Highlights from Duarte

I love the Duarte Author Festival and will always attend, as long as there is nothing pressing scheduled, and I mean pressing as in major surgery, not pressing as in Girls' Road Trip. I want to give a great big shout-out to Pat De Rose who sends out endless emails and puts together forms and puts up with authors who forget to reserve their table and have a zillion questions and want to move their tables around because there's too much sun and it disturbs their chi.

Thank you, Pat, for what must be a thankless job.

Although this festival seemed a little less populated this year, in terms of tables and patrons, it was a lot of fun. Of course, there were those friends who I missed. Pam and her niece, Alyssa, will be back next year, I hope. Jeff Sherratt will not. I missed his presence, missed looking over and seeing him standing and talking to someone, always talking to someone. He was one gregarious guy.

Teresa Burrell was at my table, though, and we had a good time discussing publishing and writing and families and more. We sat on a panel together and got to tell a good crowd all about our books and ourselves. I think we each sold enough books to cover the cost of the table, and gave out a lot of bookmarks to people who have ebooks.

I may need an app, so I can sell them on the spot.

Apart from an encounter with an interestingly prim older woman who described in great detail her attendance at a bondage seminar and subsequent homework, my highlight was actually being interviewed by a couple of Duarte High School students who were filming for the local cable-TV station as part of their ROP program. Isaiah was my actual interviewer, a junior who wants to be a writer. And a director and an actor.

Watch out, Matt Damon.

We kept having to start the interview over because people kept walking in between us and the camera, but it was so darn much fun, I didn't care. As they were setting up for the third (or was it the fourth?) take, he said, "I have to say, you're my most fun interview today."

That's who I am: the fun one.

Next weekend, I'll be at the Placentia Heritage Festival in Tri-City Park. First of all, I'm going to be in the parade as a Library Trustee. Maybe someday, I'll be in the parade as Famous Local Author. (Readers of Hit or Missus might think I already have.)

The Duarte Author Festival was supported heavily by Ray Bradbury, and part of my fondness for it stems from meeting him there. It only seems fitting to include a video of him, talking about his passions.


Reading, writing, and libraries. What's not to love?

Duarte, here I (we?) come

I have been working steadily toward my goal of finishing Snoopy's memoir by the first week of November, mostly by sitting my tushie down and writing, but also by scheduling my week so I know when I am available to write. One of the things I've discovered is that planning/wishing to write is useless when my day is already crammed with other activities. Better to let that day be what it is, and schedule the day that works.

Today, I scheduled a non-writing day, even though I am only busy in the late morning (and sort of early afternoon) taking a riding lesson. What else could be so important?

I have to get my books and stuff ready for the Duarte Author Festival this Saturday. I won't tell you this is a big money-maker for me. It's not. It's a lot of schlepping and schmoozing for a few book sales. Why do it?

1. It's in a beautiful venue, so I feel I have not schlepped in vain.

2. Schlepping aside, I like schmoozing, and people actually recognize me from the previous years. I know that I can get signups to be alerted to my next book release, and gather more fans.

3. This is the festival where I met Ray Bradbury. It will always have a place in my heart.

4. I usually get to spend the day with one of my good writing buddies, Pam Carter Ripling (writing as Anne Carter). I love her lighthouse mysteries, and she's such a peach. (Note: she will not be here this year and I'm dying just a little, but Tee Burrell will be sharing the table and she's equally good company.)

Pam's on the right (her funny/cute niece Alyssa is on the left, and our dear friend Jeff is in the middle)

5. This is a fundraiser for the Friends of the Duarte Library. How can I not support that?

Now that I've listed why I will be there, here are five good reasons why YOU should join me:

1. It's not that far away (Westminster Gardens, 1420 Santo Domingo Ave, Duarte). Only thirty minutes from my house in Orange County, for Pete's sake.

2. Once you get there, it looks like this.

Pretty, yes?

3. They have over 50 authors, entertainment, children's activities, and panels where authors talk about books.

4. Did I mention this is a library fundraiser?

5. You can schmooze with moi. I'll have my physical books for sale, plus a sign-up sheet for my soon-to-be-released third mystery, The Hot Mess. PLUS, if you visit my Facebook Author Page, there is a secret code for getting a big discount on any of my books, including the new one.

Now that I've given you all the reasons to come, and there's no reason not to (other than band practice or heart surgery), when can I expect you to show up?

Jeff Sherratt: A life well lived

I went to a memorial service today for an author friend of mine, Jeff Sherratt. I met Jeff a very few years ago at the Southern California Writer's Conference. He had just had his first Jimmy O'Brien mystery published by Echelon Press. Later that year, my first mystery, Freezer Burn, was picked up by Echelon.

