My late father-in-law was a Marine Corps veteran. One of my husband’s closest friends is a Marine Corps General who did two tours of duty in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. Both lost dear friends – no, they’d call them brothers – to combat.
I never got to meet my late father-in-law. He died just a few months before my husband and I fell in love. But I know my husband’s friend Dave pretty well. I know, for instance, that he has a hard time getting into the grillin’ and chillin’ aspects of this holiday weekend.
Memorial Day is a day of melancholy for him.
While I definitely planned on saying a prayer with our kids to honor our fallen, I really didn’t think I’d post more than a photograph and a few words of thanks on Cold today. I’ve only returned from a four-day excursion to Knoxville, TN, where my daughter was competing in a creativity competition. And since my focus has been on my little girl and her powers of imagination, I didn’t think I’d have the time to create something of any meaning myself.
But fate intervened with a spontaneous trip to the Museum of Appalachia in Norris, TN.
If you’re ever in the Knoxville area, I highly recommend a trip to this wonderful, quirky little museum. It’s got all the charm of a Loretta Lynn song, complete with the care and single-minded obsession of a professor consumed with a narrow area of expertise.
In this case it is a magical fusion.
As I walked the land on this meticulously restored farm – petting the goats and watching little ones chase the peacocks, ogling the artifacts – a banjo made of a ham tin, decades-old, hand-crafted marionettes of simple, country folk (a mother in an apron, a daddy with his fiddle), a wooden child’s coffin with endearments carved into its side, I came upon a brief and humble exhibit nestled between the quilts and the apothecary displays.
It caught my eye because it featured a picture of a little boy of about six with his two front teeth missing. He looked like Ronnie Howard in the black and white episodes of The Andy Griffith Show. This boy, a local, grew up to be a man who served his country in the Vietnam War. There was also a picture of him in full uniform from when he was home on leave.
But that would be the last time his family would see him.
Upon his return to Vietnam, on an enemy scouting mission, this young man volunteered to be lowered into a suspicious-looking hole in the ground. Turns out it was an enemy hideout and he was shot and killed almost immediately. But the hideout was destroyed, and the many Vietcong hiding in the hole were captured, so to his brothers in uniform he did not die in vein. In fact, this one act of bravery had undoubtedly saved many of their lives, as this enemy hideout had been strategically placed and vicious in its execution of attacks on American soldiers in the area.
Posthumously, this one-time adorable six year-old with the missing teeth became one of the most decorated soldiers in Tennessee history.
Damn, I wish I could remember his name – he deserves more than to be called “that young man” or “the soldier from Norris, Tennessee.” I should have written it down.
Even nameless, with only his First Grade face imprinted on my memory, I couldn’t help but think of this young man from Norris, TN, as I pulled up to my house yesterday. I’d been driving for five hours and was exhausted. The creativity competition had been like spending four days in Disney World and I had an almost sexual desire to plop down on my living room couch with a glass of wine in my hand. But jutting out from one of the peeling, weather-worn columns on our house was my father-in-law’s World War II American flag – faded colors, only forty-eight stars, a bit frayed, but a beautiful, majestic piece of history. Every year, we try to fly it for a specific person – usually one our friend Dave is remembering.
This year, however, we’re flying it in honor of a young man whose name I can’t remember, but whose story I can’t forget.
On the morning of Mother’s Day, my son brought home a tiny, premature snake. I mean this thing was only a little bit bigger than a matchstick and wiggled his glossy body all over my kid’s fingers, biting them in a pathetic attempt at defending himself from what he imagined was a huge, goofy-grinned predator.
Charlie, I started calling him.
“It’s so sad,” my son said. “His mother was run over by a car and she was pregnant. Most of the baby snakes got smashed, too, but about four or five of them were squished out of her and survived.”
We took Charlie to our kitchen and fed him a little egg yolk before my son set him free in some bushes by our porch. The critter would have to fend for himself, as our pet snake, Felina, is not the nurturing type. Some months ago she tried to smother her own brother, Pickles, and seems quite happy to have her habitat to herself now, thank you very much.
Charlie was sweet, and almost cute. We hated to let him go like that, but we needed to do it quickly before he got used to being taken care of and my son got attached. The itty-bitty thing, smaller than a worm, slithered away without a hint of sentiment for the boy who’d saved his life.
“Such is the plight of the mother,” I told my son.
In response, he wrote me this Mother’s Day poem:
Roses are red
Windex is blue
Thanks for cleaning my poo
I really appreciate it.
