Late Bloomer

Ode to a sinus infection

2012-01-28T17:48:00.000-05:00

There was a little Neti pot
Its spout was cold as ice

They promised it would heal my world
But all I found was vice

I gathered up my courage
I swore I wouldn't flip

But all I found was evil
As my nose began to drip

Well I've had better Januarys. I've spent the last few weeks in a sinus infection-induced haze of vertigo and cold meds and it has made me make a few questionable choices such as sending off a ghost story instead of a more historical piece (will be remedied this weekend) and buying a truckload of essential oils to make my hair grow long and lustrous. Right now I smell like a field of flowers barfed on my head.

Promotion for the Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide is kicking into full gear, I have a meeting next week to bandy ideas about with Sourcebooks. My husband is ready to market the heck out of the chicken ghost on the Today Show though I'm trying to talk him out of sewing a rooster waddle onto a ski mask and frightening children in the crowd. We're planning on hitting the plaza in late May/early June so stay tuned for us being drug away by New York's finest on camera.

Remember the Ghost in a Jar auction on eBay years ago? It launched a thousand tiny cottage industries with t-shirts and spin-offs. How does something so silly get so out of hand? Genius, my friend. I wish I had thought of it. Maybe Bryan's onto something?

How Daniel Craig is helping my writing process

2012-01-10T15:50:00.002-05:00

Last night, as I was feverishly wading out of an inner earinfection and rampant vertigo, I started concentrating on my next project toget my mind off of falling out of bed. It occurred to me that the process forfiction may be broken down into manageable chunks, or in this case – hunks.

Ergo:

Any questions? Naturally there's more to good writing than just staring at a perfectly formed man and... what was I saying? Anyway, Mr. Craig will be soon be framed and hung (hush now) over my ~~bed~~ monitor in case I need a little inspiration.

Which part of the body are you on in your manuscript?

Spirit Closets, haunted dolls and the Psychic Ghost Theatre

2011-12-30T12:05:00.001-05:00

A few years ago, my husband and I joined friends for a night filled with mystery, spine-tingling adventure and something to do with bugs. At least that's what they promised. They also dangled a Spirit Closet in front of me - how could I resist? We arrived late to the theater, the second-story of a magic shop outside of Washington, D.C., and scooted up the stairs to find the front room filled with about a dozen other theatergoers. We shuffled our way into the narrow back room as I ran over fire safety pamphlets in my head since there was only one way in and one way out. Two long sets of theater chairs were set up stadium-style, facing a desk and the spirit closet - a freestanding set of four curtains on PVS pipe hanging around a chair, a length of rope and some musical instruments.

I've had a mild fascination with Spirit Closets for years and if you've been reading the blog for long, it probably wouldn't surprise you to hear that I tried to rig one up as a teenager to figure out how mediums channeled their livlihoods from ectoplasm oozing out their noses and how they... let me explain.

Spirit Closets developed under the hand of the Davenport Brothers in the mid-19th century after their father discovered they could mimic the sounds made by the Fox Sisters earlier that decade. Seeing this as a sign to develop the boys’ talents further, the boys were trained as illusionists, using the spirit guide or control of a ghost of a man called John King.

King would assist the brothers in their nationwide act of using a Spirit Closet or Cabinet Séance. According to witnesses, the men would be bound hands and feet while seated on a bench in a large cabinet, measuring six feet by two feet balanced on two sawhorses off the floor. During the séance, the brothers closed the doors of the cabinet and within minutes were free to the amazement of the crowd. They then re-entered the cabinet and after the doors were shut and the lights dimmed for effect, the doors opened by assistants to reveal both men tied up. To make things even more interesting, the assistants would then place musical instruments such as a guitar and a tambourine in the Spirit Closet and the doors shut again. Almost immediately afterwards, music would be heard coming from the box played by King.

The Davenport Brothers would invite skeptics to join them in the box but only if they agreed to be tied up as they were for their own protection from the spirits. One man reported feeling ghostly fingers run over his body while he sat in the dark box and music played around him.

Later mediums adapted the act to include "manifestations" of ghosts by having them appear as ectoplasmic residue, some of which looked earlier like cheesecloth ---ooooh, and ghostly limbs appearing from their variations of the Spirit Closet.

So.

I waited in great anticipation for the magicians to hop to it and get to the good stuff, wading through an hour of mediocre magic tricks and one excellently bad haunted doll that moved down a hallway via strobe light and really really loud music. The lady down the row from me wouldn't stop giggling though I suspect now it was more from nervousness rather than mirth since she kept grabbing my brother-in-law. After brief periods of darkness where we'd be tickled with feathers and slapped in the face with a wet sponge - yes, I paid a ticket for this - we got to the cabinet.

One of our friends was chosen to accompany the magician so as he tied her to the chair before the curtains closed, I watched for any leaking ectoplasm or heads up for extra, well, heads. As the he disappeared from sight after closing the curtains on her demand before she went into her trance, music started. A clamor of trumpets and cymbals, and I think even a whistle, erupted from inside the makeshift Spirit Closet. Clothing flew from the top of the curtains and there was great shaking inside as if Chris had himself been taken over by an unseen force and coerced into its paranormal boogie. He pulled back the curtains to reveal the magician still tied to her chair, yet now wearing his jacket and still deep in the trance state. Back went the curtain, more shaking and trumpets, and again open to reveal her in another state of trace-like serenity, only now missing items of clothing. I had to wonder what kind of show I'd signed us up for at that point.

The act ended with her at last being released from her paranormal spell and the audience being ushered out with an invitation to buy a t-shirt and a mini-Snickers.

I freakin' loved that place and yes, I bought the t-shirt.

Flaming Ice Cream Snow Balls of Doom

2011-12-24T10:09:00.000-05:00

Holiday traditions for my family are pretty much the same as others: hiding the Christmas pickle in the tree, smashing a peppermint pig for luck and losing at least one child at the National Tree in DC. My mother had a different tradition - trying to kill us. Not in a violent, I-hate-you kind of way, more of a I-love-you-so-why-won't-you-eat-this-delcious-oh-my-god-you're-choking kind of way. Every year, she'd dig into the back of Safeway's freezer and find a lone box of Flaming Ice Cream Snow Balls to give her five children on Christmas Eve. We loathed them. But it's your mother so you nut up and bite into the freezerburn and waxy buildup after the candle has dripped into the shredded coconut.

Oh yeah.

You want one, don't you.

Since my mother is 3000 miles away, I'm making a fresh modified version of these for my five children tonight in her honor. Meh. Nostalgia is a powerful thing. ;)

Recipe: http://icecreamjournal.turkeyhill.com/index.php/2007/12/16/recipe-ice-cream-snow-balls

Merry Christmas!

Image credit: Turkey Hill

Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs : Review

2011-12-01T16:53:00.001-05:00

It’s the photographs that first grab you. Strange andbeautiful, Riggs has assembled a collection of vintage pictures of children invarious stages of weird for his best-selling debut novel with Quirk Books. It’s a bit likedigging through history to find the misfits time has shuffled away in a box.Shoved under the bed and forgotten, Riggs brings the photos and the story ofthe bizarre orphanage back into the light, weaving history through itsfingers and tangling the truth about their origins.

After the murder of his grandfather and doubting his ownhold on reality, Jacob travels to a remote island off the coast of Wales. Followingonly scant information about the whereabouts of the orphanage and wild tales he’dheard as a child from his grandfather, Jacob becomes involved in the lives ofthe children that time forgot. As their existence is threatened, Jacob has adecision to make: return home to the family who doesn’t understand him orremain with the Peculiars.

An adventure story with more than a hint of menace,MISS PEREGRINE’S HOME FOR PECULIAR CHILDREN brings out the best in a youngadult novel: suspense, a tiny bit of romance, and characters you can’t wait toread more about. I look forward to Riggs’ next installment.

Note: Yep, this will be given to a truckload of tweens/teens for Christmas. Amazon is ho-ho-hoing already.

Update: Book trailer

So what kind of writer are you, anyway?

2011-11-20T10:12:00.001-05:00

I get this question a lot. Well-meaning strangers or fellow writers that love to chat over plot holes give me a minute to stumble over what I hope sounds like something intelligent.

"Er, children's nonfiction, short stories and zombies. And humor. And some ghost stories."

"Okay, but how's your novel going?"

"I'm not a novelist, that's too much hard work." I steel myself for their look of either pity at my inability to write real literature or confusion. Why would anyone want to write nonfiction, much less humor? I get a slight smile, they tell me about their novel and then they move on.

With three books coming out next spring and me playing the "one of these things ain't like the other" genre game, I can see why I trip over my tongue when asked to explain what I do. Some agents and writing websites tell us not to spread ourselves thin - stick to one genre and beat that horse until it dies, taking your career along with it. Since I have the attention span of carpet fluff, I don't mind developing one writing career alongside another. The Zombie Tarot and picture books? Why not? Ghosts and humor columns? Load me up. I have a bad case of "You're not the boss of me's" and will muddle through.

My current projects are horror-based though I can't write a straight scary piece to save my life. There will be plenty of humor mixed in with the lite gore, satisfying two audiences. Those curious enough to see who I've carved up in an ice hotel and those wanting to see how snarky I can get while doing it.

So what kind of writer are you?

What's on your resume?

2011-11-19T17:52:00.001-05:00

I've been contacted by a few television programs lately, in reference to an article I wrote years ago on haunted objects. They weren't looking for me, they were looking for the fellow I was chatting about and his interesting collection of items that wandered, thumped and made themselves a general nuisance. He and I have lost touch and while I did earnestly try to find his contact information to pass along it occurred to me that I have as much paranormal experience as he did - maybe more.

I don't have a snazzy collection of haunted objects but I do have twenty years of sitting in attics and waiting for a boo. I have shadow people flitting around my house regularly (just saw another one while chatting on the phone with a friend last week), hear my name called out clearly at night while my husband sleeps, and have found myself wandering the house in the dark searching for... something - in the middle of the night. Haunted? Perhaps. Then again, it could just be indigestion.

So, at this last request, I offered my advice on their subject matter and may be showing up as a contributor/consultant on a future broadcast. It's time to expand my resume, my friends. What are you an expert in that you haven't claimed yet?

Get yer #NaNo buttons here!

2011-10-23T14:15:00.000-04:00

Everyone needs a little shove over the cliff to join NaNo, spruce up your blog with these handy buttons I whipped up. MLs, feel free to use as incentive/threats for your region!

Click on the graphic then right-click on it and save to your hard drive.

Victorian Halloween costumes with a dash of WTF

2011-10-14T16:56:00.000-04:00

I'm fascinated by early photography but not the "Look! A landscape!" photos or stiffly posed people, I like a little WTF to make it sassy. Since Halloween is about as messed up as you can get and not be arrested, I've combined the two with my favorite pics from the late 19th century - early 20th century.

What the ?

Pendulum ghosts

2011-10-09T21:54:00.000-04:00

I talked the 14-year-old into posing for pendulum photos and a video tonight. It wasn't easy since it had nothing to do with Jaden Smith or Justin Beiber but I lied and told her they totally loved pendulums and talking to dead people. Er, right. She eventually sat down and swung that bad thing like a pro but we didn't have luck in answering questions more burning than:

"Will I become a famous ecologist and live on a submarine with my dog, Pablo?"

and

"Do ghosts really like cheese and have they seen my glasses?"

The answer to both questions was stillness. Meh, we'll try again tomorrow. As for the video, it's trapped on my phone because of size. Any suggestions?

October crept in early one morning, stuck its finger up my nose and demanded waffles

2011-10-02T11:22:00.001-04:00

circa 2004

Okay, it was Vyolette. But the month of October waits for no woman in the Graham household. The girls are already busy designing costumes, plotting tricks on unsuspecting neighbors and mapping out trick-or-treating routes like pros. We've slowed down the festivities, no one has drug out the skellies yet to hide in the trees but I suspect it won't be long now.

I'll be making peanut butter eyeballs for Kindergarten and teaching five-year-olds how to throw random body parts in a bucket for prizes. I get to tell them ghost tales and poems from those little stories I never got around to submitting and make brain cakes and zombie cupcakes for friends.

Now for the big people. I've decided to do my own version of the 13 Days o'Halloween and write up 13 true ghost stories for Wee Ghosties in the last half of the month. My writers are getting into the spirit at An Army of Ermas by dipping their toes into my world with their own ghost stories every Monday/Wednesday/Friday, be sure to check their spooky selves out.

So what are you doing for Halloween? Dressing up and going out or being witch bait?

The real reason for Facebook #boybands

2011-09-22T17:07:00.002-04:00

Once in a great while, I get a little off track while writing. Usually it involves sobbing to myself in a corner while clutching a novel of Jane Austen's and bemoaning my lack of talent but occasionally it features my very good friend, Melanie Hooyenga.

Yesterday, while diligently writing a short story for an upcoming anthology, I posted this on twitter and facebook:

Listening to boy bands before I bludgeon a bride in an ice hotel. #Iwantitthatway

It turned into this:

Screw google+, long live facebook!

Image credit: Melanie and facebook

I'm not good with rodents.

2011-09-15T11:39:00.000-04:00

The other night I heard the bathroom door creak open while I brushed my teeth and in crept a tiny mouse.

I did several brave things:

1- screamed like my hair was on fire

2- tried to climb on top of the counter and into the sink so it wouldn't climb up my pajama bottoms then into my hair thus into my ear and eat my brain

3- drooled toothpaste while screaming

4- thought what the R#R# is a mouse doing opening doors that are a bazillion times heavier than itself? I clearly have a herculean beast scurrying about

My naked, long suffering, husband groggily got out of bed minutes later to make sure I wasn't having a seizure but the mouse had already gone, flipping me off as he scampered away because I was making such a racket.

I'm a bit of a worrywart

2011-09-11T11:16:00.002-04:00

Photo credit: piddix.blogspot.com

I was an active yet clumsy child so spent a majority of my time in arm casts, recovering from knee surgery or in full leg braces. Thus, my spidey-sense is on high alert whenever my children attempt anything remotely dangerous, say... opening an olive jar without proper eye protection.

"Careful! The olive juice is highly caustic and can cause blindness!" I would yell out.

"Mom, it's olives floating in water. Relax, would you?" My four-year-old is a mouthy little thing.

"Yes but one drop and... I got nothing. Give Mama an olive and stop smirking."

I've read the warning insert in boxes of tampons about Toxic Shock Syndrome every month since I was sixteen, positive that one day I'd be the topic of an after school special on the dangers of absorbency. I'd picture my mother looking distraught while I gasped out my last breath in the hospital room.

"Mom, I know you told me not to use the Super Plus..." I'd start.

"Shhh, darling. That's not important now, but since you mentioned it, didn't you read the inserts?"

I see where my daughter gets it.

We live atop a mountain in the wilds of northern Virginia, fraught with danger as the girls bring home various forms of flora and fauna. Poisonous fungi fill bags in the kitchen next to benign white-capped mushrooms. The eight-year-old studies them intensely but I'm not sure for what purpose. I quietly deposit them into the large kitchen garbage can while she sleeps and tells her the woodland creatures carried them off at night the next morning. She bought that for a while but now I get the "Mom is insane" look and she wanders off for more specimens. The others climb trees, scale woodpiles where I'm sure snakes hide, they're always on the lookout for the fox kits that live on the lane (though they are quite aware of the risks of rabies and stay far away) and sneak toads into the house in small baskets. The little voice that tells them to be cautious? The one ever-present in my head but not theirs? It's at Disney World without protective headgear.

I'm sure they get this from their father.

Previously featured at An Army of Ermas

Past lives

2011-09-10T12:29:00.001-04:00

Granted, not the most flattering photo of myself but after
three months in the Scottish weather, I'm happy not to have gills.

I didn't start out to be a writer. I messed around with stories in school, teased my friends with snippets of humor bits like I was trying out new material for open mic night at Fat City teen nightclub in Medford, Oregon and then got all serious about college. Broadcasting and eventually archaeology and history won out over any fleeting thoughts of novels and I was lost to rolling around in the soil and meeting fascinating people who thought like I did -- 1,000 years in the past. Fast forward twenty-three years and I'm out of the dirt writing full-time about zombies and ghosts, apparently I can't get away from the dead things. ;)

What did you do before writing or were you always in the groove? If not a writer, what did the 20-year-old you set out to do?

Zombie Zodiac

2011-09-06T14:51:00.000-04:00

Stuck in the bowels of The Zombie Dating Guide was a sassy little number called the Zombie Zodiac. I've liberated it as a companion piece to ZDG to help the Undead find their perfect mate - or at least until the crows pick her apart.

Excerpt:

Sagittarius-

The freewheeling half-dead Sag willdefinitely keep you guessing. They cannever stay in one place for long and have the tendency to wander off so getyour passport ready to travel in search of this elusive lover. You can bet if a Zombie Sag has heard abouta human community ripe for the picking, they will lumber over as fast as theirstumpy little legs can carry them to be a part of the party.

One word sums up a Sag, and that one word issingle minded determination. Yes, Iknow that’s three words, shut up. Whenthey set their near-sighted sights on something or someone, not much can escapeits path without a high-powered rifle. Some call it devotion while others may label it stalking. Depends on the attitude. You can count on a Sag to see a project dueto fruition, making them an excellent choice to go in first if you suspectZombie hunters on the other side of a doorway. Sags are not that bright and usually will not question your request forthem to check out a poorly lit room in the back of the Guns-R-Us store, makingthem the perfect companion for late night Brain runs.

So what's your sign, baby?

