Death and Taxes

by Annette Dashofy

According to Benjamin Franklin, “in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” Let me add change to that list. Nothing stays the same. Take Facebook for example. As soon as you learn how to navigate it, they change everything.

Spring seems an appropriate time for making changes. Mother Nature is trading in the drab monotone shades of winter for greens and yellows. Gray skies give way to blue. So not all change is bad.

Which of course brings me to all of us Working Stiffs. This is my last post here. Like all my fellow Stiffs, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic. Over the years, since Nancy Martin introduced us on September 3, 2006, regulars and guests have come and gone from this site. Only Joyce, Gina, and myself have remained throughout.

We’ve written through good times and bad. We’ve celebrated book launches and mourned family deaths. We’ve covered serious topics such as senseless murders in our own hometowns and we’ve gotten just plain silly more than once.

What I hope we’ve always done (sometimes with more success than others) is to entertain.

I’m still going to be around cyberspace. I’m on Facebook and Twitter. I have my own blog, Writing, etc, where I’ll continue to write about whatever tickles my fancy on any given day. My website needs to be updated, but feel free to stop in there, too. You’ll be able to find the real me (as opposed to the virtual version) at the Pennwriters Conference in Lancaster PA this May (17-20), where I’ll be teaching a workshop Thursday afternoon. And I’ll be at Bouchercon in Cleveland this October even if I have to walk.

So at the end of the month, Working Stiffs may come to an end, but it’s simply another of life’s changes.

Happy Spring! 

Unraveling a Cat Mystery

By Annette Dashofy

Every year around this time, certain members of my family take a vacation. I won’t say where because it’ll make me sound jealous. Which I am. But that’s not the point. They go on vacation and I kittysit their cats. I happen to be quite fond of these cats, so I don’t mind a bit. Usually, “kittysitting” involves driving over there every other day, cleaning litter boxes, refilling the food bowls, and changing their water. Then I play with them for a while.

This year hasn’t worked out that way.

Shortly before they left, they noticed that one of the cats had been peeing on the carpet in one corner. They told me it was Pepper, the newer cat. They pulled up the carpet in the corner and put down plastic. Pepper was to be confined to the basement, while Chili, the older cat, would have the run of the upstairs, including the scene of the crime.

On Day One of my kittysitting gig, I discovered a puddle on the plastic. Apparently, Pepper had been falsely accused and convicted on circumstantial evidence.

(Pepper looking pitiful behind bars.)

I could do a Bounty commercial about the absorbency of those paper towels. But I don’t think they’d want to show someone mopping up cat pee.

Anyway, anytime a cat suddenly starts urinating outside the box, my first thought is Urinary Tract Infection. But I’m not a vet. I only write about one.

Instead of every other day, I started driving out there daily to check on things. And to keep the puddle from overflowing onto the carpet again.

(The real culprit, Chili, looking completely innocent of all charges)

By Day Two, Chili was also pooping on the rug. Her litter box remained untouched. I filled a plastic specimen cup from the puddle on the plastic and ran it out to the vet. Diagnosis? Urinary Tract Infection.

I guess a gazillion years as a cat owner combined with all the research I’ve done to write my veterinarian protagonist has paid off.

The vet gave me Clavamox liquid to be administered twice a day.

Did I mention this is a 20-mile each-way jaunt?

So I’ve enlisted some help. Hubby’s new(est) job—don’t ask—is nearby, so I’ve trained him how to give oral meds to cats. You can just imagine how happy he is. (Not). Since he’s completely overjoyed at the prospect (again—NOT), a neighbor has been called in to give the evening dose, while I take care of the morning dose…and the litter boxes and the food and the water.

Speaking of litter boxes, I moved the one that hadn’t been touched over to where Chili had been pooping. Voila! She’s now back to using it for BOTH. No more puddles on the plastic. Which is a good thing. I think I’ve gone through an entire roll of Bounty.

Monday, I took Chili in to see her vet. The good doctor praised my handling of the situation and basically told me to keep it up.

I think I missed my calling. At the very least, if this writing gig falls apart, I can always start a new career as a crittersitter.

Or a defense attorney for cats.

(Pepper begging to have his conviction overthrown)

(Just look at Chili. You can't tell me she didn't intentionally plant evidence in order to get rid of the pesky new kid in her house.)

The If Money Were No Object Game

by Annette Dashofy

My hubby and I took a drive this weekend to check on our camper in Confluence. It was fine, as I expected. After all, we haven’t had any real snowfall this winter. Mostly it was an excuse to get away for the day.

The drive to Confluence is about two-hours long on mostly two-lane, scenic roads. The trip is as pleasant as the destination. And it tends to spark some interesting conversations, most of which begin with If money were no object…

The rest of the question varies each time we play this game. This trip the question was, If money were no object where would you want to live?

My answer was New Mexico.

After being together for over 30 years, I actually surprised my husband with this one. I think he expected me to say Confluence or Clarion or Lake Erie. All favorite Pennsylvanian spots of mine, but come on. IF MONEY WERE NO OBJECT requires thinking BIG.

(Okay, some of you probably think I'm not thinking big enough and should have picked someplace like Paris. But this is MY fantasy and I'm sticking with New Mexico.)

He probably wouldn’t have been too surprised if I’d said Wyoming. I’m pretty sure I lived there in a previous life because I’ve always been drawn to that state. In my mind at least. In reality, I’ve never made it farther west than Indiana. Eastern Indiana.