So we had lots to talk about at book festivals and other author events. I used to tease Jeff that he could sell books to a corpse. I was almost not kidding - that man could talk. He was the kind of guy you could just hang with and not worry about running out of conversation. If you didn't have a tale to tell, he had plenty.

I have three stories to tell you about Jeff to show you what kind of man he was.

R to L: Pam Ripling, me, Jeff, Alyssa Montgomery

1. The Ray Bradbury Event. A couple of years ago, I got to not only meet Ray Bradbury, but I gave him an autographed copy of Freezer Burn. I blogged most of the story in this post - however, I left out one part. When Jeff heard that Mr. Bradbury's assistant was going to introduce me to Ray, he ran off and got one of his books to sign and give to Ray. At the time, I thought he was pretty cheeky to horn in on my action, and might have thought, briefly, about hitting him in the head with something to thwart his plan. I had to kind of fight him off just so I could get my picture taken and finish giving Ray my book.

Afterward, Jeff hugged me and apologized, and sounded as ecstatic as I felt. As I processed the scene later, I realized that my friend was having a Fan-Boy moment. He couldn't help himself from jumping in on the fun because, well, this was Ray Freakin' Bradbury. Giddiness overruled any sense of decorum.

How can you stay angry about that?

2. Newport Beach. I've been going to the Southern California Writer's Conference for years now, long enough to have made lots of friends. Still, every time I go, I feel a certain level of excited apprehension as I walk into whatever the venue. I have no explanation, but it's a weird, First Day of School feeling, like I'm not sure if the Cool Kids will laugh at my shoes or welcome me.

Yeah, I'm a nutcase sometimes.

The first year it was at the Hyatt in Newport Beach, I walked through the lobby on my way to check-in with Cricket at Registration. I was a little aflutter, trying to look calm but feeling nervous. There in the lobby, Jeff sat with his friend and editor, Mike Sirota. Jeff saw me, got up with a smile and announced, "There's my girl!" (Of course, a hug followed.)

All my apprehension melted away. Jeff's greeting was like coming home, comfort food, and warm fuzzies all in one. It was the one thing I needed and he was there to provide it.

Jeff doing what he loved best: signing books!

3. The Placentia Library. This past year, I asked Jeff and Michele Scott to be the guests at the Author's Luncheon that is hosted every year by the Placentia Library Friends Foundation. The theme was "Make Mine a Mystery" and I knew they'd both be dynamic speakers.

As the date approached, I was hearing from another author friend that Jeff was in ill health. Uh-oh. I called Jeff and asked how he was.

"Fine, fine, how are you?" he told me.

"I heard you weren't feeling well. Are you going to be okay to come to the luncheon?"

"Oh sure, I'm fine. I can't wait."

We had this conversation more than once. My other friend kept telling me Jeff wasn't well, I kept calling Jeff, and he kept reassuring me. When the date arrived, Jeff came with a portable oxygen kit by his side, along with his wife, Judy. That's when he told me he was on the list for a lung transplant.

What?????

Jeff and Michele, in deep discussion no doubt

That was Jeff. You didn't know he was in ill health. You didn't know he had a prosthetic leg. You didn't know he had any disabilities. (I'm typing this now with a headache so bad, I'd like to weep, and I feel bad admitting it. Jeff wouldn't.)

I've said this before, but the best thing I ever heard at a funeral service was a minister who said, "You write your own obituary by the way you live your life." Did I know Jeff well? I never met his daughters or grandkids, or knew where he went to school or everything about his life. But did I know the man? I think maybe I did. Exuberant, generous, curious, optimistic, driven, uncomplaining. He was a man who made me want to stop and ask if I really need to grouse about something, if I can't just write one more chapter, if I've told someone how glad I am to know them. He made me want to at least try to be a better person.

Good-bye, Jeff. I'm sure gonna miss you.

Is Death important?

Ray Bradbury is gone. I had met him exactly twice, after age had set him down in a wheelchair. It's interesting to watch people age. Some fight it with enhancements and surgery. Some literally run from it, as if staying physically active will make them ageless. Some kvetch and become bitter souls, as if getting older was Nature's personal vendetta against them.

Mr. Bradbury was none of those things. He aged because everything is born, grows old, and dies, and he knew this. But there was always a light in his eyes and hope in his voice. When I first saw him at a writer's association meeting, he seemed quite ill and could barely be heard, yet his words rang as bright as a bell. He spoke of his passion for writing and his youthful naivety, believing that if he wanted to do something, he could do it. Love what you do, he said. Love each other, love yourself, love is all there is.

At that moment, after reading and loving his books, I also loved him as a person.

A few years later, I met him at the Duarte Author's Festival. (CLICK HERE for the full report.) Although still in his wheelchair, he sounded much more hale and hearty (is hale ever without hearty?) and looked healthier. I gave him a copy of my first mystery. He flirted with me. It was heaven.

