In which I am breaking up with Reebok

So yesterday the husband and I had a lunch date complete with shopping. Since the husband needed new athletic shoes, our first stop was the Reebok outlet where he found what he needed and I noticed some cute Puma-like black suede thingies on clearance. The box was marked $29, but since they were the wrong size, I grabbed a half-size down and headed for the check-out. They rang up at $49, so I offered to go and get the correctly marked box for the clerk. When I returned, he pointed out that the ones marked $29 were actually men's shoes and that mine were correctly priced at $49. I stood there for a second, working out the sexist math. "But these are identical shoes, right?" "Oh, yes. Identical." "And you're charging me $20 more for mine because I'm a woman." AND HE SAID YES.

Seriously. It's the twenty-first century and they are charging close to twice the price for the same shoe just because I have ovaries. Actually, if we want to split shoelaces here, it was LESS shoe because the men's shoe was larger. So they are charging me almost double and offering me less product. Because of my gender. Nice.

And here's the thing, I've been with you for years, Reebok. Mine was the generation that put you on the map with our leggings and tights and slouchy socks. We danced to Madonna's first album in you. We practiced our pep squad routines in you and wore you on dates. We wore you every single day in college. We wore you BEFORE "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". But if this is how you're going to treat us, we're done. I'm going to be seeing other companies,and no, I'm pretty sure we can't still be friends, and just so you know, it's not me, it's you.

Hey, Puma, call me. We'll see how it goes...

In which we catch up

General miscellany today, my friends. First, Silent on the Moor has made Murder by the Book's bestseller list for 2009 so far! Much love to the indie bookstores for all of their hard work in handselling my books to their loyal customers. I LOVE Murder by the Book, a Houston landmark, and have had some fantastic signings there. (And they ship!)

The Halloween decorations did not make it up this weekend due to vagaries in the weather and general malaise around our house. Well, not so much malaise as "I would rather take a two-hour nap than wrestle with a life-size plywood witch." But they are going up this morning without fail and this weekend we should finally get to the farmstand to buy our pumpkins, cornstalks, and gourds.

And third, I recently subscribed to some of the goodies from Daily Om and cannot recommend them highly enough. There are all sorts of resources for living a more centered and mindful life, and I am thoroughly enjoying my daily emails. Somehow they manage to send me precisely the right topic at precisely the right time. I've found them so timely I have tucked several away in a folder in my inbox to read again when the same situations come around. There's even a Daily Om book in bookstores now!

Lastly, this morning the dog woofed and woke me up from a dream in which I was initiating a shuttle launch. I have never had any desire to go into space, so either this dream is metaphorical or my subconscious has latched onto the five minutes of "Space Camp" I watched the other day. (Which, I would like to point out, is a VERY good film to remember when you're playing the Kevin Bacon game...)

In which we contemplate lust

Oh, dear, are you blushing already? Never fear, this blog stands firmly at PG13. But we can certainly talk about lust in an intellectual vein, can't we? Of course we can. We're grown-ups and world-weary creatures of sophistication, so the most obvious forms of lust are entirely familiar to us. But the fourth definition of lust is simply "ardent enthusiasm". So I am curious to know, what stirs your lusts? Do you have a lust to create? To share your passions with others? To connect? To work? To exert yourself? By its many definitions, lust is ACTIVE. It engages us, all of us, every sense of every organ and all the cells between. It stirs us up and demands we get off the couch and do. It's the call of the wild, beating in our blood like a tom-tom, and it's the sound of our own heartbeat if we listen closely enough. Lust is how you know you're alive, because the minute that animal enthusiasm flags, the moment that primitive tribal beat goes silent, we die a little. One cannot be blase and truly live. So what fires up your senses and whispers a reminder in your ear that you LIVE?

In which it's the Halloween season!

Alright, we may be pushing it a bit here, but I don't care. I adore Halloween, and since I live with a person for whom Halloween is an occupational hazard, it gets a lot of attention around here. This weekend we are decorating for the season--pumpkins and cornstalks and, as the piece de resistance, an enormous silhouette of a witch and three black cats. (The pattern was in Martha Stewart Living a few years back. You can now buy the set completely pre-made at her website if you're afraid of a jigsaw. I mean, there's no shame in it. I have a totally healthy terror of power tools and I'm cool with it.)

I'm also just finishing up my annual reading of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. If you've never read it, DO. It's short--a tiny novella--but packed with the most delicious descriptions of harvest scenes imaginable. Perfect seasonal ready, and spooky rather than over-the-top scary. (And if you have any seasonal reads, please share!)

In which we're skiving off work

Because sometimes it's Friday and you just really, really need to know what your Hawaiian name is.

In which I ponder shopping

So lately I've been in a funk (whine, complain, yada, yada) and generally when I'm in a funk, I shop. Some of my worst purchases have come at a time of emotional fragility. We aren't even going to TALK about the flouncy black illusion petticoat I bought two years ago. (And if you're trying to picture it, don't think it was a demure crinoline. Oh, no, my friends. It was like a square dancing petticoat on steroids. I couldn't even close my closet door once it established a nest.)