Anyhow, I figure winters might be kinder in New Mexico than in Wyoming.

So now it’s your turn to play. If money were no object, where would you want to live?

Ready or not, here it comes

By Annette Dashofy

I’ve posted on occasion about the impending gas drilling near my home. It’s been in neighboring townships for several years. There have been whispers and speculation about when it would show up here. In the summer of 2010, we signed a lease agreement with Range Resources, but that didn’t mean they’d actually DO anything.

Then they purchased my neighbor’s farm. We received letters regarding water testing because they MIGHT drill somewhere nearby. They came out and tested our well, our creek, and our spring.

Note: I could have gone merrily along my way for quite some time without knowing what was actually in my well water. Reading that report was like reading the list of ingredients on your favorite junk food. You really don’t want to know what’s in there.

Anyhow, there’s been a lot of activity happening on the hill behind my house. I can’t see anything from here, but I can hear the big machinery. I don’t know what they were doing the other night, but I was sitting in my office listening to a distant thump thump thump, as if Big Foot were hiking across our hillside.

From certain vantage points along the road, you can see the mound of dirt they’ve moved, as well as the massive trucks and dozers. Something is definitely going on up there.

On Monday, it became official. A man from Range knocked at my door. He was notifying everyone within a certain distance of the new well site, that drilling was indeed imminent. He had to confirm contact numbers. In case of an emergency, someone will call us immediately.

Oh, goody.

He gave me a folder containing a letter describing what was about to happen and what we could expect to see (increased truck traffic…Meanwhile, I can hardly get across the road to pick up my mail NOW) and several pieces of informative literature about natural gas and what’s in the stuff they’re going to pump into the ground, etc, etc, etc. And if we have any other questions, he gave me a card.

I’ve stated before that I’m on the fence about this. I’m definitely looking forward to royalty checks. But I’ve hated to see our rural area die. There used to be cattle and horses everywhere. I used to wake up each morning to the bawling of cows calling to their youngsters. I used to mark the coming of spring by the increasing numbers of romping calves in the fields surrounding my house.

Now the farmers have all sold off their livestock. There are still several active horse farms within a mile radius, but not within sight of my windows. The landscape is void of animal life.

And now it’s about to become industrial.

That bothers me.

But there’s no going back. Moving isn’t exactly an option. Where would I go? The entire region is being drilled.

So I’m resigned to sit back and see what happens. Roll with the tide. Hope my water well isn’t made even WORSE as a result of the gas well just over the hill. And hope the royalty money is worth the aggravation. 

When Progress Isn't Progress

by Annette Dashofy

You lucky readers have caught me in a ranting mood today. As in smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears ranting mood. All over eight dollars and five cents.

When Fish Tales came out, I purchased a box of them to re-sell. You see, the royalties for the sale of the book go to cancer research, so none of us authors made any money on it. However, by purchasing some books at discount through our wonderful local indy bookseller, Mystery Lovers Bookshop, I had the opportunity to sell a few copies, make a couple of bucks (to please my accountant), AND cancer research still gets the royalties.

All well and good. Except that I had to apply for a sales tax license.

No problem. I had a sales tax license years ago when Hubby and I ran a photography studio. I don’t remember any problems with the filing and payment procedure. Fill in the sales numbers, write a check, stick a stamp on the envelope, and mail it in.

Ha. Those were the good old days.

My license was denied. It seems I have to pay the money I’ve collected before I can get a license. Okay. The nasty letter I received said I could do this easily online or by phone. The problem is that they want my license number. The license I don’t have because I have to pay first. But I can’t pay without a number.

You see the conundrum?

I finally managed to file a return online, but the electronic payment refused to go through. I spent hours…literally HOURS…on the phone, being directed from one non-toll-free number to another. Each time I’d get a human, they’d say, “Oh, you have to call this other number.” I believe the process is known as PASSING THE BUCK.

My head was ready to explode. All because I owed eight dollars and five cents.

Did I mention the nasty letter? The one that stated tax liabilities may result in a criminal citation being issued against you???? WTF? For eight dollars and five cents???

Relax. I don’t need anyone to bail me out of jail. On day two of this saga, I finally (only two phone calls later—YAY!) was able to speak to a real person who seemed genuinely interested in resolving my problem and who didn’t treat me like I had the black plague. I wish I’d have caught his name. I’d send him a bottle of wine. Or a chocolate cake. Or both. He looked up my case, told me in very simple terms what the problem was and how to fix it. AND he gave me an address to use to send in my payment. Write a check. Stick a stamp on the envelope. Mail it in.

THIS I can do.

Sometimes progress just isn’t.

Towanda!!!

by Annette Dashofy

The holidays are over. Most of us have already started blowing our New Year’s resolutions. We are firmly ensconced in the DEAD OF WINTER.

And for once, I’m not complaining about it.

Here in southwestern Pennsylvania, winter has been kind. So far. It’s been mild. We’ve had rain instead of snow, but not enough to cause flooding. Mud? I can live with a little mud. Yes, I realize we have a couple of months to go, and Old Man Winter might slap us up side the head any minute now. But last year the nasty stuff started the day after Thanksgiving and continued until April. So every day of nice weather we have is one less day of the wicked stuff. And one day closer to spring.

But there’s one thing I like about winter no matter what the weather. The stores aren’t jam packed.