Smart-assed thirteen year-old boy poems aside, I’m grateful to have had a much, much better Mother’s Day than Charlie’s mother. My husband and kids took me for a picnic by a trout lake nestled in a valley that looks up at the Blue Ridge Mountains. We ate Spanish ham French-style, with fresh baguettes, Manchego cheese and a container of bright green olives that looked like miniature Granny Smith apples. We took a drive in our Jeep – top down, and allowed ourselves to get a sunburn. It was a nearly flawless day, our good fortune brought into even greater relief by Charlie and the fate of his mother and siblings.
And as we pulled into our driveway at the end of this wonderful excursion, the words of a friend of mine popped into my head. I had to go searching for them in my quotes file, as I’d loved them so much I actually saved them there, waiting to re-purpose them. This whole Charlie episode presented a perfect opportunity.
“I came into the world kicking, screaming and covered in blood. I have no problem leaving the same way.” -Khalid Muhammad, posted on Facebook some weeks ago.
Because ain’t that the truth? This birthing business, whether you’re on the giving end or the receiving end, isn’t for the faint-hearted. It’s beautiful and terrible and thrilling. It’s dangerous for Pete’s sake.
Nothing has given me more satisfaction than being a mother and nothing has made me feel more insignificant. From the moment I looked into my first child’s eyes – the above mentioned son – I knew my life was over. Even if only metaphorically speaking. I became fully aware that if I did this thing right, I would put his interests above my own and go on to raise an independent, competent human being, who would learn the skills to leave me behind and build his own happy life with a family of his choice and making. Hopefully, he would look over his shoulder every once in a while – unlike Charlie, that ungrateful bastard – and shoot me a wistful smile. A “thanks for cleaning my poo” smile. “I really appreciate it.”
And hopefully, he and his sisters will take notice of how much I appreciate my own mom, who not only gave me life, but a good one at that. All I have to do is watch the news for five minutes to know how lucky I am to have her. Or just look at Charlie, who has to go it alone in this world.
I can’t remember a time when I haven’t preferred the sanctuary of my own private, sometimes weird library of mind-stories to the extensive and fully utilized library my husband and I share in our home.
One that includes everything from literary classics (all the usual suspects befitting a Lit major, from Herodotus to Franzen) to agonized Eastern European poets and writers that any self-respecting Slav must possess (Milosz, Kundera, Dostoevsky) to tasty genre specialists (Tom Rob Smith, Laurie R. King, Stephen King, Silva, Ludlum, Hiassen) to downright cotton candy (EL James, David Lee Roth’s rock-n-roll memoir “Crazy From the Heat” and let’s not forget “Rock Star” by Jackie Collins – a personal favorite).
I have read most of them – swear. Except for some of the less exciting business books my husband collects – “A Brief History of the Boeing Company” for instance.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading – I do and very much. Rather, inventing stories as opposed to merely savoring them just offers me a more three dimensional experience – sort of like working a crossword puzzle. eating strawberry shortcake and listening to Dusty Springfield all at the same time. Heaven.
And once I had kids and my time became more precious, I had to pick a team. So, I chose to spend most of my time writing.
But in the last couple of years that’s changed a little bit.
Since joining an online community of writers – a group of sad, if lovely individuals, who don’t usually leave their homes except to tend to basic needs, and may not even get up from their computers unless they absolutely have to go to the bathroom or something – I’ve been forced, as both a professional courtesy and to avoid seeming like an idiot, to amp up my reading time.
As a result, I’ve strayed way far out of my usual interests, diving head-on into paranormal erotica, gushy romance, hippie-lit and contemporary drama. All of which I would have passed by in the book store in favor of a great thriller or engrossing historical novel.
And besides giving me the pleasure of immersing myself into someones else’s story for a change and getting to relax and put my feet up, it’s also taught me a great deal about reading itself and has made me more aware of my own mind. Actually finishing books that aren’t my cup of tea – that I would have surely put down were it not for the fact that I had promised the author I would read his work – has expanded my universe of interests. There’s something about having to reach a story’s conclusion – like it or not – that opens your heart to the author’s intentions. It’s like making yourself listen – really listen – to the other side of a political debate.
So, yes, it has made me a better reader and writer, but I’m not going to bore you too much with that cliche, because in all honesty, it hasn’t changed my approach to writing all that much. At least not in the way teachers and writers will contend, insisting that you simply can’t be a real writer without being an avid, even obsessive reader. I’ve never quite bought into that particular myth.