The Monday after

2011-08-29T12:15:00.001-04:00

A week of root canals (my second in three weeks), earthquakes, hurricanes and baby bears eating veggie puffs in the back of my truck leaves me skittish as to what this week is going to throw at me. Hopefully it will be filled with kitten videos and unicorn-shaped cookies because I'm developing a twitch.

The girls have left me for more intellectual pursuits, apparently their school board doesn't appreciate the summer activities I planned of zombie staggering and poking ghosts until they giggle. But guess who wants to be in charge of the Kindgergarten Halloween party? Yeah, baby. Deadhead make-up, drooling, cupcake fights. It'll be like my wedding all over again.

I'm headed back into rewrites and edits for the two books for the next few weeks so send care packages. If a zombie answers the door, don't be alarmed - it's just me this time.

Hurricane Granola

2011-08-26T13:13:00.001-04:00

Before we all (east coasters) start running in small circles about Hurricane Irene blowing down our doors, it's time to lock and load on our snack food. Electricity may be out for days, refrigeration will be sketchy, and those pretzels should have been bird food weeks ago so how do you keep your energy up for one more bloody game of Parcheesi? Hurricane Granola. Yeah, baby.

Ingredients:
6 cups oats
1/2 cup almonds
1/2 cup coconut --- it is a tropical storm after all
1/2 cup dried fruit: apricots, pineapple, papaya
3/4 cup honey
3/4 cup veggie oil
2 tsp Vanilla
1 tbsp Pumpkin Pie Spice

Set oven to 300 degrees and mix ingredients in a high-sided pan. Bake for 30 minutes, turning oats every ten minutes. Remove from oven when the dinger goes crazy and turn one more time so it doesn't harden, then let cool.

Store in an airtight and waterproof container on a high shelf until needed as comfort food while the storm gets down with her bad self outside.

Stay safe!

SNAP

2011-08-17T21:01:00.004-04:00

I'm on vacation with the family in the last fleeting days of summer. We've hit the beach, and I, as usual, forgot my camera as Vyo showed of her mad new Frog swimming skills and my husband buried various children in the sand. At least a couple of them were ours, I'm sure.

Dolphin-less Vyo in SoCal

Since I am camera-less, I'm storing memories in the extra storage of my brain. It's not foolproof and I'm sure I'll confuse this vacation with the one from two years ago that involved southern California and farm animals but I'm looking at this as a writer's exercise.

What details can I remember and use later - sunsets, bug bites, humidity and Vyolette wrestling a giant inflatable dolphin in the waves - and what will get filtered out or used as fodder for another story or slide into a column somewhere. Will tiny bits of conversation between the girls enter the mix or have I tuned out everything having to do with pop stars' tattoos and hair dye?

What snapshots of your past excursions will you put into your stories? I see that dolphin showing up somewhere...

In other news:
THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE and THE ZOMBIE TAROT are both with their editors! I'm awaiting their input before the final push at the end of the month to make two shiny new books for next May and June. I'm celebrating writing both books this summer by not drooling onto the keyboard and venturing outside to see that bright thing in the sky.

Getting down, getting funky with Bad Austen

2011-08-03T08:55:00.000-04:00

Ahhh, to be finally recognized as one of the Best of the Worst warms the Austen cockles of my heart. As I'm rounding the bend on THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE and ZOMBIE TAROT this month, BAD AUSTEN coming out in November just makes me happy. Available for pre-order now from Adams Media, get down - get funky with my version of how Marianne and Willoughby really met.

Light bounced off the disco ball like tiny diamonds shattering on the gold lame dress pants hugging the aerobics-toned legs of Willoughby. Long limbed and nimble as a tiger, he prowled the dance floor at the Holiday Inn Scandals in search of a partner, his platform boots clicked on the parquet floor in rhythm to the beat of Donna Summers soulful siren call about the last dance for the desperate and slightly sweaty. Spying the cascading curls of a young woman across the room, he gyrated her way, his intent clear – their hands must touch, their breath to mingle, they must speak each other’s unspoken language.

It's Austen gold, my friend.

A haunting at the Old Chapel? Or just frisky raccoons?

2011-07-17T09:39:00.004-04:00

It started with a creak and a soft slam as I nudged the iron gate closed - almost - closed. The girls and I pulled over to read a historical marker about the Old Chapel in Millwood, Virginia about twenty miles from our house on the way home from a playdate. And since I can't resist a lovely old cemetery, we quickly hopped out of the car and, finding the gates open, passed through them.

The Old Chapel itself dates to 1791, rebuilt in stone after a fire destroyed the former structure, its windows shuttered and painted a dull brown, its door closed to the public and iron doorknob hanging askew. It was unused and set off from the busy road, looked hidden if not forgotten. The cemetery behind it wasn't large but held in its bosom the remains of one of Virginia's early governors and other local dignitaries, it seemed more of an extended family plot, a testament to the close-knit community of rural Virginia. The congregation moved from the building to a larger stone church after they outgrew the Old Chapel in the 1840s so it stands empty except for twice-a-year sermons.

So - back to the story.

I half-pushed the iron gate back to its former position and turned to join Syenna when I heard the scrape of a shutter being closed. The shutters that were already closed on all sides of the building.

"Did you hear that? I thought I heard a shutter?" I said.

"Nah, it's just the gate."

We joined the other two girls in reading dates on tilted stones and enjoying the quiet sunny afternoon on a rare non-humid summer day. The cemetery is well taken care of without being fussy, the grass tickling our feet and a plant or two out of control left years ago by a well-meaning visitor taking over a few graves. A very large tree dominated the churchyard, on closer inspection we saw that it had grown around a stone tower, we still can't figure out what the heck the tower was for (water pump? Indian lookout?).

After about an hour, Wynter and I turned to join the others at the Chapel.

"Mom, I heard music." Vyo, being five-years-old, was very confident. I told her she may have heard it from a passing car but she swore it came from inside the building.

"I told her to knock on the door and see if anyone was there," Syenna said. At fourteen, I knew she wasn't quite as quick to assign phantom music to an old building. "Then we heard a huge crash! I'm surprised you didn't hear it while in the cemetery!"

Well, that got my attention. Birds? Raccoons? The structure looked sound but critters can get in almost anywhere if they have a mind to.

One shutter was loose and we were able to open it to see a cracked window revealing a room devoid of anything but empty pews. So what was knocked over? Who moved the still shutters? And what the heck was making all that racket inside?

Stay tuned, I'm hoping to get a peek inside.

Stop looking at me like that.

2011-07-07T18:34:00.000-04:00

I was a weird kid.

Not the kind that stared down adults until they cried, but if you’ve read my blog and essays at An Army of Ermas, it’s a little obvious that I was a few apples short of a fruit basket. Yesterday, my daughter and I drove past one of those creepy concrete figurine outlets that dot the northern Virginia/West Virginia byways and while she commented on the majestic 15ft fake stone eagle about to soar over the heads of the various concrete woodland creatures that lined the highway, I spotted… Taffy.

I was about eight-years-old and apparently had little to no contact with the outside world, as my best friend became a slate-gray concrete raccoon that stood about two feet high. How my mother was talked into letting me take this thing home is a mystery though I suspect it was just to get me to shut up about how delightful life would be if only I could bring Taffy to school – to the library – to the pool – on road trips…

I had big plans to paint Taffy in bright sunny colors that reflected her inner awesomeness while still holding true to her raccoon heritage because I’m sensitive like that and it was the 70s- every friggin thing was in bright sunny colors and I nearly vibrated with sensitivity (aside from the whole serial killer thing). Taffy remained gray, however, the victim of my mother’s screaming fit as I tried to dump a gallon of leftover paint on top of the raccoon… in the living room, on the new orange shag carpeting. Mothers can be so fussy.

Taffy remained my constant companion for a year or so before she vanished. I don’t like to point fingers but I suspect my mother of misdeeds involving play dates with breathing children and midnight roadside drop-and-dashes at concrete outlets but today all is forgiven. Taffy’s coming home.

Summer reading programs and the book of pissed off bats

2011-07-01T11:32:00.000-04:00

We're big on reading here in the Graham household. I have daughters tucked into corners reading Suzanne Collins' THE HUNGER GAMES series, another devouring Rick Riordan's work and still more writing love tweets to Scott Westerfeld because he's the "best writer in the world" (ahem). I leave them be. The more books they're reading, the fewer times I need to head to the store for snacks and nail polish.

The younger two are stepping up to the literary plate this summer with choices from our local library's summer reading program. Lil was a bit resistant but the librarian talked her into a book on fairy tales and princesses. I think she really wanted one on fashion design and was eyeing the Judy Moodys but she was game. Vyolette, however, stormed into the library on a mission. She's headed to Kindergarten this fall and she would NOT be ignored (que creepy Glenn Close close up).

Librarian: Great! I see you signed up for our program! What would you like to start with? Princesses (spying Lily's book)? How about fairies?

Vyo: Zombies.

Librarian giving me the eye: Oh. I think you're a little young for zombies. They're icky.

Vyo giving her the eye: I think we're done here.

Image credit: tower.com

Vyolette took off, bypassing the racks of books on sweet baby-faced children playing in groups and books on anthropomorphic animals chatting about tea parties when she stopped and chose this -->

Filled with bat facts, bat stories, bat poop and cranky-looking bat photos, she was delighted and carries it around with her in a small bag in case anyone asks a random bat question.

My baby's a chip off the old block...

What's on your summer reading list?

Mine after The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and Zombie Tarot are wrapped up and sent to happy editors:

Persuasion by Jane Austen
Sizzling Sixteen by Janet Evanovich

Super Secret Summer Spy Camp

2011-06-26T10:12:00.002-04:00

No, he wasn't there.
I just enjoy looking at him.
Raaawr

We practiced furtive glances. We rescued hostages. We planned our escape routes and engaged the other spies in epic to-the-death water gun battles... and then we went home and had cake.

Last week I was the camp director for the Girls Scouts' Super Secret Summer Spy Camp. I'm a "go big or go home" kind of girl, so I stuffed it full of spy skills, spy crafts, ninja skills and spy facts. For those of you playing the home game, here's a brief rundown:

Spy crafts

Keyhole Spy Tool
Reverse sunglasses (sunglasses with mirrors inside so they can see in back of them)
Escape scarves
Code cylinders

Spy skills

How to tell if someone is lying
Body language
Spy lingo
Spy team
General sneakiness
Ninja skills
Spy gadgets
Disguises & voice modification
Codes and codebreaking
Spy science
Codenames
Maps
Some lovely literature from the CIA
Fingerprinting and subsequent fingerprint art/bookmarks

Spy games

International telephone (get one secret from one country (tree) to the next without being discovered
Hostage rescue (letterboxing for puppies)
Escape maneuvers (parachutes)
Waterboarding, er, water games
Zombie tag. Come on, you knew I couldn't let a week with 60 girls go by without slipping in the Undead somewhere. ;)

Not bad for a two-hour a day twilight camp, I tuckered those girls out! Double agents were kept to a minimum and a giant family BBQ/pool party rounded out the week but now it's back to zombies and ghosties for me. At least they're quieter...

A big thank you to my staff and my daughters who helped run the camp. Next year: ghost hunting?

What's on tap for the rest of your summer?

Love's Sweet Pickle: More Zombie Poetry

2011-06-18T20:57:00.002-04:00

I was recently asked to perform zombie poetry at a venue in DC. While I turned down the opportunity because I look terrible in a beret, it did get me thinking about something down the road with all these ditties littering my hard drive. Anyone up for a chapbook of Undead poetry?

Some of these have been featured on the Zombie Dating Guide website at the Coffeehouse of the Damned but I'll throw in a few more that may have escaped the shackles.

In honor of Father's Day:

Just a little zombie ditty for you to share with dad
To reminisce & bond over good times that you've had

Chasing down the other kids on the big playground
Your zombie dad, he'd throw a head for your big touchdown

Pushing you on swings was a challenge that he met
His hands would often fall off but he never seemed to fret

He'd laugh a bit and push with stumps a smile on his face
Because he knew had a spare for the three-legged race

A birthday poem:

Just a little zombie song
Though they’re really hard to train
They like to sing falsetto
While munching on your brain

Your eyes pop out their nostrils
And ears come out their cheeks
And all the while your birthday cake
Will fester there for weeks

But fear not, my Undead friend
For they will move along
There’s always someone down the road
To hear their birthday song.

Asunder

Though our hearts are pulled asunder

Through our fights and many blunders

This is what you ought to know

Before you burn my stuff and go

You want to know what’s in my head?
I left it for you under the bed.

Zombie sing-along

Just a little zombie verse
They come around when you've been cursed

They pop up when the end is near
And hope they catch you by the ear

As they nibble, they'll be hummin'
On your intestines, they'll be strummin'

And sing about the one that fled
But luckily they kept his head

Slightly moldy

Two hearts beat as though as one
Dried and putrid but more fun

No one could ever argue with
As zombies share lovers kiss

Slightly moldy, missing toes
The love between them always grows

Chin up, zombie singletons!

    There is no law that the brokenhearted
    Must be withered, and thus departed

    For those who loved and then had lost
    May find again at any cost

    A heart so true, they're quick to heal
    And gain themselves a tasty meal

Love's Sweet Pickle

It's the little things that mean so much

    Like toes and fingers, eyes and such

    But search within for love's sweet call
    As zombies stagger, trip and fall

    They don't give up, though heads are fickle
    A zombie's heart is love's sweet pickle.

Eyebrows fried are quite a dish

    Eyebrows fried are quite a dish
    They make the other zombies wish

    That they had someone to admire
    While they stay away from fire

    The daring of a zombie male
    Competes as other zombies pale

    In feats of stumbling to and fro
    In love matters this they know

    That hearts are fragile as they feel
    They are the finest zombie meal

Stiffies

    Stiffness comes not from the bones
    Nor from our thoughts when we're alone

    It comes when we are separated
    From our loved ones, we are gated

    To stand apart and watch them live
    And ask their beating hearts to give

    One glance our way, one stolen kiss
    One tiny finger they won't miss

    We cannot reach them, no not yet
    But one day soon, those brains we'll get.

Snowflakes

    Snowflakes melt on tongues
    but not the ones in pockets
    zombies saves for snacks

Horace

    There once was a zombie named Horace
    Who thought he would join the new chorus

    His heart all a flutter
    He came down with a stutter

    And now there's no chorus for Horace

The toes, they burn

    Holiday parties
    zombies sniff the cheese tray and
    eat the mistletoe

Care to share your own zombie poem? Coffeehouse snaps are waiting, baby!

Get your own magnetic zombie poetry kit from our friends at buyzombie.com

I did hear a ghost. I did! I did! I did? Caffeine and things that may go bump in the night

2011-06-11T10:31:00.000-04:00

Oh sure. I see you looking at me via the Internet spycams *waves*. I'm knocking back my third cup of coffee and you're thinking, "This woman needs to comb her hair and does she know she still has toothpaste drool on her chin?" Let's put that aside for now. *wipes chin*

La Trobe University in Australia has released a study claiming that participants knocking back copious amounts of coffee (five cups or more a day - child's play) and under stress may hear things that you won't find on Pandora -- like your seventh grade teacher asking for your book report on the worm reproductive cycle. The study asked test subjects to listen to white noise and indicate when 'White Christmas' by Bing Crosby was played. Those with higher levels of caffeine and subjected to more intense stressors (not listed but I'm assuming a five-year-old was involved) were found to boogie to Bing even though the song was never played.

So how does this relate to ghosts? If the investigator is highly focused on finding something - and hopped up on coffee during the night - are they really likely to hear a voice float out from the ether? Or is it the combination of caffeine and the brain making them more susceptible to suggestion?

Or does the caffeine make them more receptive? Hmmmmmm, they didn't cover THAT angle, did they? (not the purpose of the study)

Like any good study, more research is needed. I'll keep you in the loop as always.

Writing is like a 1950s teenage beach flick except with more sex and less friendly dolphins.

2011-06-02T14:46:00.001-04:00

Occasionally I get pulled out of my writing time to do more... writing. Wait. Wha? In this instance, fellow writer and ghost hunting buddy, Susan Utley, asked me to participate in the Box o'Chocolates meme started by her friend, Michelle Simkins.

BoC as explained by Michelle:

Forrest Gump’s momma always said, “Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.” I suppose the same could be said of writing, but . . . since we’re writers, we feel compelled to come up with our own silly comparisons.

Hence the creation of the Box of Chocolates Writing Meme–in which you may compare writing to anything but a box of chocolates.

How does it work? Take the phrase “Writing is like . . .” and finish it. Post it on your blog. Tag three others to do the same. That is all. See how easy that is?

-Michelle Simkins aka Greenwoman.

Susan's phrase was "Writing is like jaywalking. Sometimes you just have to walk outside the lines." Excellent post and yet I went a slightly different route thus mine is:

Writing is like a 1950s teenage beach flick except with more sex and less friendly dolphins.

Let me explain:

You arrive at the beach loaded down with stuff you've been collecting from writing class, workshops, and 3rd grade writing competitions about you and a bear (yes, that was me and I freakin' WON that thing). You set up your tiny spot on the beach and settle down with your glaringly bare notebook or just stare at the waves and dream about the huge royalty checks in the mail.
Suddenly you spy a group of groovy writer chicks and dudes down the beach. They're having fun, frolicking in the waves and want you to join them. Look! They speak Elvish! Some of them have funky hand signals but you'll get the hang of it soon enough and you're cuddling up to a brand new idea torn from the angst of your soul under a blanket and a few too many tequila shots and you're in love. Really, truly, heartbreakingly in love.
After feverish note taking and a few breathless moments after you figure out how the story will reach its peak, you finally get it all down on paper and are ready to share it with your new friends. Some love it to tiny pieces and tell you you're a genius. Others tell you it will never work and you need a real job. But a few brave writers step up and tell you to look out for the dolphins pooping all over your manuscript and how to fix it. They help you reign in the fluffy bits and write tight.
Drama rears its ugly head like the girl you accidentally knocked into the water as you start to send it out to agents and editors. The dolphins are back and they're pissed. Revise! Retreat!
Go back to the beach, eat some toasted marshmallows and re-write, my friend. Begone, dolphins!
Submit, rinse and repeat until- acceptance! Bongos are going crazy in the background and someone has busted out the limbo stick.
Look forward to the bigger dance party with fruity drinks with umbrellas in them.
While you're boogying with your latest idea, don't be surprised to see another hot piece of inspiration at the bar. You'll get to him in a minute...
Go back to the beach the next year with your book in hand and smile at the new writer settling down next to you. When asked, advise them to look out for dolphins and wink at the camera.