All right, there is that milk and toilet paper madness that hits whenever the forecast calls for more than a flurry of snow. But in general, it’s easier to shop this time of year.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it really isn’t the holiday craziness INSIDE the store that I dread so much. It’s the craziness in the parking lot.

I confess. I hate (loathe) parking lots. People lose all sense of humanity when they’re trying to get a good parking space. Or any parking space.

Yes, I seriously wish I had the nerve (and that big ol’ tank of a car) to do this. Don’t you?

But even once you’ve got the space, you still have major obstacles to overcome. One day, shortly before Christmas, two different drivers nearly backed over me while I walked from the far reaches of the lot to the store. Is it too much trouble to look behind you before ramming your car in reverse and pounding the gas? Seriously.

And then there’s my 91-year-old mom who walks with a cane and can’t jog across the pedestrian crossing. I have to act like a school crossing guard and stand there, daring these impatient idiots to hit me, so Mom can hobble into the store. I’ve been known to give “The Look” (Joyce, you know the one) to drivers who act like they’re going to mow us down. So far it’s worked. The day it doesn’t, I hope someone gets a license number. At the very least, I’ll be kicking the hell out of their car’s undercarriage as they drive over me.

Towanda!!!

Let's Party!

by Annette Dashofy

I know of a lot of writers who talk about crawling into their caves to write. Oh, sure, they might have other names for it, but anyone who has been hit with a looming deadline has been there. We have to shut out all outside influences, say NO to family and friends, and retreat to our workplace of preference to FINISH THE DAMNED BOOK. Or article. Or short story. Whatever it is that’s due.

And that’s where I’ve been since…egads…JULY. Oh, I came up for air in August and September to catch up with everything I’d put off. But then I went under again in October and have been holed up quite a bit since then.

The reason being I have an agent awaiting my rewritten/revised manuscript. And I’ve sort of promised to get it to her in January.

January felt quite reasonable in November. Now? Heh. Not so much. But I’ll make it. I’m close. Real close.

However, being holed up in a cave isn’t so easy this time of year. When I mentioned on Facebook that I was spending the next several days writing, someone asked, “What about Christmas?”

Lucky for me, we’re not big holiday people. My decorations consist of a couple of wreaths on the doors. That’s it. And while I usually mail Christmas cards, don’t look for anything from me this year. Unless I can find some kind of Happy New Year cards. Does Hallmark do those? If they don’t, why not? They make belated birthday cards. Why not belated Christmas cards?

I have, at least, poked my head out of my hole for a few parties. Writers, I’ve noticed, throw the best parties. This is mainly because of: 1.) Books. 2.) Great food. And 3.) Wine

The first writers’ Christmas party of the year was the one held by our Sisters in Crime chapter and hosted by our secretary Lee Ann Dawson.

The second one was a Pennwriters party held at our Eat N Park Restaurant.

Okay, so it lacked the great food and the wine, but it did have our annual book swap-and-steal.

 Each person brings a wrapped book. When you open one, you have the choice to keep it or trade it for one that’s already been opened. In other words, you shouldn’t get too attached to what you get. Someone might steal it from you. Poor Doris Dumrauf. 

Some evil person (me) stole this book from her.

Note: most writers are nice and keep what they get, regardless. But I ask you, what fun is that?

The third party was another Pennwriters one, this one hosted by the lovely and talented Meredith Mileti. 

That's Meredith on the left.

GREAT food. And I supplied chocolate wine. We did a book swap-and-steal at this one, too. But I promised Doris I wouldn’t steal hers again.

Barb (on the left) reminded me that I’d stolen hers the last two years and threatened to cry if I repeated my dastardly habit. Apparently I’m getting a bad reputation. So I kept what I got.

Regardless.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Years, everyone! 

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

By Annette Dashofy

Okay, guys, I’m going to talk about hair styles today, so the gents reading this will likely want to leave now. But I hope you don’t. Because I intend to aim part of this post at the masculine gender.

First of all, I’m getting my hair cut today, which explains the topic. For the better part of a year, I’ve been trying to grow my hair out. My mom seems to think that any woman over the age of 35 or 40 should wear her hair short. And I did for a lot of years, simply because it was easier. The busier I became, the shorter my hair. Not that I’m not busy now, but I just wanted to break the mold, rebel against my mom (how often do I still get to do that???), and give long hair one last shot before I become a full fledged crone.

It’s still not “long.” I’d call it medium. And I’m not ready to surrender to the shears just yet. My big debate has been: bangs or no bangs.

Yeah, deep subject matter. Not.

My hair dresser has convinced me to let my bangs grow out. I’d worn bangs, whether my hair was long or short, since high school. The sight of my forehead in the mirror makes me cringe. But I’ve noticed that NO one wears bangs anymore. Everyone, it appears, is doing the same thing I am. Growing the suckers out and trying unsuccessfully to tuck them behind an ear, only to have them constantly falling in our eyes.

The only way I can see to write is to wear a headband.

The other night, I decided to put it to a vote here. I planned to post a photo of me with my currently exposed forehead and let the Working Stiffs readers share their opinions about whether or not I should keep this look or go back to hiding behind my bangs.

I set up my tripod, set my Nikon for the remote release, and shot over 60 pictures of myself in the hopes of finding ONE that my ego would allow me to share here.

Please note, there are no photos posted.

And this, my friends, pushed me over the edge. There will be no vote. By 3:30, I will once again have bangs.

I don’t know that they’ll help, but egads, those photos were hideous.