What reading more has done for me – a most unexpected and glorious blessing – is actually far more personal than professional. It has helped me maintain a strong bond with my children as they’ve begun the move from childhood to full-on teen-dom.
Now that my older kids are readers, I can share more with them than merely the content of their days. I can learn what inspires them, the kind of love they want to find, the friend they want to be, the daydreams they have about if their wildest dreams came true.
Reading what’s on their Kindles has been a window into their worlds – one made of stained glass. I get to share with them books we end up loving together – The Book Thief, The Apothecary, The Hunger Games, How We Fall, and ones where, perhaps, we appreciated where the author was heading, what she wanted to accomplish with her story, but it wasn’t quite the journey we wanted to be on. Twilight comes to mind (no throwing rotten tomatoes please – we’re not haters here). And then there are the novels I tried to get them into but failed completely – like Harry Potter (“Sorry mom, wizards freak me out”) and Bram Stoker’s Dracula (“Just don’t groove on vampires, you know?”).
As a mother, reading has helped me understand my children’s thought processes, allowing me those rare glimpses behind the mask of shrugs and dismissive fines and I don’t knows that follow any question about how they’re feeling. I’ve noticed, for instance, that I haven’t heard the words “You just don’t understand!” in a pretty long time.
Reading YA, especially, has brought me back to my own youth and reminded me of how raw, confusing, dramatic, hopeful and harrowing growing up can be.
And how magical if it’s done right – wandering the woods, jumping on trampolines, just dying to meet Taylor Swift, playing doctor.
That has been a splendid realization, and one that reminds me that no emotion is trite when you’re feeling it for the first time.
So, there you have it.
Reading more has not necessarily made me a better writer. And I’d still rather write my own story than enter someone else’s. But what reading more has done for me – with an emphasis on reading fiction – is what it has been doing for human beings since the dawn of the written word. It has helped me connect with others – particularly those most dear to me. It has reawakened parts of me that I’d long since forgotten about, put aside in my busy life. And it has helped me understand the plight of my fellow man better than a thousand diversity seminars.
Contemplating what exactly life will look like after the passing of a close family member is a bit like staring at one of those thousand piece jigsaw puzzles. You know you’ve got to start somewhere, but all you want to do is close up the box, put it back on the shelf and go do something mindless, like watch bad TV.
But you can’t.
So, after the hugs and the hearty bowls of chicken paprika, my family and I started with just one puzzle piece – my dad’s briefcase.
This wasn’t one of those fancy attache numbers. It was a simple, leather case that had been bought probably around 1971 and contained the precious knick-knacks of a long, complex life. One filled with gold and bronze medals of accomplishment, dozens of pairs of Mad Men-era cuff links – gold initials in wide font, giant topaz ovals, classic onyx rectangles – all left-over from a time when professional men wore French cuffs almost every single day of their lives. And oh, the tie pins: a golf club, an American flag, a jumbo jet from when flying was glamorous. Twenty or so stamps hand-picked for a collection that never quite got off the ground. Certificates of authenticity, letters of thanks, and tiny tokens from a medical practice that spanned more than six decades – a pocket watch, a plaque, a silver pen with an inscription that read simply, “Doc.”
A collection of treasures unmistakably from a certain time, but also from a certain place. In both tone and style, my dad’s personal effects were decidedly Midwestern. In other words, lacking irony, restraint, snobbery and chic. Brimming over with the pride of having made it, and the humility of knowing that it could all be taken away any moment.
My dad came to Chicago from Europe on the heels of the Second World War. Like many immigrants, he came without a penny to his name and actually slept on a park bench and ate at soup kitchens for weeks before he got his first paycheck.
“Can you imagine?” he once told me. “By day I was performing surgeries at a big hospital. People saying ‘yes, doctor, no, doctor,’ and at night, I lived like a bum. But I liked the fresh air and you know, you do what you have to do.”
I really did think I was prepared for my dad’s passing. Not just for the void it would leave in my life, the closing of a chapter, but also the changes his death would visit upon my family. My mom will be moving in with us as soon as she’s able to tie up loose ends. She’ll be leaving the town outside of Chicago where I grew up, where she landed as a Czech immigrant in 1968. And she’ll be making her home in a semi-rural crossroads just outside of a college town in Virginia. That’s quite a change. And I want to help her through it without big-footing her and pushing her to do things she’s not ready for. Like taking a yoga class or making a friend.