To keep in the spirit of the meme, I'm to tag three dolphinless writers:

Oh. My. Oz.

2011-05-24T19:07:00.001-04:00

What the ??

Since I'm up to my neck in ghosts and zombie tarot these days, I thought it appropriate to go completely nutters and share a wee story about how I ruined the Wizard of Oz for a roomful of people. I know there's no correlation, just go with it, I'm on deadline here.

I was a shy teenager. Stop laughing. And new to my high school in Southern Oregon after spending most of my childhood in the San Francisco Bay Area (East Bay, yo) so I thought what better way to make new friends than to show off my pipes in their fancy choir. I was a stupid child. Ever see Glee? Yeah. That's not me. So when the call went out in the regular slum choir, I raised my hand to audition. I was looking forward to choosing the music, bonding with others over our mutual love of song and jazz hands - go with me here - and I was ready to dazzle.

With not a whole lot of time to prepare, I settled on Over the Rainbow. A classic beloved by millions and a real tearjerker. I arrived, sheets in hand and waved off the pianist when she tried to grab them from me. I was going solo. I got this.

Planting my feet firmly apart and taking a deep breath, I shoved my Madonna knock-off plastic bracelets up my arm and belted out the most upbeat, jazziest, hip-swinging, fast tempo rendition of Over the Rainbow that anyone at Hidden Valley High School had ever seen. As the committee looked on in stunned silence at my complete misinterpretation of a classic, I waited for at least one person to stop twitching.

"That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen," one teacher said.

"Did you take a little something before coming in here?" said another. This was a very laid back school...

I think another teacher started crying.

I made it in.

And transferred to an astronomy class two weeks later due to creative difficulties. Go figure.

Sandbox Killer

2011-05-19T09:37:00.000-04:00

From the tender age of four-years-old I wanted to be an archaeologist - or more accurately, someone who found dead things, buried them and then feigned surprise when I found them with their buggy feet in the air in the dirt. It was either archaeology or I was practicing to be a serial killer. My mother, patient woman that she is, watched from the kitchen window as her fourth child scoured the yard (and neighbor's yards) for anything that wouldn't run too quickly away from chubby hands such as worms and dolls. Off to the sandbox or garden I'd scurry like a pirate ready to bury her treasure, sidestepping the swing and trucks littering the landscape, and ready to burrow. At home this didn't turn many heads but it was more challenging at the playground.

"Mom! I found a bug! It's dead (squish), see?"

My mother, knowing what was coming next but not wanting to alarm the other parents would nod and give me the eyeball treatment where she'd wiggle her orbs in a desperate attempt to talk me out of creeping out the other children, while she smiled.

"That's great, Stacey. Why don't we go on the slide?"

"Pfffff." I would run off, looking for the right sandy soil to give it a proper burial. "Mom! Get me a stick! I can dig a hole right here next to this dog poo!" My mother, looking properly mortified would move me away from the offensive spot and distract me into the sandbox.

"Let's make a sand castle. See? Take the bucket, fill it with sand and.... Stacey, get the bug out of the castle."

"But Mom, I can just dig it out later. Then we can take it home and I'll bury it there."

"Let me see what other toys we can find, stay right there." The poor woman crossed the park to our car to check the trunk. I could see her arms flapping and her mouth moving as she practiced what to say to the psychiatrist when they finally drug me in for treatment. By the time she'd returned, she found me happily patting sand inside a plastic bucket.

"Look, Stace, I found a shovel and a... what's that poking out of the bucket?"

"It's a head." Barbie's face didn't betray the indignity of being buried with bug bits up to her neck in sand. Her blonde locks streamed out beside her in a pinwheel of tangles as I carefully combed them clear with my fingers.

"I think it's time to go home," she said with a sigh. With a nod to the mommies that had inched away from us, we gathered up our toys and headed for the car while she mentally mapped another park for future use. We were running out of sand.

Five Guilty Pleasures

2011-05-12T10:14:00.000-04:00

That song is on again. The one with the delicious young man whose thumping backbeat promises that tonight he's woooooooooooo-ing me and for four minutes I've forgotten I'm a middle-aged mother of five. A smokin' hot middle-aged mother of five, mind you, but nevertheless out of his demographic. That jolts me back into remembering Jesse Petersen's meme on Guilty Pleasures so I'm revealing my top five. There are more, indeed, but this is a family-friendly blog. ;)

#5: Enrique Iglesias. Okay, so he's not his panty-waving father and I can't tell you how happy I am not to get squicked out by the sight of that old man on the news anymore making eyes at Willie Nelson during a concert. I'll take the younger version, thank you very mucho. I don't care if his lyrics are uninspired, trite or overly sexual. Sign me up, mama liiiiiiiiiiikes.

#4: Haggis. Not everyone's cup of sheep intestine tea, I love the stuff. While in college, I spent a summer living in the lowlands of Scotland and the B&B owner I stayed with in Dundee took me round town to try every version of the dish. Fried, baked, boiled, you name it - I tried it. My favorite way, however, was while staying with friends in Kirkcudbright where we had a traditional haggis complete with toast to Burns, neeps and tatties, and lighting the thing. Glorious!

#3: Facebook. You love it or you hate it but it's punctured my social life and now I can't go long without it. I've made amazing friends, found new ways to get into mischief and look forward to using it as a future tool for world domination.

#2: Anchorman. I hate this film. I hate it so much that I've seen it over twenty times and can recite the silly thing as easily as I can a Python sketch. What is it about the train wrecks called Will Ferrell movies that make me so addicted? My slight attraction to Vince Vaughn or that I can't get enough Sex Panther? It's not pretty to admit, but there it is. I love lamp.

#1: Celebrity Apprentice. Oh the shame of saying that outloud. While the Donald is seriously on my nerves this season, I can't get enough of self-serving whiny B-list celebrities who fall apart over a lack of donuts. I think they should have crowned Bret Michaels Celeb Apprentice for Life if nothing else but to possibly catch a tantalizing glimpse of hairplugs under the bandana. This year's crop of narcissists have the Meh Factor, but there's enough butt kissing to counteract Trump's assertion that if you don't vote for him for president, you're stupid. Nice slogan, knucklehead.

The bride's lasagna

2011-05-03T13:17:00.000-04:00

Two book contracts and a summer camp to run this June have me hiding under my desk eating crackers before the kids find me and demand dinner and clean underwear. I think it's overrated. The dinner, I mean. I'm not that great of a cook. If you notice, the only recipe I have on the blog is for granola because I can bake like a boss but when it comes to things like, oh, I don't know... lasagna, it falls apart a little.

When I was a newly married girl, I thought it was my duty to stuff my skinny husband until he popped out a new appendage. So I drug out the cookbooks and happily scoured recipes for apparently the most artery-damaging foods on the planet for supper and dessert. Weekly blueberry pies, Baked Alaska, assorted meals with green pepper (they were cheap) and my mother's fail-safe recipe for lasagna. However, this meal I was going to make it my own. I'd put my own stamp of lovin' on it so my innocent husband would adore his bride and her growing waistline.

The sauce was naturally homemade, the noodles freshly done and cranked out from a tiny pasta maker. I was covered in tomatoes and flour and I was going to RULE bride-dom with this dish.

Hmmm, what was missing? Tomatoes? Onion and tons of garlic? Basil and oregano from my windowsill garden of our teeny apartment overlooking the dumpsters and Glisan Street in Portland, Oregon? Ahhhhh, yes. The cinnamon. This bad boy needed a healthy heap o'cinnamon because I had read *somewhere* that Mexican dishes used a bit of the bark to spice up their flavors. Yes. Say it with me now, "Stacey. Lasagna is not Mexican and you're a complete boob." I'm not even sure Mexican meals have cinnamon, maybe they meant cilantro?

The lasagna was huge. I baked for ten even though there were only two of us. My groom looked on in love as I dished out my latest culinary achievement and took a huge bite. And spat it out back on his plate and ran out of the room since the cinnamon had been a little on the heavy side and had caused some sort of reaction to his sinuses. Whatever. The big baby.

Seventeen years later, I still hear about that fiasco. It's taken on Bigfoot sighting proportions in legend and I'm used as a cautionary tale to our five daughters when I try to teach them to cook. I think I'd better stick with granola.

The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide website

2011-04-29T10:38:00.001-04:00

After much rolling of the eyes from the tween and teens, THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE website is complete to their satisfaction.

Excerpt:

Don't turn around.

That funny feeling you get right before you turn out the light may not be your creepy little brother after all, it could be something more… interesting.

How can you tell? What makes some of us able to see or hear ghosts and others – not so much? Everyone has the ability to interact with ghosts but some are more sensitive than others until one knows what to look for. Being conscious of what is going on around can help you to see what others cannot - and experience what others wished they could.

THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE was designed for girls ready for the challenge of finding out what's really hiding under the bed. With tools found in your own home and a healthy dose of adventurous spirit, you'll be ready to possibly discover what happens next after we die.

Ask questions, get curious and keep an open mind.

Ready? You can turn around now.

Swing by and say hello! Ghost stories and contests will be found on the GGHG facebook page so check back for updates.

Dragging out my soap box for PBS

2011-04-26T18:53:00.001-04:00

Last week I felt the power of social media more than just being hit on over Twitter direct messages. I responded to PBS's open call for Washingtonians in my age group *cough* about why we trust PBS. How could I pass this up? After all, three of my four television channels are PBS and you know by now I'm a bit of a costume drama nut. Combine this with Antiques Roadshow UK and you've summed up my perfect evening.

I spoke to the director and after making the cut, I was called back to be filmed for a small segment of the next PBS commercial, to start airing mid-May on PBS stations and featured on the website. So -- what did I talk about for twenty minutes? I started with my own experience with PBS and how it has influenced my life with rich programming, different cultural perspectives and how I can finally get my husband to discuss Jane Austen without the use of force. I moved on to how PBS creates a community of like-minded individuals that put education and people first before prescription drug commercials and McDonald's soundbites. They trust us to stand up for programs that enrich our lives, not kill time. That's accountability, my friends.

Then I wrapped it up with five minutes on how I, as a parent, would like to see more programming spent on the next generation of PBS supporters: teenagers. PBSkids does an excellent job of those under eight -- now how about a little sumthin' sumthin' for my tweens and teens? Book clubs? Writing forums via their website? Science and math-based programs that inspire them to take the next step toward a career? These are the times that shape the goals of our young people -- give them the tools to make informed choices and trust that they'll use them benefit us all.

That's why I trust PBS.

Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Maryland Public Television and PBS!

The Jane Austen Handbook :: Review

2011-04-18T18:40:00.000-04:00

Fellow Persuasion lover, Margaret C. Sullivan's new release THE JANE AUSTEN HANDBOOK (Quirk) is a charming dip into Regency manners and the proper way to secure a husband of good fortune. The Handbook delivers bites of information including the areas of How to Get Rid of Unwanted Guests and How to Carry Off a Secret Engagement. Sullivan's research into the Regency period and Jane Austen's novels is first rate. Her tone is quick and light-hearted, making the short volume a pleasure to read.

I found especially interesting the section on The Best Company; or Social Gatherings. There I learned how to behave at a dinner party - I'll be sure not only to gargle my fingerbowl water and not to drink it - as well as the best ways to avoid dancing with an undesirable partner, though some things never change from 8th grade dances - hiding and lying.

Sullivan's tongue-in-cheek advice extends to matters of the heart:

"Fall into a decline. Make yourself ill with unrequited love. He will hear of it and ride his horse into a lather to fling himself at your feet and beg your forgiveness. Just don't be so stupid as to actually die, especially if he has married someone else in the meantime."

The Handbook is a boon for writers as a quick reference on Regency life or to add a little lagniappe to their work. The appendix details a short biography of Jane Austen and her family, plus synopsis of her novels and other works rounding out the Handbook well.

Image credit: Quirk Books

Spirit photography

2011-04-12T15:28:00.002-04:00

Photo by William Mumler

One of the chapters I'm working on for THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE is the history of spiritualism and the fascinating realm of spirit photography of the mid-19th and early 20th century.

Infamous for his spirit portrait featuring the deceased Abraham Lincoln cozying up to his very-much-alive-but-slighty-wacky wife, William Mumler turned an amateur photograph of himself and a reportedly deceased young cousin into a media sensation in 1862.Turning a double exposure into a thriving business by capitalizing on the grief and deep pockets of others during and after the Civil War, Mumler continued to churn out hazy photographs of the living and their +1.

Mumler was eventually brought up on fraud charges in 1869 after it was discovered that some of his "ghosts" still had a pulse, though the charges were dismissed due to lack of evidence. The popularity of spirit photography continued past his death in 1884, however he never managed to pop up into any other photographs.

Photo by William Hope

Photo by John Hollowell
[I thought Queen Victoria and George Washington were a nice touch]

Image credit: Collection of National Media Museum

Image credit: Collection of National Media Museum
[note the hand creeping up the seance table]

I think I see Justin Bieber...

Though we've moved out of that era and into newer, high-tech equipment to capture what we want to believe are ghosts (orbs, anyone?), we're still chasing after a curious spark. Look what I found running through my woods--

Garnet, Montana -- ghost town

2011-04-03T18:19:00.003-04:00

I'm in the mood for a ghost story. Okay, I'm always in the mood for a ghost story. This is one I wrote years ago and while not scary, the town always sticks with me. While I do research for THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE, I'm having a grand time wandering through my own notes of the past twenty years.

What scares you?

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One of my early experiences with the paranormal came from visiting a ghost town in the northwestern USA while on vacation. Now, you’d expect a ghost town to come with the prerequisite residual hauntings or at least a spooky outhouse. This town of Garnet, Montana, had its share of rundown buildings as it nestled in a wee valley in the mountains. A gold mining town, it once held the riches of the mountain in its palm and miners flocked to pluck it from between the fingers of the hillside. It grew fat and rich for a time but when the gold ran out, so did the miners, leaving behind a hotel, a general store, small houses and large pockets dug into the nearby hills (plus the aforementioned spooky outhouses).

My family wandered through what was left of the town, along with other curious tourists, trying to get a sense of what it was like in its heyday. Imagining dirty, desperate men coming from inside a mountain wasn’t difficult, what remained of their cabins told the story better than any signage the BLM had provided. Ruined furniture, rusted pans left scattered about filthy cabins and the feeling of failure permeated the broken walls of the houses, why wouldn’t there be a haunting? It seemed as if that was all there ever was here.

I entered the hotel slowly. Once there was grandeur of sorts, now it looked like a woman ruined by too many men and not enough self-respect. Plaster flaked from the walls and heavy tables stood in the middle of the first floor dining room, looking strangely proud of weathering time and being able to show off their wounds left by drunken gunshots and the flying glass of old arguments. I followed my family upstairs to see the rooms. Plexiglas partitioned them off so you could peer inside but not enter. In some of the rooms, the windows were left bare, sunshine squeaked in through the dirty glass and fell onto beds salvaged from the hotel and covered with old quilts. In others, the windows were covered, dusty light shone through the boards that swallowed the glass. These rooms held what seemed to be 100-year-old garbage. It covered the floors and rose up the walls, it smelled like decay and made you want to turn away. I, naturally, couldn’t.

As I got closer, my heart started to beat louder in my ears and my nose started to twitch. I felt lightheaded and wanted to run. I poked my head into the room and at once felt something rushing towards me. I am not particularly psychic, just enough to know when to get the heck out of a place! If I could describe it, I’d say it was pain, screaming and confusion coming at me all at once. I backed away quickly and my investigational gene kicked in. I checked out the other rooms to see if I experienced any similar occurrences and casually asked my husband if he had seen anything out of the ordinary. This man is as intuitive as a brick. “Nothing that a Dustbuster couldn’t help…” he replied.

I knew what I had felt was unusual; I tested it again before we left the building. Again, my heart raced and my nose tingled but this time there was no attack of emotion towards me. I could feel that it sat huddled in the corner, amidst the rubbish and filth, and watched as I moved out of sight and down the stairs, escaping into the light.

I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud...

2011-04-01T09:31:00.002-04:00

Ah, the mud.

While watching Pride & Prejudice (2005) for the umpteenth time, what struck me was the script's adherence to life in a rural English village during the Regency period. The laundry hanging in the yard, the quiet contemplation of a gentleman's daughter with little to no duties in the house thus having to fill her time with other pursuits, and the infamous English weather. It felt... real.

Adam Spunberg, a cohort of mine and one of the founders of The Austen Project, interviewed scriptwriter Deborah Moggach of that particular film. I love how she shaped the Bennets into a family -- less formal and more emotional than other depictions, and invited the viewer to care about the love story brewing between Elizabeth and Darcy while scandal and social restrictions spun around them.

Please pop over to read the interview and see how Moggach wove this story of love, betrayal and forgiveness connected with a 21st century audience.