My husband (who hates to be written about) is having similar issues. (See, I promised something for the guys!) His issues aren’t with his forehead, however. His forehead has extended to the back of his head for more than a decade. There are no bangs in his future. However, he recently shaved his beard.

He and I have been together for over 30 years and this was the first time I’d seen his face. And I like it! He has dimples! Who knew???

Well, he says he knew. But I didn’t.

It took me some time to get used to seeing him bare-faced. He says he still isn’t used to it. But he only sees himself when he looks in the mirror. I see him all the time. It makes it easier for me to get used to it. He looks a lot younger. A LOT younger. Some folks are calling him “baby face.” Please. He doesn’t look THAT young.

Anyhow, he still isn’t convinced that he’s staying with the naked face thing.

I think it must be like me and my bangs-or-no-bangs decision. We both want to cover up part of our face.

He says about half the people who have seen him like the new look. The other half wants him to grow the beard back. I told him that their votes don’t count. Mine does. The only person’s vote that counts more than mine is his. When I told him this, he replied with a resounding “YES.”

Which means, if he decides to grow the beard back, I’m out of luck. Frankly, if he told me he liked me without bangs, I’d keep on wearing this stupid headband.

But he’s a wise husband who keeps his mouth shut about such decisions.

So tell me, does anyone else out there hide behind their hair? Literally or figuratively?  

How Many Crime Writers Does It Take...

by Annette Dashofy

Have you ever wondered how many women crime writers does it take to break into a house?

Last weekend, I found out the answer: six.

More on that in a bit.

We arrived in Confluence last Friday afternoon. I’d pretty much given up on any idea of outdoor activities, since the morning had dawned gloomy, dreary, and rainy. But by the time I pulled up in front of the rental house, blue skies were winning the battle against the clouds.

Two minutes after I arrived, Colette Garmer and fellow Working Stiff Martha Reed pulled in behind me. We lugged our gear inside, and I gave them the tour of That Dam Yough House. Bedrooms were divvied up. And Colette settled in while Martha and I headed out for a bike ride. The mountain air was brisk and clear. The breeze made any thoughts of maintaining a decent hairstyle a waste of time and effort. There’s a sense of freedom in giving up the battle to look good.

Once we returned from our ride, we made a grocery list, called and ordered a couple of pizzas, and then Martha and I jumped in my car to do some food shopping. By the time we made it back, the others had arrived. The kitchen counter was laden with goodies. The refrigerator stuffed.

We gathered around the table to share our first meal of the weekend. We also shared a “conference call” with our absentee president Tamara Girardi, who was home with her newborn son. Ah, speaker phones. Technology does come in handy sometimes.

Friday evening, we gathered in the living room for a group critique session. No tears were shed. In fact, I find it amazing how much talent we had in that house.

Somewhere in the course of the evening, I broke out the chocolate wine. Yes, you read that right. Chocolate wine. Think Yoo-hoo on steroids.

At one point I had an idea that was nothing short of genius, if I do say so myself. Chocolate wine in coffee. Don’t laugh. If you haven’t tried it, you really must. It’s like mocha with a kick.

Saturday morning was the start of the workshops. As the presenter, you’d think I didn’t learn anything. But the fact is going over the material in preparation to share it reminded me of some key points I’d forgotten.

And it was extremely gratifying to see my “sisters’” eyes light up when they had an a-ha moment.

We didn’t just “work,” although there was plenty of that. We took walks. I took everyone on a pair of driving tours to the dam and around the town I consider my second home.

Last year, when we were there during the flood, it was hard to show off the place. This year, the weather was perfect and, with the autumn colors in full bloom, Confluence had on her best party dress.

Saturday evening, we walked the short distance to the River’s Edge Café for dinner. Everyone had mellowed nicely by then. Discussion varied from a report on this summer’s manuscript boot camp to “what made you become a writer?” On the walk home, the stars sparkled overhead. Good thing I know my way around, because Confluence doesn’t have street lights. Thankfully, they don’t have much in the way of traffic either.

But when we returned to the house, we made a startling discovery. The keys we had didn’t include one for the front door. Nor did they include one for the deadbolt on the back door, which someone who shall remain nameless (Colette) had latched. No one answered at the phone numbers we had. And Mary Sutton needed to use the facilities.

Which brings me back to the question about how many women crime writers does it take to break into a house?

Mary and her urgent needs motivated us to take action rather than simply wait for the landlords to pick up their phone messages. One plan involved hoisting petite Jennifer Little-Fleck up to the second floor where Martha had left her bedroom window open. Meanwhile, Colette searched the perimeter and found a first-floor window that hadn’t been locked. However, the screen on the outside of it presented something of an obstacle. Martha managed to pry it loose, but couldn’t quite get it all the way out. I jumped in and figured out how to release it from its bindings. Then Martha gave Jennifer a leg up while someone (Colette, I think) held the wooden blind out of the way. Jennifer slid right in and opened the door for us. Lee Ann Dawson was involved in the break-in, too. So that makes six.

And since the weather wasn’t providing any challenges, we now had our annual story to tell to the folks back home.

Sunday morning’s workshop on Social Networking turned into a group discussion with those in the know helping those who wanted to know. We sat down to lunch before saying our good-byes. I think I can truthfully say a good time was had by all. If there were any complaints, I didn’t hear them. 

Over the River...or not

By Annette Dashofy

There’s an odd tradition around the Pittsburgh area. Resistance to crossing a river.