I do know something about grief. That we think we’re fine and end up acting out of character – forgetting entire conversations, spacing out people we’ve met a half dozen times, missing appointments. Grief makes you revisit the past and thrusts you into the future all at the same time. It’s discombobulating, scary and oddly exhilarating. Missing pieces of your own puzzle turn up in places you never expected – a song you never particularly liked, a friend you’ve long since let slip away, a picture from a family vacation you can’t even recall.
With the loss of my dad, I have quite suddenly been hit with the fact that I will be losing my strongest tether to the Midwest, a region which I’ve come to realize has shaped me as much as my family culture, my ethnicity, my gender, my friends, and even my spouse and children.
It’s why I’ll talk up anyone in any old grocery line, tell them I like their hair and ask them about what they did over the weekend. Why – no matter how busy I am – I still feel a little weird about having someone else clean my house. Even if they only do it every couple of weeks. Even if I love it. My Midwestern upbringing is why I just can’t bring myself to get all that excited about the Ivy League. I’m not knocking it, I’ve just known too many immigrants, self-starters and non-academic intellectuals to place too much stock in rarefied institutions. And it’s why my European friends have always told me that I don’t seem American. I’ve tried to explain to them that it is less because I’m a European’s kid than I am a heartland girl. Europeans mostly know American media and television shows, and those come from the coasts. People from the heartland are an entirely different animal.
In the scant few days my husband, children and I spent helping my mother make the initial transition from wife to widow, the patently uncool charm of my birthplace felt pure and comforting. It was a warm towel fresh out of the dryer.
I loved being waited on at the Nordstrom cosmetics counter by a young, balding woman with a skin disease, and that it didn’t seem in the least bit odd. And being greeted at the hostess desk at a swanky restaurant by two retired women instead of the usual hip, nubile young things that smile and ask you to follow their shapely derrieres to your table. I loved demonstrating to my baffled children that I know how to bowl. My High School still has a bowling team for Pete’s sake. I loved that guys – young or old – would never miss the opportunity to hold the door open for me, give me their seat.
And I love that my dad was crazy about gangster movies, but when I gave him a boxed set of The Sopranos a few years ago, he threw every one of the DVDs in the trash.
“It’s where they belong,” he said.
My dad was a cultured man who spoke five languages, had an M.D. and a PhD, knew classical literature and classical music and certainly knew good content, but he just couldn’t appreciate what he called “filth masquerading as art.”
That is a solidly Midwestern trait.
But don’t let it fool you.
Heartlanders love dirty jokes and knocking back a few drinks. The Playboy empire was started in Chicago, after all, before migrating to the West Coast. My dad himself married a vivacious woman more than twenty years his junior, even if she did tell his friends that she was a good five years older than she actually was.
And for all of its chivalry and down to earth warmth, many Midwesterners are horrible, aggressive drivers. Especially Chicagoans. They speed, zip in and out of lanes, fly through yellow lights at the last minute, cut you off with a fist in the air and a string of curses they’d rarely employ anywhere but inside their automobiles.
Even after twenty years of living with and loving me, my husband still can’t stand my driving.
And as we pulled away from my mom’s townhouse at the end of the week – merely slowing down at the stop sign at the end of her street, then pulling out right in front of another minivan, forcing that driver to hit his breaks – there was that wistful feeling of satisfaction, a woebegone sense of fulfillment that a portion of that enormous puzzle of grief had been laid. The heartland piece.
Only about eight-hundred and fifty more to go.
I discovered a whole bunch of “pending” comments from bygone posts the other day. I don’t know why they weren’t brought to my attention via email as they usually are, but somehow they fell through the cracks. A few were from a really long time ago and my heart just sank at the thought of my never having replied.
I try to reply to every reader who leaves a comment – even if it’s just to say thank you. Writing is a solitary business, and it’s no exaggeration to say that I feel a tremendous sense of intimacy with the people who read this blog – especially those who comment regularly. Given that I tend write about pretty big topics – love, faith, death, etc., there is an implied trust that’s very special to me.
But it’s about so much more than simply saying thanks for reading. The comments I tend to get can be terribly intimate in nature, and sound much more like secrets from a close friend, a confidant. Some of my reader’s stories have made me gasp, my heart skip a beat.
I’ve had a mother write to me about the child she lost in childbirth – the utter devastation of that event made bearable by crazy moments of levity. Like when her family broke into her hospital room at 3:00 am and an impromptu party ensued. Yes, even after the death of an infant. Sometimes our best times are during our worst, and I like to celebrate that on COLD.