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Adam continues with part II his interview today with Ms. Moggach, touching on added scenes and where the heck was Wickham? (I happen to like the American ending as well, Adam!)

Triggers

2011-03-30T13:25:00.000-04:00

I have the flu. My head is an explosion of light, strange noises and ponies. I have no idea how the ponies wormed their way in there but they won't leave.

Thus, when I needed to leave the cocoon for an urgent errand involving lunch money and a daughter who blows all remaining cash the day before on banana nut muffins (yes, I'm looking at you, R), I was able to experience a few tweaks from my addled brain. I smelled the New York City subway. In my car.

When I was eighteen, I showed an amazing amount of gumption and blatant stupidity by quitting a very nice college in the Midwest and moving to NYC to find my fortune. I had no plan aside from showing up in January with a suitcase and the address of my pregnant sister in Brooklyn. With me so far? I'm a genius.

I won't go into the gory details, let's just say my time there was a mixture of The Nanny Diaries and Serpico, but riding the subway from Manhattan to Brooklyn every weekend stamped an indelible memory of the subway: urine, sweat and heat. Not all of it was crazytown down there; I heard some excellent musicians, met artists and poets and was offered an orange by a friendly crackhead (I passed). After getting this trigger of subway scent today (still no idea how), I felt the urge to write about my favorite city.

NYC was the hometown of my zombie, Anna, in EYE OF THE BEHOLDER and I hope to visit it once again in an upcoming zombie anthology submission (hmmmm, zombie nannies?). You can take the girl out of the subway -- but you can't take the subway out of the girl. Wait. Wha?

What are your triggers? Are you inspired by scent? Sight? Crackheads?

Image credit: blogs.villagevoice.com

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES: DREADFULLY EVER AFTER - Review and giveaway

2011-03-22T21:31:00.001-04:00

Ahhh, the good old days. When men were men and women stayed at home and did needlepoint.

Er. No. Not in this story they don't.

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES: DREADFULLY EVER AFTER picks up the story four years after Elizabeth marries her beloved Darcy, settling down to life at Pemberley. Her warrior skills becoming rusty due to the constraints of being a married woman, the melancholy that threatens to consume her dulls her reflexes and she watches in shock as a mere Undead child fells Darcy. Asking for help from the interminable Lady Catherine de Bourgh exposes Elizabeth to drama, intrigue and... dare I say it... the adventure she'd been secretly hoping for. Joined by her father and sisters Kitty and Mary in London on a quest for a cure orchestrated by Lady Catherine the Great, the Bennets enter a city befouled by Dreadfuls, royalty, and the odd rabbit.

Hockensmith did a fantastic job wrapping up the series. The pace was quick, characters were mostly full-bodied and I enjoyed the developing story lines of Anne, Kitty and Mary. Anne de Bourgh had a touch of Mrs. Danvers (Rebecca) going on as she tries to lure Darcy to the dark side during his isolation at Rosings -- nice touch!

I give PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES: DREADFULLY EVER AFTER five out of five heads for being a great weekend read, I hope you enjoy it too.

::GIVEAWAY::

The lovely people at Quirk Books are as excited as I am to give away a copy of PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES: DREADFULLY EVER AFTER to a Betwixt & Between reader! I like to keep things simple so tell me in the comments below what's your best zombie dating tip. For an extra point, what's your favorite Jane Austen novel? Winner will be chosen March 28, 2011. Please leave a contact email in the comments.

Note: Eligible only in USA & Canada

Quirk is also giving away eight vials of "antidote" to lucky fans at their PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES: DREADFULLY EVER AFTER facebook page, enter there to win!

Sweet, sweet publication: The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide with Sourcebooks!

2011-03-21T14:21:00.000-04:00

Boy, do I love the quiet ones.

While trotting out The Zombie Dating Guide, I've been working on other projects in the back room for the past few months. No less dear to my heart, they're the ones that were so awesome that I was confident they would find homes with editors who would love them as much as I do quickly (and they did).

Today, I'm thrilled to announce that THE GIRLS' GHOST HUNTING GUIDE (ages 10-14) will be published by Sourcebooks-Jabberwocky, to be released Spring 2012. GGHG will be a go-to journal for girls to experience ghost hunting (with adult supervision), while learning about the unseen world around them. Interviews with ghost hunters, psychic mediums and real questions from girls around the world will round out the book that is focused on exploration, safety and fun. Please look for the website and forums to come soon.

Project number two will be announced soon!

An enormous thank you to my lovely agent, Dawn Frederick! We make a great team! :high five:

The zombies? Oh them. I have plans for my pretties, oh yes, big plans...

Death-defying organizational feats of motherhood (and writing)

2011-03-08T10:25:00.002-05:00

While working for a national non-profit organization and managing 500 (mostly) women, I quickly learned to get my to-do list whittled down to something manageable else I’d get overwhelmed and hide behind the copy machine.

My trick was simple: pick the one most death-defying feat of the day and crank it out without succumbing to the lure of email, chatting with my cube neighbor, or that blinking voicemail light of doom. This was far before the Cone of Silence headphones so it wasn’t easy in a busy office but knocking off the big thing for the day helped me shake my bad thang at the rest of the list.

Now that I’m writing full-time, the list is back in play but in a new format: Google calendar. I have five color-coded calendars stacked on top of each other in the browser plus a task manager in the sidebar to keep me on track. Family, scouts, summer camp director, writing deadlines and the editing schedule for An Army of Ermas all cheerfully litter my screen. It’s a rainbow of OCD. I also have a pink board with upcoming project deadlines and I think that’s a petrified cookie propped up on my printer. Please, god, don’t tell me I put that cookie there as an incentive. I’m doomed.

I’ll gloss over the huge family calendar plastered over the kitchen table for five kids to add their activities to (copied then to my Google calendar) and my iPhone calendar that freaks out and beeps if it thinks I’ve missed something at 4am, waking the dogs and making my husband believe it’s time to get up and make me coffee (win!).

Right now I’m plotting a short story on a yellow legal pad though it will soon move to FreeMind (mind mapping software) once I get the rough ideas down. If it’s too big, that idea will move to the 8ft blackboard so I can better organize the flow. Yes, I know it’s only 5000 words. Can you imagine me as a novelist?

So what are your organizational tips, Cha-Cha?

The writer's daughters: Dating dangerously

2011-02-24T11:48:00.000-05:00

My children think I'm weird.

That's no surprise to any parent, really, we all know our kids think we're anything but cool with our references to Duran Duran and finding the odd scrunchie in our hair but I hadn't thought about how my writing may influence my five daughters' dating lives until now.

R: Boy, meet my mother, Mrs. Graham.

Boy: Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham; I mistook you for R's sister. [In reality, I think I'd be closer with a "S'up" lift of the chin while I search for his eyes under a Beiber haircut]

R: Mom writes dating advice for the Undead. Then for kicks, she hangs out in dark attics and hopes a mouse doesn't climb into her hair while she's looking for dead people. She's currently writing Jane Austen fanfiction, and a short story about a lady Bigfoot named Clementine.

Boy: Er... My mom has a real job.

R: Really? I've heard of those "real jobs" but my Mom can't stay out of fistfights when working with other people so they've locked her away at home and called her a writer. We like to think of her medications as a public service.

Boy: Mom is a foot doctor; I don't know if she'd like me hanging out with anyone whose mother is a complete nutjob.

R: How lovely for her. I have someone else I'd like you to meet... [shoves boy into basement with the zombies]

My younger daughters will have a bit more time to come up with a game plan to introduce me to their boyfriends but I expect similar results. I may be weird but my daughters know which side their zombies are buttered on.

Breaking and Entering

2011-02-22T16:15:00.003-05:00

I often dream about houses in which I've lived. These houses, scattered across the United States, and Scotland for a time, have the annoying habit of adding hidden rooms I'd never discovered while actually occupying the place. I access the rooms and secret gardens by crawling through windows covered by large ugly oil paintings or crawling over a fence and dropping into forgotten orchards. Once there I kick into Scooby Doo mode and examine the place, mostly finding rooms untouched since the 1930-1940s according to the magazines and style of furniture. There is never anyone there but not a speck of dust mars the surface of the furniture, eighty years later.

At first I was annoyed by the dreams but now feel like I'm on a quest. I have no clue as to why the rooms were abandoned nor my compulsion to climb through small openings to get in. I don't take anything or leave a note...

Next time I'm raiding the refrigerator. ;)

For my next short story, I'm going to use one of the houses as a base for the protagonist to get herself into trouble. I've been in this one quite a few times so going over the steps to break into my subconscious should be a snap. Now all that's left to do is discover who she'll meet on the other side of that painting.

So what's your take on the reoccurring dream? Past life? OCD and dusting? Pure escapism via fences and hidden windows?

Image credit: oilcorner

Vyolette and the Cone of Silence

2011-02-15T19:30:00.000-05:00

My resolution was simple. Get more writing done while still being Mother Extraordinaire to Daughter #5. She's the last one home and when she boards that giant Twinkie of a school bus next August I'll have books to write and blogs to pen. But until then, I need a little help, thus The Cone of Silence. I've upgraded since the last pair but the concept is the same: a visual signal to my offspring that when the Cone of Silence headphones are on my head -- no pleas for juice, telling me that the dog has once again rolled in raccoon poo, or that while picking their nose they've poked their brain. It can wait until I finished a chapter. Unless it's the raccoon poo.

Vyolette Stella has different ideas about my resolution. When she sees the Cone of Silence headphones on and me seated at my desk, it's her signal that I'm suddenly working a drive-thru and desperately needs her order.

:: Grabbing mic ::

"Hello! I would like to order a pizza. A pizza with pineapples, and two cakes, a seahorse, and Justin Beiber. And a Diet Coke."

"Beiber? Vyo, I need to work on this. Can we play later?"

"PFffffffffffffffffffSHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

"What was that?"

"I can't hear you. You need to talk into the speaker thing."

"A mic." I adjust the mic to be near my mouth and not inside hers. "Vy, how about you work on a puzzle until I'm done with this one page?"

"HONEY! I need that pizza quick! I'm dyiiiiiiiiiiing here." She clutches her stomach and rolls on the floor, only to be licked by the dog. "Send help. Fading fast."

"Vyolette..." Grabbing the headphones off my head, she wandered the room.

"Hello. We need a chicken order... Hey Mom, this isn't plugged in.... And some salmon and a Christmas tree so we can blast off. We need a CHICKEN!"

So the writing part of the resolution is taking a little more effort on my part but the headphones work – at least until she finds that Christmas tree.

Vyolette has a rabid fanbase at facebook where I seriously think my friends just tolerate me for more stories of ice pickles. This column was originally posted at An Army of Ermas.

The Jane Austen Twitter Project #A4T

2011-02-08T19:49:00.001-05:00

And so my quest to educate myself in the manner of Janeites continues. I've joined the Austen-inspired twitter novel via the Jane Austen Twitter Project! Over forty authors are contributing to the continuation of a storyline in fifteen minute increments on Twitter, each developing the richness of the central plot - a ball at Pemberley - with characters familiar from Austen's novels.

Every Sunday, the chapter will be posted at Austen Authors so you can catch up and look forward to the next installment. Or visit every Tuesday on Twitter to see our progress by doing a search for the hashtag: #A4T. If you would like to join us, please visit The Jane Austen Twitter Project sign up for a time slot and more information. I'm having an excellent time so far seeing how we weave each others plots together, I can't wait to see the final product in a few months time.

My contribution for today:

Willoughby strode through the main hall of Allenham, his riding boots clicking against the fine marble floor. Returning from a hard ride in the bucolic countryside, his mind raced with possibilities of the upcoming ball at Pemberley. Pushing aside the unpleasantness of former attachments, he focused instead on the merriment to accompany the evening. His old friend, Henry Tilney, would be there with his lovely sister, Eleanor. Their troubled past fodder for the gossips, Willoughby knew the scandal of their mother's death would overshadow his own discretions... at least for a while.

"Sir, you've received a letter from Miss Tilney." His valet, Albert, appeared at his side bearing the folder paper sealed with red wax. Willoughby recognized the fluent script of its sender, though not why she had sought him after their brief flirtation. Was she, perhaps, interested still? His heart bruised but not broken from their parting, he smiled.

Stress, denial and cupcakes

2011-02-05T15:29:00.001-05:00

Stress is life. Okay, I get it. I know that finances, dealing with the public and some husbands are all a part of the package but I'm learning to deal with my stress by taking baby steps. Tiny, measured movements that resist the impulses to play Barry Manilow on loop until I stop gritting my teeth over an issue. Unfortunately, for me, those baby steps usually involve making knitting a full-body contact sport and building a deck instead of a birdhouse.

Go big or go home.

Instead, I've decided to focus on something I enjoy immensely but usually keep away from due to waist issues: baking. Nothing makes me happier than a golden brown crust of bread or the light spring of a finger on a cupcake top fresh from the oven. This is about as domestic as I get so the family appreciates when I get stressed and take it out on the oven. You can tell when I've gone around the bend and deliver cookies, pies and granola to the neighbors. In the next state.

My husband can immediately tell when I'm in denial of a huge issue - the house is spotless, baked goods crowd the kitchen counters and I'm wearing an apron.

"Oh god. What did I do," he'd ask.

"Nothing." I can't smile without you--

"I'm sorry. No, really, I mean it this time."

"I have no idea what you're talking about but put down the wine and walk away. Slowly." I can't laugh and I can't sing, I'm finding it hard to do anything--

"I don't know either but I'm going to make a bed in the garage. And take the cupcakes." He moves quickly for a big man.

I'll tell him later that my mother is thinking about moving in. But first that wine...

Waitin' and wishin' and hopin' and dreamin'...

2011-01-26T19:54:00.000-05:00

Writers do a hell of a lot of waitin'. We wait for inspiration, wait to reach our daily word count, wait after submission to editors... you get the idea.

Today I'm waiting on the husband. He's stuck in the as-yet-unnamed snowstorm in the Metro DC area, moving 600 ft in two hours. He's a smart boy, hit the store before he left work so that rotisserie chicken and gallon of milk didn't go to waste as he sits there and sorts through the glove box. Again.

I'm checking up on him hourly but it just occurred to me that if I had hours alone in a car (without moving), I'd probably be knee-deep in notes or started a new short story.

What would you do for three hours in a non-moving car (aside from the obvious, oh come on you know you were thinking it)? Heat/food are taken care of and a bottle of wine (or beverage of choice) is waiting at home. Write? Sleep? Chat on the phone? Give yourself a modified jailhouse tattoo?

I've named the storm: Edgar Allan Snow.

You're welcome.

A Dweam Wiffin a Dweam

2011-01-23T17:43:00.001-05:00

I woke up this morning with the vague feeling I had just starred in Housewives of Santa Barbara. My father has lived there most of his life so I'm familiar with the beautiful scenery, spent many hours on the beach, and warm hospitality of the natives, but when did *these* women move in?

I'm not a regular watcher of the Housewives series, I believe I've seen two episodes and that was last week (ergo why it popped up in my subconscious, I'm not a regular television watcher of anything so it had free reign), but last night's dream briefly involved women complaining about new neighbors and watching a lantern bobbing up and down in the waves off the stretch of beach in front of their house. Cut to a dinner party that night and Flo from Alice (70s TV show) was the wife of the ~~idiot~~ earthquake researcher who had been made to swim out there to replace the lightbulb while her husband took notes on the trembling sand. The women stood and watched a row of tall glasses of water slosh over the rims and gossiped.

I know.

With no easy access to my tween's dream dictionary (buried under *stuff*) and refusing to look it up online, I'm curious as to what you think?

Midol with a tequila chaser

2011-01-20T09:25:00.000-05:00

I've done it again. I woke up dark and early with only the moon to illuminate my stumbling to wake the girls for school when my sleepy back decided to have a hissy fit.

"Husband." I said, bouncing a bit on the bed since I couldn't turn my head after sitting up. "Huuuuuuuuusband! I've thrown out my back!"

"Get a drink of water, you're dehydrated," he said.

My glare fell on his relaxed back, it obviously mocking me. The minutes ticked by, the girls needed breakfast and I needed a stiff drink to ease my muscles at 6:15am. My patience stretching as thin as Kim Kardashian's skirt fabric, I rolled out of bed and hobbled down the hallway. "Water, my ass."

Ten minutes of yoga stretches later where the best I could do was reach my knees while bent at the waist and standing and I'm still in bad shape.

"Bring me Midol!" I yelled. I could wash it down with the tequila I was dreaming of, forget the coffee - this required serious action. He brought me water.

"Where are the pills o'glory?" I asked. This was then followed by his five-minute lecture on the benefits of exercise. He won't be making it into work today. My foot reflex works just fine.

Writing communities

2011-01-18T19:43:00.001-05:00

Me and author Melanie Hooyenga
whom I met via AW

I love Absolute Write, let me get that out of the way right now. I've been a virtual card-carrying member since 2006 and was a moderator of two forums - Writing for Children and Freelance - for three years. I respect the members and moderators, break into spontaneous dancing when one of the 30,000 members succeeds in their personal goals be it their first publication, a new book deal or finishing their first poem, and count my closest writing friends within their numbers. AW has been the right fit for me during different parts of my writing career, though at times it feels like a world-wide dysfunctional family and you're trying to stay away from the weird aunt who keeps a stash of carpet fluff as a pet.

At their best, these communities serve to unite those with common interests. Finding support, someone that "gets" you and, the occasional romance popping up between members isn't uncommon. At their worst, I've seen them described as inclusive, dominating and frustratingly hard to fit in. So what's the perfect size of community for you? Do you feel a small number of writers meeting at a local community center or library is best? A large writers' conference-based community? A Yahoo group that supports its members by staying in touch through email? What are your experiences with writing communities? Does in person work better for you than online?