Considering our city sits at the point where the Allegheny River joins the Monongahela River to give birth to the Ohio, and considering the city boasts more bridges than Venice, this is truly a strange problem.

People from the south won’t venture even a mile to the north if it means crossing a bridge. Residents of the North Hills won’t set foot on the South Side because it’s across the river. Or worse, it could mean crossing TWO bridges.

This makes planning events challenging.

Recently, a long-time local resident of one of the southern suburbs was trying to explain this conundrum to a woman who had flown in from North Carolina to put together a symposium in Pittsburgh. “Well,” my local friend said, “you can’t have it in the South Hills because people in the North Hills won’t attend. They’ll have to cross a river.”

The poor lady from North Carolina was flabbergasted. She was willing to fly all this way for the event, but Pittsburghers wouldn’t drive two miles...if they had to drive over a bridge.

My local friend and I tried to explain as best we could. But to be honest, I don’t get it either. I live west of the city, and I drive into and around downtown, the North Hills, the East End, the West End, the South Hills and the South Side (two different places, different side of the mountain) with no qualms. I cross big bridges and little rickety ones. No problem.

My parents were cityphobic. It wasn’t the bridge (at least I don’t think it was) so much as it was traffic patterns. In Pittsburgh, if you make a wrong turn, you’re screwed. We don’t have city blocks. We have triangles. And lots of one-way streets. And quite a few streets that end because someone at some point planted a building there. But the same street will pick up again a few blocks away. Or should I say, a few triangles away.

Even my GPS short circuits in Pittsburgh.

This cityphobia was the reason I became so proficient at driving over the bridges and into the city. If I wanted to do anything in town, I had to drive.

Now my husband has joined the bandwagon. He refuses to cross a bridge. So if I want to take advantage of all the goodies Pittsburgh has to offer, I have to drive.

Can someone in the city explain to me exactly WHY people here won’t cross a bridge? And for those of you who live elsewhere, does your town have any such quirk regarding travel?  

Boot Camp Post Mortem

by Annette Dashofy

After a little over a month of high intensity writing, rewriting, critiquing, and more rewriting, our summer critique boot camp has ended. It was…challenging.

Yes, I have been known to understate things at times.

We all took our turns hearing stuff about our work that we quite frankly didn’t want to hear. We all took our turns looking dejected and shell shocked. More than once I witnessed fellow Stiff Martha Reed beating her head on the table.

(Don’t feel bad, Martha. I just waited until I got home to beat my head, but it definitely happened)

Personally, I think it was one of the best experiences of my writing career. A game changer. One of those pivotal moments. When we look back, I suspect we will judge our writing progress as “before boot camp” and “after boot camp.”

One of the many, many things I took away from the experience was the knowledge that I CAN write under pressure. I CAN tell family and friends “no” so I can concentrate on an assignment and a deadline.

Of course, I’ve done this before, but not on such a grand scale. Twenty-five to fifty pages PER WEEK? Daunting. But doable.

However, now that it’s over I have to figure out if I can continue that pace. So far the answer would seem to be NO. The problem in my household is that all the stuff I was saying “no” to during boot camp is still there. I just pushed it aside for a while. For five weeks, the only non-writing things I did were cooking and laundry. Doctors’ appointments, Avon business, emails, record keeping, and other assorted tasks that I’m responsible for all got put off. Put off. Not eliminated.

You know how you come home from vacation and have three times more work to do to catch up? That’s me, but without the benefit of the vacation.

So I’m facing my responsibilities this week and next, while trying to save chunks of writing time each day. And I hope that once I catch up, I can get back into that 25 to 50 pages a week routine.  

What If

by Annette Dashofy

Yesterday, as Hubby and I drove home from Camp Dashofy in Confluence, we entertained ourselves with a game of What If.

What If should be familiar to writers. We ask ourselves what if such and such happened and then create an entire novel around the premise. Since I’m in Frenzied Rewrite Hell, I’ve been playing What If a lot recently. What if this character wasn’t a stranger to that character, but was an old friend? How would that change the story? Would it improve it? YES! Time for more rewriting.

As for Hubby and I, we went through our usual list of What Ifs including what if money were no object, what kind of car would you buy? What if money WERE an issue and something happened to my car, what kind of car would I replace it with? Argh! I love my car. I didn’t like that one.

Hubby threw a new one at me inspired I suppose by a recent viewing of The Bucket List. And since I’m in Frenzied Rewrite Hell and can’t think of anything else to blog about, I’m going to pose it to you.

What if you knew you were going to die and money was no object, what one thing would you do?

My answer was easy. I’d go out West. Colorado. Wyoming. Rocky Mountain High and all that. When I turned the question on Hubby, he replied that he was going with me and taking his fly rod.

Your turn. Money is no object. You only get one shot at this Bucket List. What one thing would you do with your remaining time on earth?

This Old Manuscript

by Annette Dashofy

Have you ever taken on a project or a job or a task that you knew from the get-go was going to be way too much work and take way too much time?

No, I’m not talking about being a conference coordinator, although that definitely falls into the category.

A few months back, my friend Nancy Martin proposed a summer project for six local writers. A critique boot camp. Four measly weeks, mid July to early August, during which we each pledged to submit 25 to 50 pages each week and give thorough, written critiques of the other five members’ submissions. In theory, that’s potentially 250 pages to read and comment on, in addition to our own writing.

I jumped on it very much the same way I jumped on the conference coordinator gig four years ago. These things always sound so far in the future that I’m certain I’ll have all sorts of time by then.