Readers tell me about the haunted house they live in, and the way the spirits whisper for them not to be afraid. It is such a privilege to be privy to a virtual stranger’s greatest fears, heartbreaks, most gushing stories of romance, confused tears, anger, yearning, loneliness. Private, beautiful stories that honor the special relationship between a writer and her readers. That transcend the page. It is the most fulfilling part of doing what I do, and it means a lot to me that so many of you are willing to share with me parts of your own journeys.
Taking to heart that writing is less about the stories we tell than it is about how we make people feel when they’re reading them, I do my best to make Cold a place where I think before I speak, which my friends will tell you is not always my inclination.
I guess that’s the nature of the beast.
Most of us writers strive to be better on paper than we actually are, often in hopes of becoming more of that person who lurks within us, and is a very large part of us, but lives in sweet perfection only on the page. Writers are like preachers that way.
And this wife, mother, writer, friend, and preacher of magic, I hope, is enormously grateful to any and all of you who stop by here. The gift of your time is nearly as great as the gift of your confidence.
And since I’m saying thanks, I owe huge debt of it to WordPress and WordPress editor Cheri Lucas Rowlands for selecting Cold as a recommended blog in the “Writing and Blogging” category as well. Out of the fifty million blogs you host, it’s a huge honor to be one of the few you single out. Especially since Cold is in such great company with blogs like Writing Through the Fog, Strong Language, Chicago Literati, Kristin Lamb’s Blog, Drinkers with Writing Problems and a couple of dozen more great blogs that I urge readers to check out here: https://wordpress.com/recommendations/
WordPress offers a wonderful tapestry of meaning, humor, sincerity, beauty, irony and imagination. I’m happy I made it my home.
Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate and just happiness to those of you who don’t. Until next time…
My husband was driving our seven year-old home from school this past week and she rolled down her window, sticking her head out like a dog. Spring has come late this year and it was a glorious day. She was giggling and putting her hands up, lost in abandon.
“I love the wind,” she exclaimed. “It blows you away to a wonderland city.”
Sometimes her innate sense of poetry just makes me ache.
This is a child who slithers around the house in a mermaid tail. Talks to herself in a variety of characters and voices. She must be pried out of her fantasy world for dinner, to make the bus, to get dressed, brush her teeth or pay attention in school.
I can’t blame her. When I was a student my own fantasy world was far richer and more absorbing than learning long division and my math grades reflected that. Sadly, so do hers.
Our ten year-old is no less dreamy, even if a hot competitive streak does tend to keep her more engaged in school and extracurriculars. She writes stories and songs, loves drama class, paints portraits, makes “art” movies that include long pauses, sparse dialogue and heavy doses of ennui, and has great comedic timing, which she puts on full display at her elementary school talent show every year. Unlike her younger sister, she is nearly a straight A student.
I say nearly.
Now let me share with you a conversation I had with her a few weeks ago:
Me: “We need to look up what course levels you were placed in for Middle School.”
Her: “Why? It doesn’t matter.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Her: “I’m not smart.”
Her: “I’m in the average math group and I get mostly Bs on my math tests.”
Me: “OK, so math is not your strong suit, but it wasn’t mine either. Or you dad’s. Doesn’t make us idiots. I mean, I dunno, I think we’ve done ok.”
Her: “Yeah, but you’re writers. Nobody cares about writing anymore, mom. Or anything else. It’s only math. If you’re not great at math or into science, you’re dumb. That’s the way it is now.”
I guess we could have run out and gotten her a math tutor, pumping up her grade to an A and possibly qualifying her for the “Honors” math she would need to ace in order to get into the more competitive schools later on. STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Math) is where it’s at as far as our current educational industrial complex is concerned.
But we didn’t do that.
It’s not because we didn’t want to invest the money or the time in order to give our daughter every possible advantage. Our monthly output for enrichment activities alone is like a mortgage payment. When push came to shove, our decision not to press our rising middle schooler harder was actually quite practical.
Math is simply not her strength.
If she was getting a poor grade, then certainly we would do something about it – but a B+?
Already, she’s gotten the impression that any career outside of STEM is risky, unwise and unneeded. My husband and I have kibitzed ad nauseum with each other and fellow parents about our children being under far more academic pressure than we ever were – and at a much earlier age. So, finally, we decided to put actions behind our objections and resist reinforcing the pressure at home.