NightWriter

2011-01-17T19:31:00.000-05:00

I love to write at night. I swear I'm part wombat since I skulk around my house turning off extraneous lights as soon as the sun goes down. If I could write by candlelight and the computer, I'd be all over it -- at least until my optician brings down the axe on my eyesight with a new set of reading glasses. Not sexy.

Due to my schedule, however, most writing gets shoved into the early afternoon while the girls are in school and if I can convince the four-year-old to play with something other than sharp objects. I've read of parents that rise before the crack of dawn to crank out a few pages, if I did that they'd be filled with absurd vowel usage and likely more than one expletive if the coffee weren’t finished yet. I'm sure my beta readers appreciate the wait until the afternoon.

But in those quiet hours after I duct tape the children to their beds and the husband is wrapped up in another sudoku, I can get back to pirates and ghosts (or whatever the flavor of story is at the moment) with only the moon for company. And I am, at last, in the groove.

When's your groove?

Coffeehouse of the Damned - Zombie poetry & Valentines

2011-01-14T18:04:00.001-05:00

I'm not a poet. They live in lofts and wear berets and can rhyme the word "orange" while looking delicate and lovely. I'm more of a scrapper. I can twist song lyrics into weird and wonderful new sentence structures that make my children laugh. Every once in a while, I come up with a dirty limerick but I save those for special occasions, like Christmas and my grandmother's birthday, "Wha? She did what with a poodle? Oh, Stacey."

Thus, I never expected to have zombie poetry and haiku fall into my lap. The Coffeehouse of the Damned has been working its way into my brain for about six months now, since I started composing ditties for The Zombie Dating Guide's facebook fan page, but didn't take me by the throat until today.

And, it being a month before Hallmark's second favorite holiday, I thought I'd share the Undead love with some with ZDG's new Valentine line:

Zombie goodies

2011-01-09T10:29:00.002-05:00

I'm doing more research on zombie goodies for ZDG; there are far more twisted minds out there than my own, Internet:

Flesh-eating zombie action figures.
Well, action is a bit misleading. How about the sluggish-but-will-bite-your-brain set?

Their victims. Duh.

Naturally followed by the Angry Mob playset.

What little girl wouldn't love this to cuddle up to?

Bowling for zombies. I wonder if they pick themselves up again after you knock them down?

Get your geek on for the zombie Stormtrooper.
Yes, I'm ordering one as soon as they're back in stock. Don't judge.

Then there's the practical zombie accouterments:

Be honest. Do you really want another year of The Far Side?

Things I want to see:

Zombie head bowling ball
Zombie Roomba (vacuum cleaner)

What did I miss?

Inspiration and insidious Inception

2011-01-08T09:52:00.000-05:00

I finally got around to watching Inception last night. Aside from waaaaaaaaaaay too many fight scenes and poignant top sequences, it did manage to plant the idea of where-the-heck-did-that-come-from in my brain... just as planned.

This morning I went over my short list of possible topics to write on for various publications and topping the list was "do zombies dream?" Then again, I also had one on the propensity of ghostly activity trapped within the stone walls of structures due to the magnetic content of the rock, and one on why I like cheese so much. Let's just say I'm eclectic.

Friends tell me inspiration strikes while they're in inconvenient places like the shower or in the car while driving with only a two-year-old to shout notes to. The only thing I'm doing in both of those places is singing bastardized zombie songs - though I don't have to change the words to Bad Romance - and I somehow manage to find inspiration through offhand Twitter remarks and at Food Lion deciding whether the family colon needs 9-grain wheat or if I can slip in some white bread without dire consequences. I know. Envy me.

What's next on your topic list? I'm going to spend the day thinking of the karmic consequences of Inception until my brain explodes. And cheese.

Five tips for writers

2011-01-01T23:19:00.001-05:00

There was really no point to this photo aside from it
being ridiculously awesome.

As the first day of 2011 slips into night, I wanted to come up with something less awkward than a list of resolutions that won't make it to Valentine's Day. Since I like things short and snappy, I decided to share a list of five tips I've learned as a writer in the last year:

Never forget that writing, while it gets the boys to pay attention to you for something more than your boob size, is a business. If you're serious about writing as a profession, do your research before mass emailing agents with sparkly clip-art ridden queries. Speaking of queries, keep them to the point; you can share more about your Rainbow Pony collection later but right now, stick to the story.
Social media can be your friend -- or bite you in the butt. Twitter is an excellent way to meet people in publishing but take heed that the photos of the lapdance at the convention live forever on someone else's hard drive and can make the rounds.

Have a grievance during the publishing process? Editor cut out your sub-darling just when it was getting to the sword fight? Talk it over with a friend before venting on facebook. We've seen too many authors fail to tuck it back in when they get upset and screw up a good fanbase when they go nuts on Twitter.
Even if you're not actively writing due to day jobs, travel or that pesky way life can intrude, keep your plot or next article fresh in your mind so you can jump in when you do get a spare thirty minutes. Think of it as priming the pump, baby.
Keep your social life outside of the computer active. I know the friends trapped inside your monitor are awesome but to keep your sanity just a tiny bit longer, make an effort to see people who like you just because you smell nice.
Read. Read outside of your genre, read the newspaper everyday. Read to your children, the neighborhood children, read to the senior who no longer can revel in a good book without help and would love the sound of your voice. There is no writer that cannot learn something new from another's turn of phrase or touched by a writer's experience.

So, what tips can you leave for us? Please post on your blog and leave a link in the comments or within the comment section itself; I'd love to see them!

Happy 2011!

Image credit: dlwagner.blogspot.com

Zombie love songs

2010-12-29T12:25:00.001-05:00

Here I was, mindlessly noting the feed streaming in my TweetDeck, when a tweeter mentioned the song "Pocket Full of Sunshine" in the movie Easy A. I immediately started humming and rolling the words around in my head. It was that simple. An earworm had been planted and it sucked up braincells.

How can something so basic as a song be that insidious? And how can I use this for good instead of evil in my work? I've decided the zombies need a theme song - something that brings Undead lovin' to mind when you hear it on the radio.

Contenders:

Just a Zombie -- Taylor Swift parody

Zombie Love Song by ochoa830

Mickey by Toni Basil because I'm evil that way

And, naturally, Let's Get it On by Marvin Gaye

Do we have a clear winner? What's your choice for your WIP?

There once was a boy named Boogers McGoo

2010-12-26T15:01:00.002-05:00

Ever wake up with a brilliant idea for a story and by the time you've made coffee, it's gone? Happens to me constantly - I'll be in that fuzzy twilight of sleep, somewhere between Daniel Craig telling me it'll only hurt a little (kerSNAP) and wondering if we're out of orange juice, when the perfect line or plot sneaks in and waggles itself at me before running off. I've tried notebooks on the bed table and get something resembling Manson Family scribbles on the pad, a voice recorder that gets more of my husband snoring or me mumbling insanities because I don't think it's running (when it is), and waking the aforementioned husband up so he'll remember for me. Yeah. That went over well.

"Bryan. BRYAAAAAAAAN. Are you up? Good. Remember this for me: Boogers McGoo."

"You want to have sex?" he said.

"No. How do you fathom that I want to have sex? I said 'Boogers McGoo.'"

"You say weird stuff all the time. I might as well get some lovin' of it."

"Shut up. Go back to sleep."

A snore ripping from him seconds later - God, I hope that was a snore - assures me he's done just that.

So, what do you do when perfection flirts with you? I don't mean Daniel Craig (at least not this time) but that line that came so easily at an inopportune time or place?

Image credit: shirlsazynski.com

Deathwish Wynter

2010-12-26T14:24:00.000-05:00

The US Park Service knows my name. They know my family. They have flyers posted outside the White House with our picture on it for easy reference.

We're not terrorists.

We're *that* family.

We've lived in the Washington, D.C. metro area since 1999 and as per tradition, we travel to see the National Tree on the White House lawn each week after Christmas so as to look at the new ornaments on the Oregon state tree (where we're from) and gaze in wonder at the sometimes ugly decorations on the large tree in the center of it all. There are usually hundreds of people milling around, circling the same tree, taking photos or getting warm at the giant fire pit set up at the far end of the space allocated near the grandstand where the president stood hours or days before making speeches and smiling widely at the crowds.

My daughter, Wynter, was born on Christmas day. No child has as big a heart, as wide a smile or feet that can wander off quicker. Her nickname is Deathwish Wynter due to the escapades she gets herself into; Christmas is no different, it just involved more park rangers.

Each year, as we make our way downtown, I give the lecture, "Girls, everyone has a buddy. You will not leave your buddy's side. You will not chase trains nor climb into the Nativity Scene. Is this understood?" Naturally, they nod. They knew I had Santa's ear.

"Husband. As I have infants to carry, you are Wynter's buddy. You will not leave her side nor hold hands with good-smelling strangers like last year. Is that understood?" A brief wave of his hand didn't convince me but I had last minute breastfeeding to do; after five kids, I always have last minute breastfeeding to do...

As we approach the White House, the rangers walkie-talkie each other like Secret Service agents on alert. “The Grahams are here. Wynter is wearing a purple coat with a blueberry knit hat… quick! She’s making a run for it!” I don’t even have to walk up to the presidential platform anymore for announcements to be made, they’ve already seen my frantic dash around the tree, bobbing infant on my hip and wild look in my eyes.

A large, muscular ranger has my small person in tow, her hands occupied with unwrapping a sucker he kept in his pocket for such occasions. “Here she is, Ma’am, you may want to consider GPS next year. We’ll see you climbing into the Sculpture Garden pond in the summer, see that Lily keeps her clothes on this time.” With a nod, my tax dollars at work melts back into the crowd.

“Husband! That’s not me!” Startled, he looks from the tree to the family he’s been following for the last fifteen minutes. They’re not his. This year there will be two GPS units under the tree…

This column originally appeared at An Army of Ermas

Top Five Fun Gifts for #Writers

2010-12-17T17:38:00.001-05:00

I hate to admit it but I dislike writing in journals (a natural gift for the word nerds). Years of bad handwriting - I've tried to improve, God knows I've tried - has led to an abhorrence of seeing my scrawl messing up lovely lined journals forever. As many writers move away from writing longhand and soley onto keyboards, I thought it would be a nice idea to discover other gifts my authory-type friends would enjoy--

You may have noticed I'm a bit of a Janeite *ahem*. Thus, her action figure makes the perfect companion to my sobs at night as I realize my dreams of seeing my own name on a book being pushed back until I hit menopause.

She makes a lovely accompaniment to my Star Wars action figures from the late 70s. She and Han Solo have hooked up and I believe are quite happy. Don't burst my bubble.

Along that same line, you can have your own drunken literary brawls with these snappy finger puppets depicting: Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Leo Tolstoy and Charles Dickens.

What the duck? Alice is floating happily in your bubbles as you use that new voice recorder to transcribe your book while in the tub.

Who says book signings need to be stuffy? This dress made of phonebooks can double as a napkin if she spills her Mad Dog.

And my favorite gift: a literary t-shirt! We writers are known as fashion mavens, naturally, so why not flaunt our bad selves with our favorite literary stylings?

What are you getting the writer in your life this holiday?

Thar be ghosts and goblins on my mountain

2010-12-17T13:19:00.001-05:00

I live in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, overlooking the Shenandoah Valley, and as the skinny, twisted trees shake in the wind that punishes the mountainside, I swear I hear them. Not far from my house (literally 1/4 mile), a jet crashed in the early 1970s, killing more than 250 people aboard on a foggy night. The nosecone came to rest against a large boulder that now holds memorials and a small headstone. Houses now dot the forest where once there was only charred bits of metal and humans, my own house built five years ago on the scarred face of tragedy.

As my husband built the house, he'd tell me of being in the forest near twilight and hearing the branches snap. Footfalls far heavier than deer or woodland creatures would echo to his ear. After my family moved in, he and I would see flashes of light outside our windows, snagging the eye and fading just as quickly. I've written before about random hauntings but this was different. These, do not wander. These were at home in the forest and we were but a momentary blink in their reality.

So what the heck was that I hit in the road last week? I could have sworn it was a dirt-covered snow chunk... except it hadn't snowed yet. Square and at least eight inches tall/wide, it straddled the yellow dividing lines on the mountain road; my eyes were strained from the weak winter sunlight at dusk -- perhaps an animal -- couldn't be sure. A square, rock-solid beast that didn't squish when I winged it with a tire. I thought little of it aside from a "dang it" when I heard the knock against the car door as I passed.

My daughter and I returned thirty minutes later, discussing the subtle nuances of the song Dancing Queen (there are none) when I came upon the rock again. This time, I slowed so I wouldn't hit it... but a few feet from our passing, the rock turned and stared at me with eyes not apparent before. I yelped, to put it mildly. Then feeling horrible that I had inadvertently hurt something and we turned around to see what it was and if we could help. It had vanished. The animal/rock/goblin was gone and nary a roadkill was to be found.

Paranormal? Probably not. Freakishly weird and hoping this thing doesn't have a grudge. You bet. I know enough about Elementals* to wonder if I'd chanced upon another one of the mountain's other residents, however. Something tells me this ain't over.

*Elementals are spirits of the Earth such as pookas, fairies, banshees, goblins, etc.

TBR piles -- What's on your nightstand?

2010-12-10T13:33:00.000-05:00

So what keeps you up at night?

This is what's currently on my nightstand though not a full representation of my to-be-read pile. They're all in various stages of being read and savored, some have been read many times over but are too good to put back on the shelf.

I'd love to see a photo of what's on your nightstand, post it to your blog and leave the link in the comments!

TBR:
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
Fated by S.G. Browne
Night of the Living Trekkies by Kevin David Anderson
The Other Side by Marley Gibson
On Writing by Stephen King
Get Known before the Book Deal by Christina Katz
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steven Hockensmith
Motor Mouth by Janet Evanovich
Devil in a Red Kilt by Elysabeth Williams

The Dating Game

2010-12-02T19:39:00.002-05:00

I swear I've been in the dating game - in one way or another - far longer than it looks.

One of my favorite writing jobs was at Willamette Week newspaper in Portland, Oregon a dozen years ago. I had the night shift helping to "enhance" classifieds buyers' ads looking for a date.

"So. You're an unemployed mill worker with anger issues and a severe limp. I can work with that." I said.

"Just make sure she's not fat," he replied.

"Sir, I have no control over who will respond to your ad. And what's wrong with being a little soft?" I was already drawing devil horns on his photo showing a balding, tired man with a week's worth of hit-or-miss beard growth and a dirty shirt.

"Nothing. I just can't afford to treat her right."

I erased the horns.

"No problem," I warmed up to him. "Let's see what we can do..."

Passionate man with time to spare on just the right woman is looking to snuggle up for the weekend. Time is more important than money for this lovable bear, won't you be his honey?

Another call was from a young woman who was new to the area and wanted to meet new "friends." Let's call her Trixie the Dominatrix because, to be frank, that was her stage name and she didn't want to lose customers if they came looking for her from Boise. Yes, Boise. Don't judge.

"I want it to talk about my legs. I have good legs." She started.

"Alrighty, I'll mention legs. You do know this is not an "advertisement," right? It's to find a date." I didn't want to dabble in legalities and end up her pimp.

"I got it. You just put down that I'm available from 10p-3a and to not wake up my kid when he calls." I could hear the whip cracking in the background but it could have been her gum.

Strong, leather-clad woman is looking for a new playmate. A late night rendezvous is just the thing for this woman on-the-go. Her legs were made for walkin' ---- all over your pride. kerSNAP!

"Good enough?" I asked.

"Freakin' perfect." She said.

I have no idea if Trixie found her honey bear, I prefer to not think of the mental picture that would scar my mind but have still found myself involved in hooking people up. Zombie Dating Guide, anyone?

My No-No-Na-No post

2010-11-29T18:15:00.003-05:00

I love NaNoWriMo. I love the camaraderie, the insane urge to pull 1700 words a day from my aching brain, the people I meet who are just as nutty as I am, and the crushing failure of not even coming close to 50,000 words. I've participated in NaNo the last four years and this was, by far, the worst I've produced at a whopping 350-ish words written on a plane coming back from Seattle.

Am I upset? Disheartened? Envious of friends sporting a snazzy new "winner" button as their avatars? Nah. It was never the end result for me - though I have to admit, last year's print out of my Winner's certificate was on the fridge next to the grocery list and Vyolette's smeary, licked on self-portrait for a month - it was always proof to myself that I could do anything I set my mind to. As long as my mind didn't have stray thoughts of showering or speaking to my children in full sentences.

Congratulations to my NaNo friends, those who persevered and those who fell by the wayside. I will rejoin the NaNo fray next November. This November was full of family and new projects that would not have been possible if I had never dipped my toes in your bad ass soup of prose for three years beforehand.

Photo credit: mhpbooks.com

Back fat roasting on an open fire, Zombies chewing on your nose...

2010-11-21T09:10:00.009-05:00

Photo credit: unknown

Undead Fred busted a move and enhanced two Christmas carols to celebrate the season but his windpipe rotted away and left him only able to whistle awkwardly. Now is your chance to show off your pipes with a YouTube video singing his carols at the Zombie Dating Guide website.