It’s a form of insanity. I’m convinced of it.

Also, in my defense, at the time we were planning this, I was going to run a completed manuscript through it…one that I had ready to start submitting.

Then, one week before our first submission deadline, I received one of my older manuscripts back from an agent I’ve been working with. It came with two pages of editorial notes and lots of comments in the margins. In other words: a lot of revision work to do.

I considered taking the easy way out. Stick to Plan A and use the polished manuscript for the boot camp. But I didn’t want to put off revising the one that had sparked an agent’s interest, especially since she’s put an awful lot of time, thought and effort into it. Plus, I’d be a fool to skip the chance to receive feedback on it from these five other writers, all of whom I respect immensely. It would be like tackling a complete home renovation alone when the THIS OLD HOUSE team was ready and willing to assist.

So I’ve been in panic-stricken revision mode for the last several weeks. I’ve turned down lunch invitations, put off doctor’s appointments… Heck, I even passed up a lucrative paying job (not a writing one) in order to focus on rewriting and revising This Old Manuscript.

We had our first meeting this past Sunday. The feedback was invaluable, as I knew it would be. But it also showed me that I need to revise my revisions. Again. How many times have I rewritten Chapter Two over the years? I’ve lost count.

Our next submission deadline is TOMORROW. Will I have at least 25 pages?

I keep thinking of Jonathan Maberry, who completed a manuscript DURING the Pennwriters Conference this year. In the middle of the bar. Between workshops and keynote speeches. All to meet his deadline the day after the conference ended.

So, YES. Between writing blogs, teaching yoga, and giving a mini-workshop for a Pennwriters meeting. I will have at least 25 pages by tomorrow.

Feel free to demand to know my progress as the day wears on. But don’t be surprised if I disappear for great stretches of time. 

The Monster in the Dark

By Annette Dashofy

Last week can only be described as “interesting.” If you don’t read my Writing, etc blog or follow my mayhem on Facebook, you may want to go here to catch up a little. Go on. I’ll wait.

Okay, so now you know I’m working my way through the trifecta of colonscopy, scratched cornea, and cat bite, all within a two-day period.

First, let me say that my foot is healing nicely, and Moochie cat is snoozing comfortably in my basement, showing no symptoms of rabies so far. But we’re only on day four of the ten-day quarantine. I’m a little like the guy who jumps out of the 50-story building and, as he passes the twenty-fifth floor window, can be heard saying, “Nothing’s happened YET.”

Besides providing a ton of research material for a future story (I swear, you have to complete more reports for an animal bite than for a gunshot wound!), the experience has made me think about other aspects of fiction writing. Motivation. Ticking clock. Deep-seated terror.

I’ve been a farm girl all my life. I’ve been bitten and scratched and kicked more times than I care to mention. So my initial reaction to this bite was blasé. Other than the stream of curse words I directed at the culprit, of course. I had plans for the weekend and figured if I wasn’t healing by Monday, I’d go to the doctor. But as the day wore on and my foot ballooned into a painful, crimson lump, I became strongly motivated to take more immediate action. Words like “blood poisoning,” “septicemia,” and the dreaded “rabies” started rolling around in my brain.

For me the big one was the “R” word.

The first horror flick I ever saw as a kid was a movie by the title of “Old Yeller.” Okay, some of you may not consider it to be in the horror category, but for me? Lifetime emotional trauma. We saw it at a drive-in theater and I spend a large portion of the evening on the floor of the car, hiding.

I also have very vivid memories of an episode of Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman where one of the characters contracted the disease. I’ve blocked out the details in my mind, but I can attest that it further traumatized me. I’m not a germaphobe, but the ideas of  “no cure” and “always fatal” scare the bejeezus out of me.

Forget my modest fear of needles. Give me the damned shots before it’s too late.

Hence the ticking clock. I remember all those news stories about pleas from family members. If you happen to see this particular dog or cat, please let us know so our loved one won’t have to undergo those dreaded shots. And it has to be done SOON.

All this played out in my mind Friday night (can you say “sleep deprived”?) into Saturday morning. And as I sat on the bed in the emergency department having an I.V. jammed into my arm, the urgency of the doctors, nurses, and techs fed my fear. I was told if I had followed my original plan to wait until Monday, they’d have been admitting me.

Staff members bustled in and out, asking questions about the cat, taking reports, making phone calls.

I’ve had family members get less attention for a heart attack.

With the antibiotics dripping into my veins, the threat of infection seem to be quelled. But that ticking clock continued to run. We needed to catch the cat ASAP.

Now, some municipalities may have facilities to keep quarantined animals. It turns out my little rural township doesn’t. So confining the little furry perpetrator became my responsibility.

Moochie is happily serving out his term in my basement. Unless he shows symptoms before next Tuesday, I’m safe. And even if he does, I’ll know about it and be able to get treated. So for me and this episode, the panic has passed.

But it’s made me think about what strikes terror in our hearts? What motivates us to take action when we’d really rather be camping? For me, the monster in the dark wasn’t a…well…a monster in the dark. It was the memory of a scary childhood movie. The fear of certain, painful death if left ignored. The idea that a small, furry pussycat could be the harbinger of disaster.

How can we put these ideas into our stories? Not by remaking Old Yeller. But by making the threat to our protagonist something seemingly innocuous. By finding something that is so terrifying that it can’t be ignored.

What is your monster in the dark?