And now he is gone, at 91 years. Some might say it's a full and long life and others would like just a few years more. I'd like to think he had some special day at the end, some moment that allowed him to take one last, deep, breath and leave this earthly plane, headed for the next great adventure.

To me, nothing's more fitting than this paragraph from the end of Something Wicked This Way Comes:

The father hesitated only for a moment. He felt the vague pain in his chest. If I run, he thought, what will happen? Is Death important? No. Everything that happens before Death is what counts. And we've done fine tonight. Even Death can't spoil it. So there went the boys... and why not... follow?

Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. We've done fine tonight, and even Death can't spoil it.

Oobla-di, Ooobla-dah, life goes on

Naturally, I'd love to keep the previous post alive forever, frozen in a perfect moment of time, Ray Bradbury style. But life moves on, and people have shorter and shorter attention spans these days. Everyone applauds for a few moments, but then they always say, "What's next?"

There's just no pleasing you people, is there?

So I must bid last weekend adieu and prepare for this Saturday, where I will have a booth at the Placentia Heritage Festival. This is the 45th year of the festival, which celebrates all things Placentia. It begins with a pancake breakfast, followed by a parade that segues into a day of merriment in Tri-City Park. There will be food, games, a car show, and… me!

The price for reserving a booth was reasonable, and I have my own table and canopy, so I figured why not? Freezer Burn is set in Placentia. There are a lot of Placentia landmarks in it. The neighbors who've read it love seeing their local streets and stores in print. It'd be a crime not to have a presence at the festival.

Besides, Karen (my publisher) would kill me if I missed this opportunity.

I'm sorry to say, I don't think my full-sized Dean Martin will be attending. I discovered at the library event, that he doesn't tolerate wind well, or perhaps he secretly wants to parasail. In addition, I'm pretty certain that my booth will be on the grass, which will not be good on his toes. But I'll bring a picture.

If you're in the north Orange County area this Saturday, between 10 a.m. and 3:30 p.m, please stop by and say hello.

In other news, I finally got my book into the Barnes & Noble, AND the Borders ordering system. It was a little difficult until I figured out what to do. I went to the Borders in Brea first, then the Barnes & Noble in Fullerton, and they couldn't have been nicer. I scheduled a signing in both stores for early November (1st and 6th, respectively).

One interesting thing - neither of the stores have CRMs anymore. A CRM is a Community Relations Manager, and at least used to be the person you scheduled your signings through. Apparently, they also scheduled appearances by characters, like Clifford or Winnie the Pooh. I found this out when John, the B&N manager, was trying to schedule me while he spoke on the phone with a woman who (I think) wanted to schedule her fuzzy-suited character in the store. I meant to ask if the whole CRM position was fading away, but we both got distracted looking over the schedule.

But before I hit the hometown bookstores, I'm traveling to the Midwest next week. I'll start at Bouchercon in Indianapolis, then cruise over to my birthplace, Decatur, Illinois. It's only about three hours from Indy. I'm scheduled for one library event in neighboring Mt. Zion on Monday (10/19), and a second library event in Decatur on Tuesday (10/20). My topics are completely different, so people can visit me twice and not hear the same thing.

This means I better go work on the outline of each talk, if I want to avoid any tangential rambling.

Oh, and before I forget - I will be having some guests come and post for the next month or so. I don't have a set schedule yet, except to say that Wendy Ely will be joining me next Wednesday to discuss how she stubbornly avoided writing what she knew, in order to write what she wanted to know.

Stay tuned!

A lucky day, wearing a lucky shirt

As promised, I spent today at the Duarte Author's Festival, held in the beautiful Westminster Gardens Retirement Oasis. That's what they call it. It's actually a very lovely park with lots of trees and a set of very smooth, paved pathways, which come in handy if you are in a wheelchair or using a walker, etc.

Pam Ripling (aka Anne Carter) and I shared a table; her niece, Alyssa Montgomery (also an author) came with her for the day. Jeff Sherratt had a table further into the park, making Echelon Press well represented. Our table was next to the main stage - this will become important later.

The weather was beautiful, and we had a medium-ish crowd, but not a lot of buyers. I sold five books and I think Pam sold at least that many. Jeff, of course, sold two or three cases (LOL).

The featured author for the festival was Ray Bradbury. I heard him speak about two years ago. He was quite frail at the time, but insisted on keeping his appointment with the writer's association luncheon. We could barely hear him because the PA system wasn't working, but I could still sense his energy for life and his love of writing.

I watched him arrive, a young black man pushing his wheelchair while a plumpish-looking fellow led the way. Mr. Bradbury looked much heartier than the last time I saw him. He might have had a stroke at some point - there is a slur to his speech, but he was still in fine form, telling tales of becoming a writer, meeting famous people and doing what he loved. Everyone ate it up.