The Zombie Christmas Song

Back fat roasting on an open fire
Zombies chewing on your nose
Questionable carols being moaned by a choir
And folks are wearing ragged clothes

Everybody knows a liver and a ripped off ear
Helps to make the season bright
Tiny zombies with their eyes all aglow
Won’t find it hard to eat tonight

They know that Santa’s on his way
He’s got a sleighful of feet to give away
And every Undead child is going to hide
Attacking reindeer as they try to get a ride

And so I’m offering this warning now
If you want to just survive
Keep the kiddies away from the fire
And you may make it out alive
The Zombie Christmas Song

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
Ev’rywhere you go
Take a look in the neighbor’s den, glistening once again
With blood and guts and viscera all aglow

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
All they want is more
But the scariest site to see is the neighbor that will be
Hanging from his door

A pair of feet you can’t beat or a big hunk of meat
Is on tap for Lester and Mike
A musical box or a doll that can’t talk
Make the eyes of Angie burn bright
And mom and dad are happy when their kids are out of sight

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
Ev’rywhere you go
There’s some bodies in the well, everyone thinks it’s swell
When they float to the top and you tie them in a bow

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
Pile them on a cart
And the thing that will make them run is the promise of the fun
As they eat your heart

As they eat your heart

I have this great idea for a story...

2010-11-17T13:14:00.000-05:00

... and I want you to write it. Then we'll split the royalties down the middle.

I'm going out on a limb here and guessing that a healthy portion of writers have heard this line at least once. While I am very flattered that someone feels I have the chops to take their baby and make it into a bestseller, I'm afraid they haven't quite thought through the process of actually writing the beast, finding an agent to love it (or convincing the agent they already have), garnering a book deal, editing the aforementioned beast into publishable prose, promotion after the book is released and subsequent book tour away from family and friends. All to give half of whatever you make to a guy you met on a bus with an idea.

Maybe I've been doing it wrong all along though? What if that idea did turn me into an couch-jumping Oprah book club Franzen-clone? I'd better start paying closer attention to the subway walls (and tenement halls) or the incoherent babbling from Palin. You just never know.

I'll take my chances with the walls. ;)

photo credit: getentrepreneurial.com

A Fowl Tradition

2010-11-16T16:29:00.000-05:00

Traditions run deep in my family. So deep I have yet to see the bottom fall out of some of them. As the holidays swirl us up in a never-ending dance of parties and parades, I’m struck by the one thing that binds us all together – food. Yep. Somehow we all get our groove on when Grandma rings the bell for pie. Too bad my grandmother couldn’t cook to save her life. Years of burnt turkey, under cooked stuffing and questionable sweet potatoes made my childhood memories go by in a blur and no amount of therapy will get them back.

Our tradition started as my grandmother, a bride of eighteen, was cooking her first holiday meal for her in-laws and parents. The turkey smelled a bit odd but it was a nice fat bird with all the trimmings. As my grandfather carved the turkey, Grandma Jane fluttered in the background, nervous that all her hard work was finally coming to fruition - in front of her mother-in-law. Egads. The first slice fell nicely onto the plate followed by the second. Then, as he began to get more enthusiastic about parting the meat from the bird, it became more difficult. Smiling and telling people to start on the potatoes, he continued. He carved deeper into the bird, poking it with the blade when he saw a flash of red in the cavity. Then a glimpse of white. Throwing convention to the wind, my grandfather stuck his hand up the rump of the turkey and pulled out a red and white dishtowel my grandmother had forgotten to remove before roasting. Somehow stuffing a turkey (at least in spirit) with cloth became a tradition and for the next fifty years, my family has been picking gingham out of our teeth at Thanksgiving.

As traditions go, I may yearn for a table filled with sumptuous dishes full of flavor and well, moistness, but then again I kind of like our secret recipe. Some things were meant to stay in the family and torture generations to come.

photo credit: tvguide.com

Mom Hair

2010-11-11T16:03:00.000-05:00

I admit it. I'm a bit vain about my hair, which until six weeks ago, was one-length and to my waist. A dream of chocolate and auburn swirls that swished around my shoulders and got caught in car doors and supemarket cart spindles. So what possessed me to slice off my locks an inch above my shoulders? Madness. Or was it? Let's compare, shall we?

Look how happy we are! Wynter is exploding with powdered sugar goodness.

Long tresses spun of angel tears:
1. Spent a mint on conditioner
2. When pulled back I looked like a librarian on crack
3. When down, I looked like a librarian on crack but younger
4. Never quite got all the baby drool out of it after they shoved locks in their mouths. Not just my babies either, all babies were attracted to my hair as though it were a food group

Mom hair:
1. Now matches my Mom Jeans
2. Age-appropriate -- if I were in my late 60s and rockin' the orthopedic shoes
3. Has been told it's "spunky." Oh god.
4. I don't get trapped like a turtle by my own hair when I lie on it at night

I vote for madness.

What possesses you to do drastic things to your hair?

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

2010-11-10T14:15:00.001-05:00


photo credit: sapanavora.com

As a child, I swore that one day I would grow up to be a Supreme. It didn't matter that I was short, tone deaf and six years old; I would knock Diana Ross off her heels and take over. I had the hand movements; I could harmonize (in my own way) and could rock the feather boa as well as any of the rest of the girls. My mother had other ideas.

"Stacey, you can be anything you want. Why not be a nice housewife and have children?"

"No. I need to be a Supreme. Watch this!" And I would jut my hips out in time with the music, tossing my arms around with dramatic fervor. My sister's lipstick creating a band of red around my mouth, I pursed my lips and threw in a Jagger Swagger for effect.

"Stacey. Really. This is going too far. Besides, the Supremes didn't sing Brown Sugar, that was the Rolling Rocks."

"Stones, Ma."

"Right. Stones -- Rocks. Big difference." Throwing a wink my way, I knew she was teasing but this wouldn't crush my ambition to rule the Motown scene.

Until Barry Manilow came into my life.

Barry and I had a strained relationship. My mother loved him so the record player had him on loop. I tried to strut to Copacabana but with little enthusiasm. How could Lola compete with Ain't No Mountain High Enough? 'Nuff said. To make my mother happy, I stuck yellow feathers in my hair for Halloween to show I was cool. Of course, having a ten-year-old dressed as a hooker wasn't what my mother had in mind around the neighborhood begging for candy but she made the best of it by playing the song on the car tape player as she followed behind me to tip off the houses that I wasn't nuts -- I had a theme, people, a theme.

The 70s finally died a horrible death and I threw out my sequined beret for rubber bracelets and tulle skirts. I drew the line at a cone bra. That would have looked silly. Duran Duran covered my wall and I became Rio and I danced on the sand. Okay, on the sidewalk in suburban San Francisco. Whatever. In my mind I was on the beach being chased by Simon LeBon. Stop looking at me like that.

I flirted with punk bands, turned my nose up at Country and fell in love with Mozart during my teen years, but my heart stayed with the 60s and I memorized the top of the charts for the decade. The Beatles and Donovan, Doors and Joplin -- they're still inside with Diana Ross just waiting for my big moment. Now I just need my mom to turn off that damn Manilow tape and become the backup singer I know lurks inside.

Snappy, eh? This column originally ran at An Army of Ermas but I loved it too much to not recycle.

The Girls' Ghost Guide - looking for interviewees ages 10-14 yrs

2010-11-07T19:51:00.001-05:00

The glare of lightning ripped through the night-filled house. Flattening myself against the far wall, I watched with my team as a figure pulled from the darkness and into a blurry slow-motion sprint. A woman in torn, bloody clothing stumbled with her arms outstretched, her mouth open in a silent scream as her unseen attacker chased her down the hall. The vision lasted seconds but the residual haunting had imprinted itself upon the house, always replayed when storms kicked up the atmosphere on a fingertip of land jutting into the Chesapeake Bay. My breath escaped in a single quick rush as the temperature in the room returned to normal from the chilly air moments before. Giving my colleagues a quick wink, I knew this wasn’t going to be our average haunting. Writing down my notes, I suspected I would be interrogated later by the most severe skeptics – my five daughters at home who waited impatiently for my return with new stories of the paranormal.

THAT is how I started off my latest proposal for The Girls' Ghost Guide and it's getting a nice sliver of notice. Thus I'd love to include y'all! I'm looking for girls, ages 10-14, with questions regarding:

    * ghosts
    * animal ghosts
    * spirit photography
    * how to conduct an investigation
    * what the heck do you do on an investigation
    * are television ghost hunters real or just good tv?

The Girls' Ghost Guide website will launch soon with quizzes, contests, photos and a question/answer forum.

Please email me for more information on contributing to The Girls' Ghost Guide at stacey.i.grahamATgmail.com.

Please visit Ask a Ghost Hunter and its sister site, Wee Ghosties : A Beginner's Guide to Ghost Hunting for more on my career as a ghost hunter.

Note: This is still in the proposal stage and does not have a book deal.... but I like to plan ahead. ;)

Queen of zomBcon... well, almost.

2010-11-03T11:12:00.005-04:00

What does Bruce Campbell, George Romero and myself all have in common? Not a thing until zomBcon, my friend. After last weekend's zombie-fest in Seattle, we still have very little in common but I do have a handy program guide with my name several pages away from theirs so I'm running with it.

Seattle was lovely and rainy (I expected nothing less) and stepping through puddles with friends made the experience infinitely richer. New friends and fellow panelists, Jesse Petersen - author of Married With Zombies, S.G. Browne - author of Breathers and the newly released Fated (you go buy nooooooooow), and Scott Kenemore of The Zen of Zombies and The Code of the Zombie Pirate (damn you for being funnier than me) made my first con fantastic.

Highlights:

Being accosted by Chuck Palahniuk of Fight Club fame.

My first book signing for Hungry For Your Love with the fabulous people at Barnes & Noble

Finally meeting one of my favorite people in person, Scott Browne

A dinner of "precious nuts in a pearly pool." I couldn't resist that, could I?

The plane trip home with a raging cold and my attempts to NaNo while my nose drooled. Good times, people. Goooood times.

ZomBfied by a hottie named Dexter.

Click to see it better, if you like. =]

Thank you, zomBcon!

The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published : review

2010-10-27T10:00:00.009-04:00

Released five years ago as Putting Your Passion Into Print, authors Arielle Eckstut and David Henry Sterry helped writers brave the waters and move forward in their quest for publication. Updated under a new title and including timely information about the importance of social media and the larger role for the author makes The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published a go-to book for writers - those experienced and not-yet-published. As social media becomes our word-of-mouth for the book business, Eckstut and Sterry go over how websites, blogging and communities specific to your topic (plus Twitter and Facebook) can help you establish a market and fan base for your book. I found particularly useful the sections regarding the business side of publishing. This is not a book on how to write a novel nor nonfiction title but practical advice on what comes next, taking the idea or finished project to the next step: how to pitch your ideas, finding an agent, connecting to your audience, and into working with your future editor and publisher with a separate chapter on self-publishing.

Interviews with authors and publishing insiders make the book more insightful than a compilation of steps, however. The authors’ own experiences in the world of publishing lends a credibility to the Guide, giving the book a more personal touch than I've found with many other authors on these subjects. I recommend The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published as a practical addition to the serious writer's personal library and will be using their advice in my own work as an author.

And now for the fun stuff *rubs hands together*

Beth Bartlett of Squiggle and I have teamed up for a double giveaway! (I can hear you cheering out there) Two chances to win a spankin' new copy of The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published from Workman Publishing.

Entering is a snap with three ways to win:

Follow @plaidearthworm (Beth) and I (@staceyigraham) on Twitter and mention the giveaway with a link back to our blogs, using the hashtag #GTBPgiveaway
Give both sites a "thumbs up" using StumbleUpon
Tell us on both blogs why you need this book in our comments section. Be sure to tell us if you are following us on Twitter - please leave your @ID and your email address so we are able to contact you if you win

Winner will be chosen November 2, 2010, by random.org and announced on both sites.

Good luck, Sparky!

photo credit: Workman Publishing

Don't hesitate to decapitate

2010-10-26T10:25:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was hopping with two interviews - the lovely and talented Eric S Brown's Q/A for Naked Snake Press and the most awesome book bloggers I've met out there, the Paperback Dolls with their Zombie Week questions and giveaway of HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE. As always, I try to keep things professional, dignified and slightly off.

A sample from the Paperback Dolls interview:

The Zombies are loose and the military is telling people to abandon their homes and seek refuge until the situation is contained. What books would you take with you if you could only bring three?

I'd be packing heat so I'd need Sarah Palin's Guide to Big Boom Sticks; 101 Ways to Cook Vermin and, of course, The Hooters Guide to Quantum Physics.

What is it about Zombies that attracts so many different types of people to read books or watch movies about them?

Zombies have a sense of humor. They're neither moody like vampires nor whiny like ghosts. They have the whole "I'm going to eat you" thing, sure, but at least you'll get a chuckle out of it before they bite through your skull. You can count on a zombie to take you to fun places. He may be chasing you through them but at some level you'll appreciate the gentle beauty of the Undead. Humans are attracted to zombies because they're not unlike the people we dated in college. Though with more potential.

If zombies could be put to sleep by reading boring books, what book would you use as a weapon?

I'd go with War and Peace. That way when they nod off I can hit them over the head with it. Remember those movies where the heroine knocks out the villain and starts doing her nails only to have him rise up in back of her with bad background music? Not me, baby. Don't hesitate to decapitate.

Thank you to both the Dolls and Eric!

If you've missed the AOL City's Best - Seattle interview for the upcoming zomBcon, it's a pip!

Hungry for your autograph? zomBcon schedule for next weekend!

2010-10-23T10:30:00.001-04:00

I'll admit, zomBcon is making me a little nervous. This will be my first book signing, first time on an author panel and the first time with mice in my hair. If you've met me before, you'll know I'm more freaked out about the mice than the other two. But for the sake of room in my suitcase for con swag, I'm going the easily-packable mice route so I can meet up with Melanie and her towering red beehive for me to wear on my favorite holiday.

I'd love to see y'all if you're around the Seattle area or during zomBcon!

My schedule:

Friday, October 29: 7p at the VIP cocktail party sippin' zombies and dirty martinis
Saturday, October 30: 12p at the Barnes & Noble - Seattle Center to sign copies of HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE
Saturday, October 30: 4-5p Author panel- Zombies are people too, with authors Scott Browne (Breathers), Scott Kenemore (Zen of Zombies) and Jesse Petersen (Married with Zombies) where I'll discuss the subtle nuances of Undead Lovin'. Better bring a wetnap.
Sunday, October 31: 4:30p - Eat and Greet

The Undead That Saved Christmas

2010-10-20T08:11:00.001-04:00

Sometimes it takes a village to help great kids have a fantastic Christmas. And sometimes that village is filled with scary, misshapen beasts that eat brains and have a distinct creep factor but enough about DC...

The Undead That Saved Christmas is the kind of stocking stuffer that only very odd children would appreciate but adults go nuts over. Filled with enough zombie action for the discerning Undead fan, it replaces the heart that the zombies ripped out moments before. Imagine THAT wrapped under the tree, eh?

Proceeds from the sale go directly to the Hugs Foster Family Agency in southern California to help with Christmas gift costs. I'm happy to be a part of this fun anthology with my short story, And to All a Good Fright. It's one of my personal favorites. Gather round, kids, for a little excerpt:

The elves never saw it coming. One minute Santa Claus was happily breaking and entering into houses and the next – dead as a Christmas cookie, crapped on by Comet.

“What the hell was that about?” Burley never minced words. It’s no wonder they kept him away from shopping malls when Santa popped in for a special occasion, he’d scare the crap out of the kids. Pulling a cigarette from behind a pointed ear, he scraped a match on the body lying on the snow-covered lawn and lit the sweet tobacco. His breath in short puffs, he attempted to keep it going against the coldness but with little luck. Throwing the stunted paper roll to the ground, he looked at his partner.

“Just one more cookie, just ooone more cookie!” Elmore paced around the body. His feet jangled with the regulation bells the main office made all elves wear on their shoes to show solidarity. Burley complained it was more like elf torture to hear the tingling of the silver spheres daily, his ears apparently more sensitive than his personality.

“Forget it. The old man is gone. What did he think? All those sweets for the past hundred years wouldn’t catch up to him? His only exercise was climbing those roofs one night a year, and damn – those reindeer were getting husky pulling his jolly red butt as he put on a little cookie weight.” Extending his stomach, Burley jiggled toward the Christmas icon, “Ho, ho, meh, whatever.” Clapping his hands together to get the blood circulating again in the cold, Burley looked around the neighborhood where bad luck and one-to-many Ding Dongs had stranded them.

Other excellent stories and carols by my friends Jason Tudor, Angie Mansfield and Beth Bartlett plus two little carols I, er, zombie-fied, are included, joining other zombie authors in this great book for a worthy cause.

Ho, ho... meh, whatever.

Trimming the tentacles

2010-10-15T17:13:00.002-04:00

No, no, I don't mean my recent haircut. But more on that later.

Yesterday I opened up a WIP that hasn't seen a lot of action lately due to other projects but it's still close to my heart. Almost. The main characters are strong, there's snappy dialogue and the pacing is good (if I do say so myself), however I have no fargin' idea where it's headed. Point A started off well but on its way to Point B it picked up a load of hitchhikers and sub-plots, making what should have been a great short story/novella into a many-tentacled octopus. I hate calamari.

The ending that was crystal-clear in the beginning is now muddied with pushy sub-characters and their agendas. I have no choice but to be the heavy and snuff a few.

What's your favorite way to kill off a character?

Re: hair. I've had waist-length hair for eight years and it was time for a drastic change. You'll see the new 'do on Thursday, October 21st, with my interview with Northern Virginia Daily (if all goes as planned). Stay tuned~

Latah playahs-
Stace

Photo credit: unknown

Excerpt from Eye of the Beholder in HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE

2010-10-13T17:04:00.001-04:00

by Stacey Graham

Anna left the theater with the theme song swelling her head. Escaping through the fire exit door, she skirted around couples holding hands as they whispered about the credits. She had candy stuffed into her bag and a soda stain on her skirt, who would care if she stuck to the shadows? Stepping out of the alley, she attempted to hug the dirty brick walls lining New York City’s Time Square and avoid the tourists dressed in their best vacation gear, price tags still attached to the collars.