Word Count Woes

by Annette Dashofy

In recent weeks, I’ve become more and more aware of daily word/page counts. Specifically, those of my fellow writers versus my own.

At the Pennwriters Conference, Jonathan Maberry was pressing to meet a Monday morning deadline. He kept updating us on his progress. The man’s productivity is staggering. I’m in awe.

Ramona has a group over on Facebook called How Many Pages Have You Written Today? We boast our accomplishments, cheer each other on. And we can see who’s pumping out large quantities of prose and who’s struggling with each and every word.

Which has started me wondering. Why do some of us whip out 2,500 (or more!) words a day and other celebrate when we manage 500 or 1,000?

Being a more regular member of the latter group, I can count off myriad excuses. Hubby needing fed. Both of us needing clean clothes. Killer dust bunnies taking over the house. (Okay, if you’ve been to my house, you can stop laughing. I do on rare occasions clean.) Mom’s doctors’ appointments. Yoga class. Et cetera, et cetera.

But there are hundreds of productive writers out there, who have family obligations and FULL TIME jobs, who still outpace me. Even when I have an entire day (or two) to write, I rarely seem to put up huge numbers. I have. But not usually.

So I’ve come up with a new excuse…er…reason for it, and I wanted to test it out on you kind folks.

Here it is: I write mysteries.

And as such, my fiction has to be truer than reality. Who was it who said, “The difference between reality and fiction is that fiction has to make sense”?

Also, can the question mark come after the quotation marks in the previous sentence, or must it be inside them? Stuff like that stops me cold and sends me running for my books on style and grammar.

Just like the situations I create in my fiction send me running to my resources in search of authenticity. Would a police officer really react the way I’m imagining? Can a paramedic legally respond that way at a crime scene?

I can’t just imagine it and write it. I have to make sure every scene is correct.

Plus, since I’m writing mysteries, I’m creating puzzles. With clues that must be fairly and discretely tucked into the story. I spend a lot of my “writing time” thinking about the plot. Who did what and why? In all fairness, I spend a lot of NON writing time doing this, too. Doing laundry is prime time for sorting out glitches.

So I want to pose a question to all the writers out there. Do you think writing mysteries is a slower process than…say science fiction or fantasy where the author determines what’s accurate for their own particular world? Or romance where the author’s heart leads the story. (Yes, I know there is research to be done in other genres, too.)

And if you are an especially prolific mystery (or other genre) writer, please brag about your numbers here. I’ll try to keep my weeping to a minimum. 

More Pennwriters Memories

by Annette Dashofy

My dear friend Paula Matter sent me an SOS yesterday, asking me to fill her blogging slot for today. With it being last minute, I decided to simply dig into more of my photos from the Pennwriters Conference. Today's selection has a theme: Socializing. Schmoozing. Hanging with friends. Whatever you call it, there was a lot of it going on.

 In the Hospitality Suite Friday, Nancy Martin sits and chats with Catherine McLean and Ramona Long.

At Friday's keynote dinner, Pittsburgh area Pennwriters Stephanie Claypool, Cheryl Williams, and Carol Moessinger catch up.
                                   
                                       
 And Lee Ann Dawson, Candace Banks, Working Stiffs' Martha Reed get better acquainted.

The networking continued at Saturday's lunch.

Heidi Ruby Miller and Jason Jack Miller were two of the authors participating at the book signing.

CJ Lyons and Becky Levine took part in it as well.

Pennwriters President Carol Silvis and Sandi Hahn share drinks and a laugh at Saturday night's cocktail party.

 Fellow Working Stiff Joyce Tremel (on the right) chats with a new friend .

Two Davids: D.L. Wilson and Dave Freas.

Fred Connor, Don Jodon and Mercedes Goldcamp hang out at in the Hospitality Suite before Sunday's closing ceremonies.

Two Peggys and a Dave with a ton of tickets for the basket raffle.

So while the conference was a place to learn about craft and career, it was also a place to hang out with other writers, compare notes, and cheer successes. At Pennwriters, we're all family.

Pennwriters Conference Report

by Annette Dashofy

I've decided that past conference coordinators make the best...or at least happiest...conference attendees. We know how much work goes into putting one of these things on, so we appreciate every moment.

We're also thrilled beyond belief that we don't have to do it this time!

All the credit for the huge success of the 2011 Pennwriters Conference goes to Julie Long and Meredith Cohen. They did a fantastic job planning and running this event. BRAVO

And I thoroughly enjoyed every last minute of it. From the wonderful workshops (although a clone would have been nice, since I could only attend one at a time and there were sooo many choices!) to the delicious food (back to the treadmill for me) to the funny and inspirational keynotes, it was a weekend to remember. Plus, how fun to get to see all my Pennwriters friends!

Friday morning I attended the Perfect Pitch workshop with agent Rachel Vater Coyne. The room was packed. Fellow Working Stiff Joyce Tremel and I huddled in the back of the room and took notes. After sharing her suggestions on what makes a good pitch, Rachel opened the floor to anyone wanting to "practice." Her comments on what worked and what didn't were invaluable.

Next, Joyce and I assisted former Working Stiff Tamara Girardi in a hands-on "Twitter for Twits" workshop. (By the way, feel free to follow me on Twitter. I'm @Annette_Dashofy.)

Next came lunch. This was the first year I qualified for the Published Penns Retreat. What an honor to be included in the company of so many talented and successful writers and to listen in on a fascinating discussion of the publishing industry and the changes going on in it. Basically, the business is in such a state of transition, it probably changed three times during the course of the luncheon!