Don’t get me wrong, going against this massive tide is exhausting and feels self-defeating at times – and we’re just at the beginning stages. The compulsion to help our kids achieve, achieve and achieve is great. We’ve gone back and forth about how to approach our children’s respective educations and by no means do we claim to have the right answers.
In our case, we just felt that if we sang along with the STEM chorus, my husband and I might be playing a role in pushing our daughter into a career where she might do fine but never truly shine or feel the level of satisfaction that we feel everyday when we sit down at our desks. A belief that we’re doing what we’re best at, what we are meant to do, has nurtured a zeal for our work that has helped us remain faithful during economic downturns. It has enabled us to shake off disappointments and defeats that might have prompted others to throw in the towel.
As we looked soberly at our daughter, it occurred to us that her energy might be better spent on becoming great at the subjects she excels at and loves rather than merely good at the courses that feel like a dentist appointment to her.
Don’t get me wrong, we don’t have a damn thing against STEM. Our son, our eldest, fits like a glove into this STEM oriented system. This is a kid who orders owl pellets off Amazon at his own expense and dissects them for fun, plucking out the animal bones and reconstructing a full skeleton of the varmint the owl had for supper.
More power to him!
And we’re well aware that historically, girls have gotten the short end of the stick when it comes to STEM.
But a lot of that has changed dramatically over the past generation. Several of our daughter’s close girlfriends are tracking into STEM, so I doubt she’s lagging in the subject because of gender bias at school.
Math just doesn’t appear to be where either of our girls’ heads are at, or their passions for that matter. And we would no sooner push them to marry a man they don’t love because he seems like a “good provider,” than we would try to force them into disciplines or careers that feel closer to tasks than callings.
Life is too short and professions require too many hours for that.
And if our girls’ interests change – fantastic! We’ll switch up their summer schedules to include Calculus Camp in place of the art camp they beg us to enroll them in year after year. We’ll break out the dusty chemistry sets they got from my dad for Christmas a couple of years ago and let them blow up the kitchen. We’ll even rip down their posters of the Eiffel Tower and Ariana Grande and replace them with ones of MIT and Stephen Hawking.
Until then, we’re ok if they prefer wearing mermaid tails in wonderland city to white coats in laboratories. HG Wells, after all, inspired generations of scientists and inventors with just a pen and an imagination.
And maybe math wasn’t his strong suit either.
I’m so excited because this week my first novel, The Bone Church, will be featured at the Virginia Festival of the Book. I’ll get to schmooze with readers and fellow thriller authors, go to receptions and fancy brunches, and do all the things that I don’t often do because I’m usually at home using all manner of Voodoo to conjure ideas for my stories. Or I’m wiping noses, cooking dinners and chaperoning field trips.
Not complaining here. It’s a great life.
But I’m especially over the moon because I get to be part of a panel discussing Murder in Another Time and Place. For a girl like me, murder (especially murder in a foreign locale) is like the Beatles. It’s like Fifty Shades of Grey. It’s, it’s…well, you get the picture. I get all beside myself.
I love cold-blooded killings, crimes of passion, politically motivated assassinations, ritualized serial murders – even an accidental death will do if it’s done right. And I love the world of fog and shadows, foreign cigarettes, trench coats and hidden agendas. I’m a sucker for a man with a thick and creepy Eastern European accent and rumpled clothes. I live for long train rides where the first class compartments smell of cognac, fine tobacco and a hint of sex. Bad women are a particular favorite.
And my fellow panelists include some of my favorite thriller writers: Diane Fanning (“Scandal in the Secret City”), Joe Kanon (“Leaving Berlin”) and Sarah Kennedy (“City of Ladies”). I’m honored. They’re award winners and historical experts and probably really fun people to boot. People who write entire books on all manner of psycho murderers in all kinds of times and places tend be a good time, believe it or not.
So, if you plan to attend the Virginia Festival of the Book, or you’re within shouting distance and are saying to yourself, “Hey, I love my books bloody,” then please come by the Omni Hotel in Charlottesville on Saturday, March 21st at 4:00 pm. You’ll get to hear great stories and ask questions and meet interesting folks who share your love of death, history and arm-chair travel. And there are some terrific bars and restaurants in downtown Charlottesville, so you can step out of one good time and go right into another.
And if you do drop by, don’t forget to introduce yourself. I love to meet Cold readers. Truly, I wish I could have coffee with every single one of you.
(Oh, and here’s the link) http://vabook.org/program/crime-wave-murder-from-another-time-and-place/
And just to beat a dead dame, here’s my Facebook invite, too: https://www.facebook.com/events/632393510225153/