Pam and I sat at our table during the talk, straining to hear his speech. The black man stood in front of us, waiting, along with a white guy in a suit. There was an extraneous conversation with the black man and another group, which Pam chimed in on, then the white man joined, then I got involved, until it was just the four of us talking.

(May I just say at this point that I wished I'd asked the gentlemen's names. If either of you two stumble upon this blog, could you introduce yourselves?)

The white guy (I found out later he's the driver) looked over at my book and said, "Freezer Burn? What is it?"

"It's a murder mystery," I replied.

"A mystery? Ray loves mysteries. This looks like a book he'd enjoy."

The words spurted before my brain kicked into gear: "Really? I'll give him one."

He seemed ecstatic. "You'd give him one? He'd love that!"

I took a book and autographed it, thinking the driver would take it to Mr. Bradbury later, perhaps tomorrow or next week or something. Just then, the black guy pointed to my chest. "Hey, look at her shirt," he said to the other guy.

In my youth, I'd have been embarrassed to have so much attention paid to my chest, but at my advancing age, I knew they were only looking at the words.

The driver brightened even more. "Oh, man, Ray would love that shirt! He drinks merlot all the time!" (P.S. Mr. Bradbury, I hope that doesn't mean for breakfast, too.)

"You gotta present your book to him so he can see your shirt," the driver told me. "He'll love it. We'll be passing by your table on the way out. Are you going to be here until we leave?"

Are you kidding? "Absolutely!" I said.

Mr. Bradbury spoke and the audience listened, enrapt. Afterward, they lined up for an autograph. I stood by my table and waited patiently. No one else did.

"Are you sure he's with Bradbury? Are you sure he meant it?" Pam's questions were indicative of a mystery writer, suspicious to the core.

Jeff had a different worry. "He's not going to take this path to his car. He's going to take the one over there."

I tried to keep my zen approach, then saw the crowd clear from the signing booth and opted for Plan B. Picking up the book and my camera, I headed to Mr. Bradbury. Pausing at the driver, I asked, "Is this still okay?"

He leaped out of his chair. "Absolutely! Mr. B, Mr. B, I want you to meet somebody." He took me over to the table. "Mr. B, this is Gayle, and she has a book she'd like to give you."

Bless his heart, all that signing had Mr. B on a roll - he took my book and opened it to autograph it. I stopped him.

"No, Mr. Bradbury, you don't have to sign this one," I said, and he laughed.

"Look at her shirt, Mr. B," the driver said.

Once again, I held out my chest for a man to read. (Note to self: try to regain dignity. Soon.) He read it, smiled, and held out his hand.

"I want to drink you!" he announced.

We laughed, took pictures, and I thanked my two champions for introducing me to this great writer (again, I wish I knew their names). I made it as far as my table before I broke out into my Happy Dance, then made it as far as the car before I texted my family about what had just happened.

Will he read my book? I don't know. But he owns it, which still boggles my brain.

My question to you is, was my inscription cheeky? Or should I have addressed it to Mr. Bradbury?

BTW - that shirt is officially my Lucky Shirt after today.

My big, fat (possibly existential) question of the day

Attention! Attention, Writers! If you are a writer, I need your attention, NOW!

I'm taking a poll, mostly because I'm so damn curious, if I was a cat I'd be down to my last life right now.

First, go to the Southern California Writer's Conference blog (click here) and watch the clip of Joe Wambaugh, David Brin, Mark Clements, and other authors talk about the technical process of writing. I was particularly struck by their unwillingness at the time (1996) to embrace the word processor as a writing tool. Thomas Wolfe wrote Look Homeward, Angel standing in his kitchen, using the top of his refrigerator as a desk - the first draft was somewhere between 250,000 and 380,000 words (I guess Wolfe had a hard time counting). A few years ago, I was privileged to hear Ray Bradbury speak; although he is quite computer literate, he still prefers to use a typewriter for his manuscripts.

Now, my question to you, as a writer is this: How much of your time, your labor, your perserverance, would you give to your book(s) if you did not have the wonders of the modern computer? Be absolutely honest about this - knowing your last novel went through 30 revisions, would you still be willing to re-type the whole thing for submission to an agent?

What I'm looking for is basic insights into all of us, as writers. Perhaps you use a typewriter, or like to write things out by hand. Perhaps you like to use different tools for different types of writing. As for myself, I'm still mulling this over. My first, easiest response is that, being a former software engineer and feeling so comfy around computers, I don't know why I'd use anything else. But that's not all of it, since sometimes I like the feel of a pen in my hand. I'm still thinking about it... but why should I be the only one lost in thought? Please share.