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.

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.

I’ve received feedback from several beta readers on three of my manuscripts and some key advice from a literary agent who rejected my first novel. They all encourage me to edit, edit, edit.
 
Ouch! Seems that I’ve been working on those four manuscripts f-o-r-e-v-e-r. And now I need to go back and edit again? Mind you, the advice is sound. Adding romance (per the literary agent) will allow the series to enter the romance genre listings as well. And face it, romance sells. The beta readers caught some glaring potholes that I completely overlooked and raised questions on pacing. That is the value of having strangers read your work before publishing. Once you put it out there (self-publish or traditional), you can’t take it back for a do over. Best to sharpen the pencil and wear out the eraser now when changes can boost the readability of the stories.
 
I admit that being told to rewrite/edit once again is off-putting. What started as a lark to fill my evenings has turned into a ten-year project with no end in sight. Frustrating but still the only thing I truly enjoy doing. Time to plant my foot firmly on the backside and get to it!  

I spent yesterday roaming around a historical cemetery with a dear friend. That silent city houses the remains of local politicians, industrialists, writers, suffragettes, soldiers, and lesser-known residents. Their monuments and mausoleums are astounding examples of funerary art across time, and we soon found ourselves surrounded by angels – both sculptural and spiritual.
 
During the Victorian period, families would spend entire days picnicking at cemeteries. Odd? Not really. During that time period, independent farms were squeezed out of the countryside. Unwilling to become tenant farmers, many workers fled to cities which were plunging into industrialization. Multi-generational families soon lived in crowded tenements rubbing elbows and, no doubt, driving each other crazy. There were no parks or playgrounds. But cemeteries offered pastoral surroundings with trim lawns, lush trees, joyful birds, and the heady scent of flowers beneath a clear sky. Children could run endlessly. Adults tidied graves, sharing sandwiches, ale, and lemonade while remembering those who came before them and hoping for a better life. The time spent with family, both living and dead, also allowed them to speak of the old ways.
 
“I love it when the old ways work,” the repairman, Toby Remeck, says in my novel The Sacred Stones and local baker, Addie Jesper, notes, “The old ways offer comfort that these modern times lack.” I agree with both of my characters. There is pleasure to be found in the old ways. That’s why we love old dogs who remind us that we both once ran as fast as the wind, we adore old school chums who call to mind the zany things we once attempted, and we favor old recipes that flood our kitchens with memories of family gatherings. Such comfort can be found in the familiar. Standing in that cemetery, I realized that there is also a profound human need to feel connected to the past; to be a part of the history of humankind – that river which flows forever.
 
Visit a quiet, old cemetery. Wander among those who dreamed long before us, and you’ll find that the past adds an enriching layer of meaning to our present lives.

​Some of us have been blessed with truly marvelous moms. I’ve always lived in that happy camp and couldn’t imagine how pale life would be without a nurturing mother. Ever curious, I began reading articles about neglectful parenting and researching the lifelong impact of an emotionally distant parent. This became the baseline for my flawed protagonist and my damaged killer in The Stars Prevail.
 
While those characters make for a good read, I remain profoundly grateful for the gentle woman who raised me and five others while dealing with a bipolar alcoholic husband. I don’t know how she pulled it off, but we all managed to land on our feet fairly stable and happily raising children of our own. Maybe that’s when we all began to realize just how much compassion, stability, patience, and joy our mother gifted to us in life.
 
Thanks for always being there, Mom.

​I joined millions of other people stepping outside to watch the solar eclipse as it swept across the Americas this week. I chose an underpopulated rural park and shared a celebrative picnic luncheon beforehand with a friend. It really was the perfect viewing spot beside a sparkling lake, surrounded by budding trees and tilled pastures with an occasional fisherman stopping by to cast a line into the water. We raised our glasses to view the phenomenon and yes, it was stunning.
 
Just as impressive, however, was the impact that the eclipse had on the surrounding wildlife. When only a third of the sun was covered, I noticed that the birds had stopped singing. It was what my protagonist, Remy Lane, noticed in The Sacred Stones, “Songbirds fell silent as if holding their breath in the timeless vignette.” Redwing blackbirds dotting the fields, ducks paddling on the lake, and sparrows fluttering in the trees all grew still. Even the robins gave up their normal land patrol where they endlessly strut about seeking out territorial invaders and worms.
 
Utter calm. Then, hundreds of crickets began chirping and frogs bellowing in a raucous chorus around the lake. This was mid-afternoon. Half of the sun was still visible, yet they sensed the change. I’ve read that bats will fly out of caves en masse, owls will begin hooting, and dogs will howl when an eclipse occurs – even when they are not on the direct path (i.e., there is still sunlight present). Amazing.
 
Yet all we humans managed to do was oooh and ahhh, taking pictures with our cell phones – like anyone who saw the eclipse will ever forget how it looked. Once again, I am utterly impressed by wildlife which is so beautifully in tune with the universe. What a shame we’ve lost that nurturing connection in our rush toward progress.