Birds appear throughout my novels. Kittiwakes. Gannets. Nightjars. Magpies. My fourth novel, The Nighthawk’s Nemesis, is about the murder of a birdwatcher (aka: twitcher) observing the bird migration along the western coast of England. I am fascinated by birds, and they are now returning to my world as spring migration has begun. Yes, I am one of those obsessed twitchers, out there with my binoculars and life list checking off new sightings and wishing for more.
 
We’ve had problems with birds nesting in the vine-covered trellises along the side of our house. They flit down our narrow driveway to build temporary homes among the contorted vines. I understand their actions. It’s a safe habitat for their fledglings. Unfortunately, it is also the only route to the garbage bins. Last year, an aggressive robin took on my husband, dive bombing whenever he walked by carrying trash to the bin. He responded with the garden hose, spraying his winged attacker. The two battled it out for weeks. The robin only grew more aggressive and, ultimately, my husband had to hide under an open umbrella whenever he took out the trash.
 
I resolved the issue this spring with bird netting. Farmers use it on crops, so I figure we can safely use it to prevent their nesting on the vines. My husband climbed a ladder by the first trellis and unfurled the 7’ wide net while I watched from inside the house. His arms thrashed the air. His hands flapped rapidly. Was he swatting hornets? No, he was battling the wind with netting he honestly could not see without his glasses. Mouthing a litany of curses, he gave up after the first trellis. I recruited our daughter to finish the project, and the next three trellises where shrouded with remarkable speed and two dozen zip ties. Walking down our drive was no longer a hazard.
 
Then I found a song sparrow fluttering behind the netting on the trellis my husband had covered. How did the poor bird get trapped in there? More importantly, how can he get out? While I considered fetching scissors to cut the net, he flit out on his own! An hour later, two purple finches sang to me from behind the net as if settling into a new bird cage. Well, damn! I managed to flush them out with no injuries and discovered that my husband had not secured the netting to the trellis. Those canny birds realized the net flapped wide open down either side of the 8’ trellis. An emergency call went out to my daughter for more zip ties. I’m not taking out the garbage until she arrives.
 
Life Lesson: Never underestimate the birds.

A blood moon appears in The Stars Prevail, setting the stage for murder. The image it conjures up in the reader's mind is unnerving, no? The rare opportunity to see a total lunar eclipse and blood moon presented itself across North America this week. Witnessing it meant I would have to climb out of bed after midnight and stand outside on a brisk March night. Brr. Doubting the sanity of that plan, I decided to ignore the lunar event until I heard that the next total lunar eclipse with a blood moon wouldn’t occur in North America for 27 years. Will I be around to enjoy it then? The odds are against me. And what if it rains or snows on that date? No, I best seize the day – or the night in this case.
 
I set my alarm for 1:00 a.m., put a jacket on the chair, and prayed for a cloudless sky before drifting to sleep under a cozy blanket. I woke to the sound of my alarm in a pitch dark room, put on my slippers, forgot the jacket, and stumbled outside. When I looked up, stars winked down on me and there it was – the moon slipping into the earth’s shadow, pulsing orange-red. My eyes snapped wide open! I stood in my sleeveless nightgown for quite a while, mesmerized by the phenomenon, before I realized I wasn’t cold. It was only 53 degrees out – downright balmy for mid-March – and I didn’t have a single goose-bump. No, I was in the throes of a heart-racing adventure: a once in a lifetime chance to see the cosmos put on a magic show.
 
When I finally retired I realized how desperately I need to have unusual events lift me out of my ordinary, ho-hum life. To have a unique experience set my heart racing, make my eyes water, and remind me of just how amazing life can be. We experience less as we grow older. The day-to-day raising of a family, holding down a job, taking care of our home or aging parents leaves little room for extraordinary experiences. We become inured to life’s offerings; too busy or too tired to care.
 
I’m indescribably happy that I crawled out of bed to witness the cosmos’ mind-boggling performance and eternally grateful that a blood moon dripped a bit of its magic down on me.

My monthly blog came due just when I was thinking of trying a new cookie recipe. Guess which task won out? Brown Butter Toffee Cookies sound irresistible, no? I’m the first to admit that I’m not a good cook (neither is my protagonist, Remy Lane). I do have a fair hand with baking. Oh, nothing fancy, mind you. I’m talking about the type of desserts you take to the PTA school fundraiser, not Baked Alaska or Lemon Tiramisu. My children never complained though.
 
Facing another birthday (and a BIG one at that), I’ve decided to take on fresh challenges. You know, teach this old dog some new tricks. Might as well begin with Brown Butter Toffee Cookies. There I was, stirring butter as it melted in a saucepan wondering just how different it would taste once it turned brown. In truth, I couldn’t discern any difference. I’ve often felt that chefs and online cooks tend to make a big production out of each recipe, certainly more than is necessary in my eyes. They toss in all sorts of extra steps that, to me, seem a bit of a bother with little impact on the final product.
 
I suppose it is all about personal perceptions. There is no doubt that our perception becomes our reality. If an Asian chef labors over our stir-fry pepper steak then it must surely be better than what we picked up last week at the grocery store’s deli. Or is it? Perception vs. reality. I read of a wine tasting test where experienced wine judges were unable to consistently tell the difference between a $15 bottled red and a $150 bottled red. I know an absolutely charming sommelier in England who would beg to differ – with a very posh British accent – but food and wine are simply all too subjective. And what of our aging taste buds?
 
I decided to set my doubts aside and fuss over the cookies, taking the extra steps, browning the butter, chilling the dough, and only using kosher salt. I ended up with some fine-tasting cookies, but when haven’t I? Still, I’ll use this recipe again because it meets a more important standard: It taught this rather old dog a new trick. On to the next challenge.