In the afternoon, I attended my friend Becky Levine's workshop on Growing a Critique Group. I picked up quite a few tidbits and ideas to share with my own critique groups.

Friday night is always a big one at the Pennwriters Conference and this one was no exception. The lovely and talented Jacquelyn Mitchard was our keynote speaker and shared a bit of her life story with us. What an inspiration.

Saturday, for me, was agents agents agents. First I attended "The Author-Agent Relationship with former Working Stiff and dear friend Nancy Martin.

That's fellow Pennwriter Stephanie Claypool introducing Nancy, by the way.

Next came "The Do's and Don'ts of Finding an Agent with agent Victoria Skurnick. After lunch, I attended the Agent Panel with all our visiting agents.

Lastly, there was the stand-up comic duo of C.J. Lyons and agent Barbara Poelle in "Welcome to the Jungle."

In the midst of all that, came one of the true highlights of the weekend. The Saturday lunch. First, Ayleen Stellhorn (2008 and 2010 Pennwriters Conference Coordinator) won the meritorious service award.

Then Jonathan Maberry presented an entertaining and uplifting luncheon keynote speech that drove the entire audience to their feet in applause.

After the workshops, there was a book signing event. Ramona Long and I didn't "officially" take part, but we held court at one of the tables and gleefully signed copies of Fish Tales for anyone who asked.

We might have mugged a few people walking by, too, if we happened to spot someone with the anthology tucked under their arm.

Later, I attended the cocktail party. By then everyone (including me) was on the verge of slipping into conference coma. But it was nice to schmooze a bit.

That's me with Jonathan.

Afterwards, our Sisters in Crime gang sneaked off to dinner and took Ramona Long and C.J. Lyons with us. It was a chance for a little bit of quieter conversation.

Sunday, I have to confess, I was done. And I wasn't alone. There were a lot of glassy eyes and slack jaws evident. I didn't even attempt to attend any more  workshops. I was brain dead. Fried. Jonathan Maberry's zombies had nothing on me. So I just hung out in the Hospitality Suite and networked AKA schmoozed until closing cermonies and the basket raffle.

Some people, like my friend Peggy Hauser, buy a LOT of tickets.

I didn't win the writer's retreat that I REALLY wanted. But I did win a more practical prize: a folding cart on wheels that was stuffed with books and office supplies.

If you missed this conference, make plans now to attend the 25th anniversary Pennwriters Conference next year in Lancaster. I know I'll be there!

Oakmont's Festival of Mystery

By Annette Dashofy


Monday, the mystery world came to Oakmont, PA.

Every year, Mystery Lovers Bookshop plays host to fifty or so authors for the Festival of Mystery. I’m not sure how many of these I’ve volunteered at, but it’s been a few. The event is always a ton of fun and thoroughly exhausting for everyone involved.

My role each year is author escort. Since I live in the vicinity of the airport, I pick up anyone staying in one of the airport hotels and drive them to and from the Festival. This year, I only had one author for the inbound trip: Aileen Baron.

I loved hearing her tales of misadventures during her travels.

First stop was the Oakmont Library for the tea. It’s a chance for authors and librarians to mix and mingle and schmooze a bit. It’s also an opportunity to clown around a little.

Nancy Martin catches some antics on film. (Okay, so who uses film anymore? But it doesn’t sound the same to say “on digital.”)

Pittsburgh ladies of mystery Kathryn Miller Haines, Kathleen George, and Heather Terrell strike a pose.

And Heather chats up Richard Goldman of Mystery Lovers Bookshop.

Next, we headed a few blocks away to the Greek Orthodox Church for the Festival. While I wasn’t a “scheduled author,” I did get sign copies of Fish Tales: the Guppy Anthology along with my fellow Fish Talers Beth Groundwater…

…and Daryl Wood Gerber AKA Avery Aames, who came to the Festival with laryngitis and fresh from winning the Agatha Award for Best First Novel.

Also in attendance was another Agatha winner, the radiant Mary Jane Maffini.

And the wonderful Cara Black.

A lot of Working Stiffs and friends were in attendance. Joyce Tremel (darn it, we didn’t get a group photo AGAIN), Paula Matter, Martha Reed, Tamara Girardi, Laurie Kassim, Alan Orloff, Kathy Sweeney… I know I’m forgetting someone and should be tarred and feathered for my lousy memory. Karen Maslowski (who looks EXACTLY like her Facebook photo!) made the long trek to attend.

The Fish Tales display was set up on the bar, so I hung out there all afternoon. In other words, I was easy to find. MaryAlice Meli and Candace Banks, two of my critique buddies, showed up and asked me to sign their copies.

So did my dear friend Marianne Skiba (who has known me longer than just about anybody, knows all my dark secrets, and still likes me!).

Afterwards, we all headed back to the book store for the annual pizza party. We were looking a little frayed around the edges by then, so I have no photos.

The drive back to the airport area was “cozy.” Besides Aileen, Rosemary Harris, Vicki Doudera, and Laura DiSilverio joined me for the ride. I borrowed my mom’s car because the backseat has a smidgeon more room than my Saturn Ion’s does. But it was still tight. Good thing we all get along!

It was a wonderful day. My first author event as a semi-official author. Thanks to Mary Alice and Richard of Mystery Lovers for another Festival to remember.

And here’s a closing shot of the Fish Tale gals.