost kiss,
held inside me
as I stand in the shadows
touching
like this,
and this,
and this.
All night,
till early hours turn late,
the second hand races around the clock
as I wait,
watching till just moments before;
silver handled scissors snip
another lock of your hair,
another night's souvenir.
Then, out the window,
as your alarm clock rings,
I disappear
with only seconds to spare.

NYLA ALISIA is an award-winning poet, performance poetry artist and talk-radio personality. Her poem The Secret Of Me is nominated for the 2011 Pushcart Prize. Nyla is the founder and host of three international poetry radio programs, The SpeakEasy Cafe open-mic poetry radio show, Re-verse and The Inkwell. She teaches Writer's-Block Is Just An Urban Legend and Stop Pissing Off Your Muse, workshops for writers.

______

The 5-2 Crime Poetry Weekly is edited by Gerald So. A member of the Academy of American Poets, his poems have appeared in Nerve Cowboy, Barbaric Yawp, Defenestration, Cherry Bleeds, Yellow Mama, Gutter Eloquence Magazine and other provocatively-named venues. He has served as Short Mystery Fiction Society president (2008-'10) and Thrilling Detective fiction editor (2001-'09). After learning how to preserve The Lineup's poetry in ebook form, he published an ebook of his own poetry, We Might Have.

Hurt Wit Chu

This is too slick - Johnny Cash's HURT mashed with Queen's of the Stone Age's Make it Wit Chu - one of my favorite songs ever. Love it! Wonder what Samantha would think of this?

Soundtrack for A DEEPER DARKNESS

Funny thing about writing this book. I needed to get into the right frame of mind to allow myself to experience Samantha Owens loss on a visceral level. One can imagine how horrid it must be to lose one's family, but to really feel it, you need an anthem. I latched on to Johnny Cash's version of Hurt, by Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, right away, and lived inside that song for the three months it took me to pound out the draft of this book. 

Strangely enough, I'd only ever heard the Cash version. In a spooky coincidence, when I went to D.C. to do research, I was sitting at a stoplight at the steps to Georgetown University, which figures prominently in the story. The radio was on, and I suddenly heard the strains of music I'd become so familiar with, but they were different somehow, wrong. It was the original version of the song, the one I'd never heard. Coming to me as I sat, taking mental notes on the feel of the Georgetown campus.

Now that's an anthem.

The remaining songs fell into place as well, and this soundtrack became my daily prayer, my north, my south, my east, my west. Each song built on the next, telling the story of Sam, and her loss, and her revival, and ultimately, her happiness, touched by sorrow as it is, and always will be. 

I hope you enjoy it!

Here's the Line-Up:

Hurt - Johnny Cash 

My Immortal - Evanescence 

Three Wishes - The Pierces

Hero - Regina Spektor

Life - Josh Rouse 

Romeo and Juliet - Dire Straights 

Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana 

Never Talk About It -  Tift Merritt 

The Rat - Dead Confederate 

Alone And Forsaken - Neko Case 

Marilyn Dean And James Monroe - John Kilzer 

Wherever You Will Go - The Calling

Brothers in Arms - Dire Straights 

Bring Me To Life - Evanescence 

An End Has a Start - Editors 

You Can't Always Get What You Want - The Rolling Stones

Winter Sleep - Antonio Vivaldi Elements: Four Seasons ( V ) 18

I Had a Farm (Out of Africa) - John Barry 

On Getting Older

I went to get my eyes checked the other day because I was having a hard time reading small print while I had my regular distance glasses on. My optometrist smiled and nodded and said, yes, this is normal with people your age. So in translation, what he was really saying was this: Guess what, chickie? You need bifocals. Or readers. Or progressive lenses. 

Dear God, I have hit middle age.

Aside from the vanity issue, the reality of the situation freaks me out. The changes to my life and body have been gradual, so subtle that I barely noticed the grinning beast sneaking up on me. It's been little things, quiet things, practically unnoticed until the dreaded B word entered my lexicon. Preferring a Saturday night at home reading with music playing gently in the background. Not wanting to drink more than two glasses of wine in a sitting. The slight spreading around my middle. A sudden desire to stop coloring my hair, just to see what color exactly I am.* Less makeup, more sunscreen, and oodles of Crème de la Mer. Cholesterol checks and mammograms and inside jokes about hot flashes and colonoscopies.

When my new reading glasses arrived yesterday, I put them on and modeled them for my husband, who raised an eyebrow and said I looked a bit like Carrie Donovan. Not exactly the response I was looking for. Alas.

I can trace this now obviously cataclysmic change back to a single moment, a few years ago, when a friend's husband passed away. Her loss hit me in a way I coudn't have predicted, or even understood. It brought about a sudden recognition of my own mortality, and that of those I love, the first I've ever really felt. That led to a surprisingly deep depression, one of which I came out of with a new outlook on life. I wanted to be more authentic. To be true to myself, instead of what people expected of me. To focus on what matters to the internal me rather than worrying about buffing and polishing the surface. 

And I changed accordingly. And for the better, I believe. I do yoga now. I meditate. I feel a new creative freedom that I'd never felt before. I don't concern myself with what people think about me. I am infinitely more empathetic. I appreciate the things I have more, and feel losses more keenly.

I guess I shouldn't say I'm growing old. I am simply growing up.

Interesting....

*9 months in, it's dark blond with copious natural highlights. Rather pretty, actually.