Eyes fixed on the filthy oil and God-knows-what stained concrete beneath her feet; Anna crossed Broadway, her hands clutching the cheap purse she’d bought on Canal Street weeks before. The smell of formaldehyde still clinging to the fabric, the bag reminded her of her last boyfriend: small, stinky and not worth the money she’d spent on it – but she loved it. It was unfortunate that the chemicals used in making the bag had created an adverse allergic reaction, seizing Anna’s ability to breathe and slowly suffocating her a few days later. When she awoke in the morgue, she held the purse in a death grip not content to release the faux Coach bag she’d died for, even in the half-life of the undead.

Through the excessive noise of the car horns and music of a half-naked cowboy, Anna’s eyes strayed from the pavement to a pair of lovers, caught in the harsh illumination of the street lamp that clashed with the gaudy lights of Times Square. Their hands wandering and lips smashed in unnatural angles against skin, Anna lingered too long watching, mentally betting against herself on how long it would be before one of them took a breath; one that didn’t include the other’s carbon dioxide. Her head turning back a moment too late, her body crashed into the figure dead ahead. As her cheek assaulted the soft gray wool of his suit jacket, she felt her skin tear away, leaving a rough spot that would take forever to patch up in the morning.

“Awesome,” she thought. “How much more putty does a girl have to go through to leave the house lately?” Clutching the torn skin on her face with her fingers, Anna turned to apologize. Zombie maintenance was getting expensive. Soon she’d be filling the holes with Spam in order to make it to the corner store, she thought with a wry grin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see.. What are you doing?” she said. The man in the suit was on his hands and knees in the deepening twilight searching the ground for something.

“Don’t step on it! I can’t get another one and those things squish. Sounds awful.” His hands groping blindly, she dropped beside him to help. Her eyes darting under the tabloid paper boxes, their innards stuffed with news of the apocalypse, she heard him chuckle. “I finally get a girl to notice me and she’s helping to find an eyeball.”

“I’ve heard worse pickup lines,” she joked. Having a bond with someone who understands the delicate nuance of rotting flesh and protruding cheekbones made up for any awkwardness over missing orbs. Dropping her purse to the ground to get a better look under the paper boxes, she heard a distinct POP.

"Oh crap, I’m sorry.” With a grimace, she raised her bag to find the squashed remains of a blue-veined eye, stuck to the bottom of her fake Coach Hobo. Peeling what was left from the leather, viscous eye goo leaving a trail from the bag, she gave it to the man now standing over her, one hand covering the gaping hole in face.

“Blech. I hate it when this happens, it was inevitable, however.” His auburn hair tussled from the hunt and patches of dirt on his knees, he looked more of a teenager than a grown zombie male slowly losing his parts due to a clumsy girl. Smiling at her now, she saw how his face was losing elasticity around the mouth, giving him a lopsided grin that she hoped he was going for.

---------------------------------------

For more of Eye of the Beholder in HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE, please click on the graphic above to purchase. Thanks!

Poe Haiku and contest at Innsmouth Free Press

2010-10-13T12:58:00.000-04:00

I'm late to the haiku game. My friend, Melanie Hooyenga, excels at it and has dedicated a blog to her haiku homage but I resisted. Eventually I came around as the zombies begged for a chance to try the 5-7-5 syllabic poems and the Zombie Dating Guide haikus took over my life.

Today I found the Innsmouth Free Press Poe Haiku contest via twitter. The heavens opened up (as I love Poe) and I let loose three poems that had nary a zombie. Care to try your hand? The contest closes October 15th and there are prizes, Internet! YAY! It's a dandy little website so take a look around, don't be shy!

My entries:

Children of Poe seek
Refuge in darkness while they
Paint eyes black and weep

The subtle ticking
Of secrets hidden beneath
The floor rots within

Poe was mistaken
It was no raven that brought
The gloom, it was but the night

Okay, I didn't say they were good. Show me those Poe poems, people! It's on like Donkey Kong...

photo credit: reddit

It all started with a little boo...

2010-10-12T19:08:00.000-04:00

Long before zombies stumbled into my life, I was writing little poems for kids -- usually centered around Halloween. As "Boo-ing" swept across the states years ago, I wrote my own for our neighborhood and whipped up a ghostie to accompany it in the goodie bag.

From my website, "You have been Boo'd":

Halloween is the perfect time for good little goblins to come out and play. Spread the fun by leaving a bag of goodies with the Wee Ghostie poem and drawing below on the doorstep of a friend or neighbor's house the week before Halloween but don't let them see you! Click on the ghostie below and save to your computer, then print him out to add to your goodie bag!

Goodie bag ideas:
Candy
Puzzles
Games
Halloween DVDs
Toys
Coloring pages
Crayons
Fake vampire teeth
Halloween makeup
Stickers

Include this poem and the directions with your Wee Ghostie bag:

It all started with a little BOO
A knock upon the door and off they flew!
Halloween is almost here, the leaves are flying by
The pumpkins are ripe, there’s a witch in the sky!
Wee Ghostie came by the light of the moon
Put him in your window, it’s not too soon!

You have been BOO'd!

Choose two families and pass on a treat, make a copy of the ghostie and add it in so they can join in the fun! Put your Wee Ghostie in the window so others will know you’re part of the party!

What traditions do you love at Halloween?

z-NOM-bie cupcakes

2010-10-05T20:45:00.002-04:00

I think I've finally turned the bend to crazytown.

I'm being interviewed tomorrow by a local newspaper and was requested to bring a copy of Hungry For Your Love and cupcakes. Apparently my baking skills have proceeded me. Thus I'm happy to comply on both counts. The girls chose the flavor (chocolate fudge for "dirt" of course. I had to stop Vyolette from being a method baker and going outside for more "flavor") and I picked up gummy eyeballs and the nastiest looking gummy hand I've ever seen. To be honest, this was the first gummy hand I've ever seen so sets the benchmark on vileness.

All went well as you can see:

Okay, so the grass is actually green but Photoshop got a little carried away...


Get it? "...as you can SEE?" I kill me.

Tune in soon for a link to the article where I hope that I don't look like a complete dork. Stop laughing.

Who put the Me in Meme?

2010-10-04T21:09:00.000-04:00

My lovely friend, author Adam Slade, has foisted a meme upon me. It buuuuuurns.

But I shall endeavor to live up to his lofty standards with ridiculous answers and slightly uncomfortable pauses.

Ahem:

A Meme

1. If you could have any superpower, what would you have? Why?

What the what? You don't think popping out five kids and not becoming a complete nutter in the process isn't a superpower? You're grounded.

2. Who is your style icon?

Writing-wise: If I get even thisclose to being like Poe or Shirley Jackson, I'll die a happy yet angsty woman. I may be a little too perky, however.

Fashion-wise: I tend to favor the Dolly Parton school o'fashion and horticulture.

3. What is your favorite quote?

"Mom, I think I'm allergic to dumb." Vyolette Graham, four-years-old

4. What is the best compliment you’ve ever received?
I was told today on twitter, "I love that your pic makes everything you tweet, including eating poison M&Ms, seem like the best idea in the world." Awesome, eh? =]

5. What playlist/CD is in your CD player/iPod right now?

When Harry met Sally soundtrack. I have a deep and abiding love for all things classic and Cole Porter makes my whammy go bammy.

6. Are you a night owl or a morning person?

I'm a mid-morning person, meaning get the RY#$@ out of my way until I've consumed two cups of strong coffee and it's around 10:30am. Then I'm a vision of loveliness. Or mayhem. Whatever.

7. Do you prefer dogs or cats?

Dogs are a bit piquant so I'll take the cats this time though the bones are harder to pick out of your teeth.

8. What is the meaning behind your blog name?

Google was taken.

And now to inflict meme torture upon my unsuspecting friends:

Beth Bartlett from Wisecrack Zodiac
Angie Mansfield from The Zebra Rag just so I can get her to land for one flippin' minute and write me
Jason Tudor if he can squeeze me in because he's the busiest man I know =]
Amy Mullis because that chick makes me giggle at Mind over Mullis
Terri Coop as one of my newest Ermas and I love her so at Why I Fear Clowns

And now we dance.

2010-10-01T14:55:00.001-04:00

Hungry For Your Love released Wednesday to great fanfare and a headcold. I think the fanfare was, in fact, my blowing my nose repeatedly as Vyolette kept checking for elephants outside, the rotten kid. This was not exactly how I imagined seeing my name in a book for the first time but I rolled with it as per my nature. And I would have scared small children if I had ventured far that day. Whatever.

Ergo today Vyo and I scoured Borders for the copies listed on their website as being in the store. I searched the stacks, stalked the tables and finally gave up after finding her complaining to the checkout toys that her mama was a bit odd. Resigned to come back another day, I backed into a shelving cart. There, snuggled next to my buddy, Kelly Meding's excellent novels, were the lone two copies ready to be thrust onto an unsuspecting and zombie-hungry audience. I thought I heard angels for a moment but it turned out to be Vyolette's delicate digestive system. Hey, you take what you can get.

Grinning like a fool, I walked my lovely (and huge) copy to the checkout stand and tried to be cool. You know, cause I'm an author. That lasted about 30 seconds until I casually flipped to my story and held it under the poor man's nose who was asking about my Borders card.

"ME!" I said.

"You know the author?" said he.

"YES!" Pointing to myself, "I'm one of them. I'm her, that's me!" I could tell he was impressed by my command of the English language. I just have that writer vibe.

Reaching for the phone, I thought he was about to call security but instead I discussed future book signings with the very nice field manager who told me the manager had a thing for zombies and local babes who write about zombies. Okay, maybe not the last part but it could happen.

And now we dance.

Hungry For Your Love giveaway at Wisecrack Zodiac

2010-09-24T10:34:00.000-04:00

Beth Bartlett, that harridan of horrorscopes at Wisecrack Zodiac is celebrating Zombie Week with interviews from writer/editor of The Undead That Saved Christmas Lyle Perez-Tinic and myself with a signed giveaway of Hungry For Your Love! Today is your last chance to enter with a horrorscope of your own. Show me whatcha got, baby!

12 minute childbirth and how I learned to appreciate epidurals

2010-09-19T09:50:00.000-04:00

If it hadn't been for my husband's toothache, I would have crossed my legs and never let my third daughter burst into the world like a bullet. The nurse's tender words, "get your butt over HERE, woman!" and "why did you wait until the last minute to get here, don't you know you're having a baby?" are now carefully recorded in Wynter's baby book, lovingly cherished along with a coffee cup and dried belly button.

Wynter arrived during a lull in the one of the worst snowstorms in Portland, Oregon's long history. Christmas morning lay bright and shiny outside as my husband dragged me from our apartment and into the car, locking himself out and yelling at 5am to reach over and fiddle with the lock. In pain and enormous with the miracle of birth imminent, I was busy trying to not have our baby's first sight that of snowy floor mats while finding a Dora barrette to clip the cord in case I had to deliver the baby myself - he was on his own. Laying the seat down, I counted to ten as the contractions came hard and fast and I promised myself I would never...ever...have sex again. Reaching the emergency room moments later, I leapt out with the grace of a drunken reindeer and staggered bowlegged to the door.

"I'm having a baby!" I yelled to the five people sitting in the cavernous room. The security guards barely looked up, I had interrupted their conversation of whose holiday bonus was less. The admitting nurse had dozed off, drooling against the gray partition, her face partially covered by a festive Santa hat.

Festive, my butt.

"I’m having a baby RIGHT NOW, get me UPSTAIRS!" this time I squatted to give more emphasis to the urgency of the situation. Either the prospect of a healthy lawsuit or the fact that he'd have to clean up placenta pierced the foggy brain of one of the security guards. With lightening speed that would have impressed, well, no one, he swaggered over to me with a wobbly wheelchair and motioned with his coffee cup to jump in. Passing me his cup, he started on the long trek to the Maternity Ward, only getting lost in his own workplace twice.

"The elevators are closed down for the night, think you could walk up to the fourth floor?" he said.

"You're kidding, right? I know you're kidding because otherwise I would have to kill you and bury the body in my backyard and I'm RUNNING OUT OF SPACE!" I answered. I've seen fear in a man's eyes before, usually when I'm buying tampons in bulk and a shotgun. I knew he'd find a way to get me upstairs.

Magically, keys appeared out of a back pocket and opened the elevator and we were swept aloft to the Maternity Ward where I was taken over by a nurse who joked, "We heard you pushing in the elevator." She was hilarious. Really. Reaching my room, I kicked away the wheelchair footplates set up to trip patients in casts and hiked up my nightie while pushing off my boots with my feet. Rolling onto the bed, the nurse laughed as I asked for meds, whatever they had, and lots of it. She thought I was kidding.

My husband burst through the door minutes later, complaining of the toothache that had woken us up twenty minutes before, dodging the boot I threw at him in commiseration.

"You haven't had her, yet? You know, my mom had nine children and never complained once during labor. Why are you so grouchy? It's Christmas!" Vowing to bury his body next to the security guard, I grabbed the sides of the bed and started to howl.

"Where are the drugs? GET ME THE DRUGS!" I pleaded. My guts were being ripped out of my eye sockets and the nurse giggled that they'd never make it in time so I'd better hold onto something. Grabbing my husband by the leg, I punctured his jeans with dagger-like fingers and smiled grimly when I saw tears spring up, so far it had been the only bright spot in my morning.

Finally looking under the sheet, the nurse in her clean pink scrubs had the nerve to look surprised when Wynter's head started its initial push into the world. Coming to stand next to my head to check the monitors she said, "Hey now, you can't push yet. Your doctor isn't here, can you hold it?" Backing away slowly when she saw my hands reaching for her leg, she hurried to the business part of my labor.

"Ok, here she comes. You need to move to your left, your LEFT! Why are you on your side? Get your butt over HERE, woman!" Curling as well as a highly pregnant woman can, I had scooted myself nearly off the bed trying to escape the contractions. Muttering under her breath, I could hear the nurse wondering why some people waited until the last minute to come to the hospital, ruining her breakfast and interrupting the poker game at the nurses' station. Vowing to find more room in the backyard, I moved to the end of the bed and started to yell. Not out of pain but because I couldn't reach anything blunt and heavy to heave at her.

"If you push too soon, you'll damage yourself and the baby. Let's take some cleansing breaths...one...two...how did you get that oxygen tank over your head?" She was looking more concerned. "Er, I think you're ready to push now."

One mighty push later, my husband caught our slippery daughter as she exploded into the world. Whisked away for a quick rubdown by the nurse, we watched as she slowly became aware of her surroundings, blinking in the gray light of dawn outside our window.

Wynter still wakes at sunrise to drink hot chocolate from the coffee cup we snatched from the hospital security guard. Her enthusiasm for each new day reminds me to fully participate in life, becoming aware of the beauty that surrounds us...and to move to a larger backyard with each subsequent pregnancy.

-------------------------------------

This column first appeared at An Army of Ermas.

Murder at Mansfield Park: book review

2010-09-12T12:16:00.000-04:00


Photo credit: Amazon.com

Wrapped in the delicious language of Jane Austen, Lynn Shepherd's MURDER AT MANSFIELD PARK takes the insipidity of Fanny Price and exposed her for what we all knew lurked inside: a raging mean girl with a hint of the devil. Turning Manfield Park on its ear with Price's murder, Shepherd introduces us to a heroine whose mettle is equal to any man - Mary Crawford. Many familiar with Austen's Mansfield Park have wondered why Crawford wasn't the true heroine; her wit, charm and resourcefulness drew us in even though we knew she was inherently bad for us - almost the perfect Austen bad boy in that respect - but we see in MURDER AT MANSFIELD PARK that her character is deeper, her sensibility unmatched and her loyalty unwavering when faced with questions regarding the demise of Price and its ultimate conclusion with the assistance of thief taker, Charles Maddox.

Maddox brings a new dimension to the usual Austen-esque stories. His methods of extracting information cross the boundaries of socially acceptable and the inhabitants of Mansfield Park are uncomfortable with the man they've chosen to help solve the mystery and bring the murderer to justice. That feeling of unease helps to keep the reader on edge. Maddox softens toward Mary as her reliable spirit and keen eye help him to sort through information but does it blind him to her involvement? His own prejudice forged from experience in the streets of London may have him chasing the wrong man...

Shepherd's skill as a storyteller is excellent. I was looking forward to this book before its release and I was not disappointed. The ending was suspenseful and well crafted, the characters rich and fully developed. I can't wait to read more from Shepherd, I'm saving space right next to my copy of Austen's PERSUASION.

King Nerd

2010-09-11T18:51:00.000-04:00

Photo credit: Hollywoodgothique.com

My husband is a bit competitive when it comes to er, most everything, and this fall's chili cook-off at his work is no exception. Last year's entry of pumpkin chili in a carved pumpkin bowl was stunning but he forgot to enter it on time and it became a lovely centerpiece in his cube. Yeah. He's competitive but doesn't own a watch. Luckily for his ego, he entered and won the costume contest as King Nerd. Guess what he does for a living? That makes me Queen Nerd. Yaaay.

This year, we're making vegetarian curried chili. He's concentrating on his pumpkin carving skills and my job is to cheer him on in a low-cut witch costume. I'm not sure how I got dragged into the equation but he swears the other wives will be there doing the same. I think I'm being set up.