I’ve haunted rummage sales and antique shops since I was in my twenties fascinated with objects crafted in the past. I recall buying my first antique, a Chinese Chippendale gateleg table. It was followed by a Georgian period Hepplewhite dresser and a Victorian era Eastlake loveseat. I managed to fill my house with dated furnishings and vintage artwork before Antiques Roadshow ruined everyone’s fun by elevating prices on any object found in an attic. I’m thrilled that – according to YouTube decorators – antiques are now “back in style” and these old items scattered around me are rising in market value. They never lost any value in my eyes.
 
I’ve always admired bone china teapots and silvered mirrors but never studied history until I began writing my series. Abbey ruins. Viking relics. Megalithic tombs. Roman rubble. It is all scattered throughout my mysteries where crimes revolve around coins minted in AD 43, books written in the 16th century, and 1940’s swing dances. No surprise my sleuthing protagonist is a historian. Like me, she has one foot in the past as she searches for her personal history.
 
Plot ideas send me down an endless number of rabbit holes where I continually learn about the past and layer it into storylines because, let’s face it, history enriches us. Gives us our sense of place in the grand scheme of things. Reminds us that our problems are temporary and what seems incredibly important right now will simply fade away along with our memory. You see, I’ve learned history’s biggest lesson and greatest comfort: Life goes on long after we disappear.

The leaves have fallen. The garden is cut back. Migratory birds are gone. It’s dark by 4:30 pm.
 
Autumn angst has taken hold of me. I love the fall. Hate letting go of it. The cooler temps have me scurrying down to lakefront trails, places I’ve walked before. I found a new path yesterday heading off in a fresh direction. I walked half of it before turning back, nose dripping and fingers frozen. I'll return there today wearing layers of clothing to keep warm beneath the overcast sky. I do like a moody sky and am more than willing to bundle up to capture those magnificent views across Lake Michigan. When I return, I’ll swap out my fall wardrobe for warmer gear and locate my boots knowing that all-too-soon snowdrifts will replace those leaf piles. Sigh.
 
The only consolation I have is that my best writing happens throughout winter when cold air, icy walkways, and perpetual darkness keep me in front of my laptop with eye-popping YouTube nature videos running in the background while I craft fresh plots and dastardly characters. I’ve set up a few writing deadlines that should help me wrap up those rewrites and finally move ahead to another storyline. Fingers crossed.
 
I just wish autumn would last a bit longer. Like until mid-February. Don’t you?

One of the honors of voting or having a driver’s license in the U.S. is that you can get called in for courtroom jury duty. Yes, the DMV also provides a database used by courthouses to find potential jurors when not enough names can be pulled from voter registration lists. I recently spent time at a local courthouse where I met several other upbeat, highly engaging people who were doing the same thing – that is, hoping we wouldn’t be placed on a jury.
 
You would think that someone who spends a part of each day writing murder mysteries would find jury duty fascinating. You imagine me being eager to sit in on a case because where else can you come face-to-face with a real live criminal? No. It is a dreaded duty for all of those I spoke with, myself included. Perhaps our hesitancy is a result of how juries are portrayed on film:  a group of strangers who are stuck with each other for days on end, unable to go home if sequestered, always with one bully in the deliberation room, or enough doubt that everyone can’t agree on the verdict. Did you know that in criminal cases you must have total jury member consensus on a verdict here in the states?
 
During the voir dire – when the judge and lawyers choose jury members from a larger group – I found myself already deciding if the accused was guilty or not. That is not how it is supposed to work. We are supposed to decide guilt or innocence after the trial, but the mentioned evidence was rock solid, extensive, the victims many, and all were minors. An adult taking sexual advantage of multiple minors and filming it? Guilt was pretty clear to me. So, should I excuse myself? Or do I keep my hand down and mouth shut so that I can say “guilty” when I strongly believe in that verdict? Fortunately, I didn’t have to make any decision as I wasn’t among the thirteen chosen to sit on that case.
 
I returned to the waiting room. After two more voir dires, I was sent home. On the pavement, I listened to others who were leaving. Those who had to return the next day to serve on a jury were not happy; very vocal about the dreaded task. Those who were not chosen expressed profound relief. It’s an odd phenomenon, no?
 
Perhaps we all dread deciding someone’s fate when we only know that person for this one moment in time, this one act. As DCI Tremaine says in The Tide Turns, “A man is more than the sum of one deed.” We are all imperfect. Pretty hard to pass judgement unless that one deed is truly immoral. And that is why they call us down to the courthouse in the first place – because someone has done something either immoral or illegal or perhaps both. Yes, criminals need to be held accountable. It’s just not easy to take on that mantle of judgement. But then, the profoundly important things in life are never easy.

That revising and rewriting that I was whining about last month? It has turned into a blast! A fun-filled adventure where I’m finally able to “show, don’t tell.” Oh, I’ve studied that golden rule and tried to write by it but failed all to often. Now, I’m inserting physical actions and sensory details that bring my characters to life.  
 
How? Credit goes to Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi’s marvelous book, The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Expression. It was recommended by a Sisters In Crime (SinC) peer for writers like me who struggle with imbuing characters with emotions. It makes sense that I would falter here because I was raised to never express emotions: Suck it up, buttercup! Never show your emotions – people will take advantage of it. Others will think you are weak! What a bunch of foolish rot.
 
Angela and Becca (I use first names because with heartfelt gratitude I feel they are my BFFs these days) provide tremendous insight on how physical manifestations of emotions and nonverbal elements in dialogue can allow our characters to express their feelings. I won’t need to “tell” readers what is going on – they are already responding to the characters’ emotions. Then the authors offer 250 pages of physical signs, behaviors, internal sensations, and mental responses to bring our writing to life. No excuses now: Show, don’t tell.