Writing-wise:

The book proposal for ZDG has been spiffed up and sent on its way with an affectionate smack on the bottom
The Undead That Saved Christmas will be out October 1st. Look for my short story And To All a Good Fright plus two zombie Christmas Carols (more carols to come on the website in December)
Hungry For Your Love will be unbound and staggering toward your favorite bookseller September 29th
I'm folding up Undead Fred into my carry-on! I've been asked to appear as a panelist at zomBcon, Halloween weekend in Seattle. Come and see me!

Zombie wrastlin' and author interviews

2010-09-02T15:25:00.000-04:00

I love doing interviews. My husband would call it "narcissism" but I prefer to think of it as me sharing my awesomeness with the world. You're welcome.

Now that my husband is happy that he's made it onto the blog, I'll get down to why I really like interviews. Aside from answering [usually] silly questions, I meet wonderful people that really *love* books. Many are authors themselves so they know it's not all fast cars, cheap hookers and booze in my daily life - okay, maybe the fast cars and booze - and they're supportive of friends and the authors they admire. It's a great way to get to know an author while we are able to wave hello and show off our literary tattoos. I know I've found many excellent new books via interviews and look forward to blog tours to add to my towering to-be-read pile.

Slush Pile Hero, had me on her blog today where I discuss hot button topics such as cupcakes and rolling zombies for change. Soon, Beth Bartlett from Wisecrack Zodiac will shake my bad thing in her followers' general direction as she announces Zombie Week and a giveaway of HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE at her facebook fan page.

So, Internet, what kind of questions do you like to see authors answer?

Give me a holler if you'd like goofiness on your book blog, I'll make a fresh batch o'cupcakes. =]

Old People Are a Menace

2010-08-29T12:32:00.000-04:00


Photo credit: Edlink12.com

I love frogs. So much so that I felt like giggling over a piece I wrote for An Army of Ermas last June and thought I'd recycle it here. Love you, Papa!

Old People Are a Menace

There. I said it.

My parents are in their mid-70s, one with advancing Parkinson's Disease but doing well and the other regularly lifted 80 lbs of chicken feed weekly for her crazy brood on her tiny farm. Since last Sunday was my birthday (and Father's Day), I received phone calls and made them as per the holiday:

Me: Happy Father's Day, Dad! What's new in the world of Parkinson's? (seriously, it started out like this)

Dad: I feel great. We're moving forward with a new therapy - the hyperbaric chamber. It will push oxygen into my brain to help it function better.

Me: So you'll essentially blow up like a frog in biology class?

Dad: That would be fun, but no.

Me: Can you text me while they're doing it?

Dad: No. But I'll hum.

Me: Hum?

Dad: Yes, it will keep my mind off of things. You know, like, being pumped full of oxygen. And now I'll be thinking of frogs.

Me: Sorry. Can you take photos while you're in there? I haven't seen a hyperbaric chamber before.

Dad: *sigh* No.

Me: You're no fun. Want to see the new tattoo I got for my birthday? I can text you so you have something to look at in the Chaaaaaaaamber.

Dad: No... Is it a frog?

Me: No. I'm just kidding. I got a nose piercing instead.

Dad: Good. Save the tattoo for when you hit fifty.

Me: Dad, Bev (sister) told me you like peanuts a lot lately.

Dad: Yeeeeess, why?

Me: I heard you should probably request a blue hearing aid next time too. They don't have the same crunch as a peanut but they are a bit more expensive. Just sayin'.

Dad: Shut up.

Me: What? I can't hear you? I'm enjoying a delicious snack of hearing aid peanuts.

Dad: [hangs up]

While on the phone with my Dad, my Mother called and left a voicemail:

Mom: Staaaacey? Can you wish Bryan (husband) a very happy Father's Day? I hope he has a wonderful day with his fabulous daughters - and you too. I don't want to use up all the tape on this message (tape? on a voicemail?) but I just wanted to tell him Happy Father's Day.

I'll be sure to tell him. Right after I call my shrink about how both parents forgot to wish me a happy birthday though they've both essentially spoken to me that day.

Callback to mom:

Me: Hey Mom. I told Bryan he's fabulous.

Mom: Thanks. Did you make him a cake? Men like cakes.

Me: Yes, Mom. Chocolate with strawberries. You know, how I like on my birthday.

Mom: Yes, well, about that...

Me: What?

Mom: I forgot to send your card with $5 in it.

Me: No problem, I'll bill you later.

Mom: Oh, you. And tell Bryan his is coming too.

Me: It's not his birthday.

Mom: I know. But I can't make him a cake and your skills are, well, in another direction.

Mom: Why are you humming?

Me: I'm thinking of frogs.

Mom: My children are weird. [hangs up]

I love the little humans, them humans what I love to eat. I bite their tiny heads off...

2010-08-27T13:15:00.001-04:00

... and nibble on their tiny feet.

HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE is staggering its way to your local bookstore, September 28th (available for pre-order at Amazon now) and I couldn't be more excited. I'm awaiting word on author readings around Halloween but don't be surprised to see me pop up at zombie walks in and around Washington, D.C. with a wagon full of books to sign.

I'm currently working on opening a shop for The Zombie Dating Guide, chock full of dating tips/t-shirts/magnets and other goodies to stuff your dorm room with Undead goodness. What are other items you'd like to see?

What kind of critique partner are you?

2010-08-23T15:54:00.001-04:00

The last few weeks of summer vacation have me shoving all sorts of goodies into the family memory bag: tubing down the Shenandoah, water parks, DC with friends, and me showing the girls the right way to throw elbows at the outlet stores for back-to-school clothes. That Coach bag is MINE, beyotch! But I digress.

Taking a break today, I found a few occurrences of writers and industry professionals asking/telling about critiques. How they give them and what ultimately the writer is looking for when it comes to feedback. I'm afraid I fall into the "don't blow sunshine up anyone's butt" category, while still leaving a bit of ego intact for the writer. I'm not cruel but I am honest. In the past year, however, I've learned the Kiss-Kiss-Kill-Kiss method that works in a variety of instances but for our purposes, we'll adhere it to manuscript/article critiques.

The premise is simple: say two nice things about the piece, one thing that can be improved in your opinion and follow it up with another positive thing. Reinforce the good stuff without leaving out the bits that need help. Rinse and repeat as necessary.

You'd be surprised how well this works with husbands. I never have to do the dishes again. ;)

Are you a long lost sister of the Bradys when it comes to critiques or can put the beatdown on Cruella?

Deadlines.

2010-08-19T18:08:00.000-04:00

While making some adjustments to An Army of Erma's writer schedule, I forgot to include the one thing every writer needs: a deadline. Many of us may say we have it covered, we mean to start first thing in the morning and whip out a chapter or an article by the next day but, in my own case at least, I need a firm date circled in red on the calendar that I can ignore until the last minute.

My writers are professionals. They also have very busy lives and things come up so when I tossed out the new format without a deadline, I heard crickets until a few days ago when I put down a date. Then people came out of the woodwork, I think relieved that I had given them something to shoot for. I have every confidence that we'll fill up Ermas with excellent columns but next time I need content -- they get the date circled in red.

Do you need a deadline?

Identity crisis and clown cars

2010-08-16T20:06:00.002-04:00

My blog has been going through an identity crisis for weeks now. If you're a regular reader (hi Mom!) you may have noticed the clown car of blog templates running through here faster than Lohan going through rehab. The busier I get, the more I want to fix what ain't broke. I can't tell if it's OCD or if I'm flexing that Gemini awesomeness (i.e. ADD) again.

Nevertheless, I'm going to stick with this one for a while, I love the orange and swirly bits on the Zombie Dating Guide website so I'll try to link the two together in readers' minds as suggested by Beth from Wisecrack Zodiac. That woman is clever.

When do you get the urge to change your blog design? What colors or style do you look for?

Updates on writing:

Zombie Christmas carols and a short story submitted for the upcoming The Undead That Saved Christmas anthology
Futzing around with a ghost-themed romance short story
Flirting with NaNoWriMo
I've added Undead Fred's Top Ten Zombie Dating Tips to BuzzFeed

Get this. Someone thinks I'm strange. Well, duh.

2010-08-13T11:39:00.000-04:00

Fresh on the heels of my spectacular win at Harley May's blog for the book NUMB by Sean Ferrell (I can't stop plugging this book, he'd better send me extra cupcakes), I discovered I was nominated for the Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits Award by brilliant writer S.S. Michaels at Slush Pile Hero. I have no idea how she came to this conclusion that I deserved an award for being... odd. Shut up.

So, to claim my award, I'll shake my bad thang and post it with pride from her website:

Cate Gardner’s story collection ‘Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits’ is forthcoming this October from Strange Publications. In honor of her new book Cate is holding a contest for the Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits Award. You can find out about the award and see the prizes here.

Without further ado, my own strange seven. Not as grand as the Magnificent Seven but I suspect they were just showing off.

Beth Bartlett at Wisecrack Zodiac because I love astrological rhyming.
Amy Mullis at Mind Over Mullis because I can't get that cat yoga column at An Army of Ermas out of my head. My lawyers will be contacting you soon.
Harley May because she thinks I'm pretty. Aaaaaaaaand, she's weird. Oh yeah, I went there.
Angie Mansfield. I can't decide between her talking Jade plant, Fred, and the Zebra Rag. Both equally fascinating. It's nice to see a girl letting the voices in her head take over once in a while.
Melanie Avila - she speaks for her dog. Yeah. I thought so too. (Disclaimer: Owen is the cutest puppy next to my two dogs I've ever seen. Yes he is. Yes he iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis).
Jason Tudor because no list would be complete without the author of Galactic Milk and the illustrator of the Zombie Tarot.
Adam Slade at Editing Hat because my daughter and I can't stop laughing over his recent release, The Reaper's Tale.

And the rules of this award, because there's always a catch (from Cate's blog):

1. Add the logo of the award to your blog post.
2. Add a link to the person who awarded it to you (don’t mess with strange people).
3. Nominate seven other blogs telling us why you think the recipient is strange enough to deserve the award.
4. Leave a message for those nominated on their blogs.
5. And, if you email catephoenix(at)gmail(dot)com and tell her you’ve received the award for your strangeness, she’ll enter you in the biggest kick-ass Strange Men competition ever. Details over at strangemeninpinstripesuits.com (click on the award link on the home page)

I feel NUMB.

2010-08-12T10:33:00.000-04:00

Well that was a close one.

Harley May announced the winners of her contest for Sean Ferrell's book, NUMB this morning and I was among the lucky ones though I think it was more of a pity win than an actual smackdown. After seeing the thought, talent and blatant OCD displayed by the other winners, I barely squeaked by.

Thank you Harley and Sean!

Lions, potato men and Numb -- just another day in Paradise.

2010-08-04T22:33:00.001-04:00

I have no idea what this has to do with humankind's inner struggle

Because I love Harley May so, when she said, "Hey Stace, let's make people do evil things in order to win this fabulous ARC from Sean Ferrell for his new book, NUMB." I said, "Where do I sign up?" Like I usually do. Then we braided each other's hair.

Harley's contest was for my interpretation of key scenes in the novel. I, naturally, took the most dangerous, by which I mean what I had on hand, with the lion bitchslapfest. Yes. I made up that word. Bite me, lion.

No. That is not winky on Potato Man, it's an elephant trunk. Mark Henry is just going to have to search elsewhere for debauchery. Sheez, people.

Yoga for writers, no zombies, no writers -- wait, same thing.

2010-08-02T19:15:00.001-04:00

I've been writing about the Undead for so long that my body started to emulate one a bit too closely this week. So I huffed and I puffed and let my husband drag me up and down the mountain along the section of Appalachian Trail that is at the base of our lane in Virginia. In the next book - he dies. The man who swore to love me forever apparently hid the vows that swore to burst my lungs with exercise after weeks of having my butt in a chair.

Ergo, I was a bit stiff. Not bad for a zombie but bad for a woman of my middle-aged years who wants to see the nether end of them. After icing myself off with a margarita upon our return, I vowed to return to yoga and the the suppleness of my youth. Yeaaaaaaaaaaah.

Today I started out with an easy stretch over my head. Both arms extended to where I guessed was the sun on this foggy humid day. Thank god I brought along more margaritas. A girl can't get parched, you know. Bad for the muscle tissues. Stretch is done, I feel magnificent. Pulling one elbow to the back of my head and drawing the hand down to my bra strap to be grasped by my other hand doing who the heck knows what but it did manage to tickle, I felt the gentle burn of biceps that hadn't been used for much more than typing words like "putrification" and "chased by men with pitchforks" in many moons. I was a goddess.

Moving on, I propped up a leg on my chair with my best Captain imitation, reminded myself that I needed more rum next time I exercised, and stretched out my leg, arm and core with an enthusiastic Warrior pose. The photo has been destroyed. You're welcome.

Next was my back and thigh muscle thingys so folding forward and clasping my hands together beneath my knees while seated, I managed to squish the crap out of my boobs in an effort to save my back. Hell no. I did, however, find the candy wrapper my er, dog, left behind under the desk. *licks fingers*

Wanting to pace myself, I went straight into corpse pose for writers. The phone call to my husband higlighting the exhaustive effort I put into today's routine of superior fitness. Tomorrow -- belly dancing!

Headstones a Go-Go

2010-07-29T09:49:00.001-04:00

This one puzzles me. The hand
points to Heaven but the skulls?
Perhaps a clock?

All right. I admit it, I'm a bit spooky. While this may not come as much of a surprise to some, to others I'm the Girl Scout mom with five daughters that gets funny at parties and occasionally writes about "things." Little do they know...

I've been a ghost story writer for most of my career, in fact, my first online publications were via The Shadowlands though I never thought of those tidbits as building a portfolio - otherwise I would have spent a little more time on them, yeesh. ;) And while zombies occupy my time now, ghosts are never that far from my writing schedule. As such, I love to take my girls to local graveyards for inspiration. Not only for the history they provide and the connection to the community but also for the amazing art found on the stones. My early days as an archaeologist and historian focused on burial customs and the folklore surrounding death plus the symbols left behind to comfort the living so it also takes me back to my roots.

Butterfly: a life cut short

Earlier this week, I took two daughters to Mount Hebron Cemetery for a mini art history lesson. The cemetery fascinates me as it's on the spot of the 3rd Battle of Winchester fought during the Civil War (though you can't throw a headstone without finding a battlefield in northern Virginia). At the eastern end of the cemetery there is a large Confederate section holding the bodies of 3000 soldiers. Generals are buried there but most of the others were planted where they fell in battle, leaving untidy rows. Union soldiers are found separately and only accessible if you leave the cemetery completely, head down the street and enter through another gate into the walled off section. Having dealt with zombies lately, I have no doubt the South would rise again if possible and climb the walls.

My current short story WIP deals with ghosts, pirates and betrayal. After this week, don't be surprised if a soldier pops in as well. ;)

Tripping the Lights Fantastic - #Zombie flash fiction

2010-07-28T18:26:00.000-04:00

Oh well. You win some... you don't win some. The zombie flash fiction contest has found some lovely winners albeit it was neither me nor my friends' entries here and here (which were awesome, please visit). So where do I stash the bodies? Here, of course.

I give you the losing flash fiction submission:

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Tripping the Lights Fantastic
by Stacey Graham

Piper hated this part. Her hand shaking as she focused on her face, she raised the bubblegum pink lipstick to her lips and swiped the sticky formula over what passed for a smile, her lips eaten long ago by an overzealous herd of maggots.

"There. I'm freakin' perfect." Turning her head so Maggie could check the results of her makeup job, Piper closed her eyes against the gasp she'd come to expect. Determined to not have the lack of a pulse diminish her night out, she pulled Maggie to the door. "Come on. I bet we even meet a guy who can still form full sentences."

Stepping into the night, Piper felt the pull of the music from the bar. Her feet shuffled not from dislocation but from disco and she loved it.

“Maggie. Hurry up. By the time we get there, all the good men will be gone. I hate being stuck with the moldy ones.”

An object struck her head from behind. Her neck cracked as she turned to see what was on the dirty sidewalk. A finger. Maggie’s middle one. “Very funny.”

What Maggie lacked in vocal chords she made up for in questionable moral support. Piper couldn’t imagine going through Zombification without her best friend; she hoped Maggie would forgive her for that one tiny incident that dragged her down Hell’s Highway. She couldn’t help herself – one minute Maggie was yammering away about her fiancé and the next, she was lying in a pool of gore at Piper’s feet.

Piper tried to make it up to her. Maggie’s asshole of a fiancé took off with another woman before her body was cold. The permanent sneer on her face left by rotting gums a subtle reminder that love sucks. Piper fell behind her truculent friend and pushed her toward the smoky doorway of the bar.

“Dude! Cervesas” Piper’s voice barely made a dent in the boom boom of the music as she staggered to the bar. Maggie fell back against the doorway, the chipped wood framing a delicate woman abused by fate and wounds that went deeper than the zombie virus. Raising her hand to shield her gaping mouth, it shook as she locked eyes with her ex-fiancé.

Smiling, Paulie said, “Maggie! I thought your friend over there had finished the job. Stupid bitch can’t even do that right.” Tossing his head toward Piper, his hand followed spilling beer over the closet table and onto the patrons. “Say, you still look like you have all the right parts. I need you, Baby.”

His eyes grazing her body, Maggie felt revulsion and something new – control. Taking his hand, Maggie led him outside into the muggy night, proceeding to rip his heart out as he had done to hers then returned inside.

“Maggie? Girl, did you get lucky?” Piper carried two large pints toward her friend. In the dull light of the bar, Maggie looked almost happy. Licking her fingers, she made her way to the dance floor.