Anyway, in the interests of fiscal responsibility I have been trying to analyze my spending patterns and shape them more wisely. I have discovered that I am a binge shopper. I will go for months without buying anything important, then suddenly I have half the living room redecorated and am getting thank-you notes from White House/Black Market in the mail. (Is it wrong when a retailer sends you birthday cards?) I spend more when I'm emotional, although this time I have curbed myself sufficiently to buy one magazine--Red!--and...good heavens, I think that's IT! There are no shameful surprises lurking in my closet as evidence of my feeling lowly, which I have to say I'm feeling rather proud of at present. I'm vastly impressed by the people who put themselves on spending freezes, but I am SO not one of them. I could never be constrained by the idea that I can't spend at all, but reading blogs by people who have taken the plunge to cut off their clothes shopping has inspired me to at least be more organized about mine.

Enter the iphone. I have made a list on my notepad of my clothing wishes. (It's organized AND it's attraction thinking, I figure.) I have tried to puzzle out the empty spots in my wardrobe and decide what best could fill them. So my list is a hodge-podge of flat equestrian boots, patterned blouses, and dark jeans, but at least I am not walking into a store in a state of trembling vulnerability. I'm hoping that having the list will keep me on track to finding precisely what I need to expand the wardrobe I already have. (Although a totally impractical sequinned cocktail dress is sometimes JUST what a girl needs. I make no promises.)

So how do you shop? Are you organized or do you just troll around for what looks good?

In which we are greedy

Today I'm pondering the next deadly sin on our list--greed. As with most of the other sins, greed by itself is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, money is not the root of all evil--the LOVE of money is. So wanting to have a bit more to ensure security is nothing to be deplored. But there are plenty of things to be greedy for that don't carry the same baggage as money, and that might be quite good for us in limitless supply.

Right now I am greedy for:
*time with my husband (Those 16 hour days are getting OLD. But his schedule will be human again as of Saturday--yay!)
*hours to read (I still have a stack of research books that need to be devoured as well as some pleasure reading I'd love to get to.)
*laughter (I haven't had a good case of the giggles recently and I'm overdue.)
*classic movies (I am not quite sure what's happened to film-making in the last few decades, but for every good movie that's come out in the past twenty years, I can find five better ones from the 30s-50s.)
*tea (No matter how many times I clean off my tea shelf in the pantry, it always gets crowded again. I don't remember actually buying tea; I think the canisters are breeding quietly when no one is looking. I have loads of favorites, but there are dozens more I want to try, and for those of you who live in cities with actual tea shops--you know the ones, they have loose tea tucked away in apothecary drawers--I envy you deeply.)
*scent (I have been pilfering my stash of candles and perfumes, scenting my rooms, pillows, lamps, myself. I can't seem to get enough of good smells right now, and even though I have enough fragrance to last me a good five years, I would not trust myself in Sephora in my current mood.)


So what are you greedy for, my friends? What harmless pleasures can you not get enough of?

In which the deadly sins just have to wait another day

Reader Karen made a timely request. Since today is the first day of fall, she wanted me to discuss autumnal pleasures. (And since it's one of my favorite days of the year, I am happy to comply.) So I give you a list of fall joys, all run together just for fun:

fallingleaves/crispapples/cinnamonwaftingthroughtheair/woodfirescracklinginthefirepit/sandalwoodcandles/cornhuskwreaths/chilisandsoupsandstewsinthepot/freshlybakedbread/teastastingofsmoke/handknittedsocks/thecaressofasweater/freshlysharpenedpencils/thefirstcupofcocoa/sconesscentedwithspice/roastedsquash/briskmorningsandeveningsbluewiththecold/patternedtightswornwithhigh-heeledMaryJanes/wellingtons/Russianamber/ghoststoriestochilltheblood/Halloween/puppiesrompingthroughpilesofleaves/pumpkins/WashingtonIrving/hotbutteredtoast/introspection/poetry/foreignfilms/airthatnips/Yankeepotroast/naps/collegefootball/juicypears/muskyperfumes/repose.

What are your autumn pleasures?

In which you just have to laugh

Okay, I know today is supposed to be a deadly sin day, but we'll save the sin for tomorrow and instead laugh about what a fiasco my "perfect day" was. It started with the pup deciding to get up every two hours because of tummy troubles--yes, I know the euphemism is twee, but believe me, it's better than the unvarnished truth. Anyway, the dog had us up at midnight, two, four, six, and seven. By the time we staggered out of bed, neither one of us was sure which way was up.

Instead of a leisurely morning, we attacked some projects on the property that needed attending to. (My daughter refers to anything that requires work gloves as Redneck Belle behavior.) We cleaned up and DID have a very nice birthday lunch for my father with far too much Italian food. I also wrote my quota and was very pleased with it, and this was followed by a birthday tea party, then more property work, dog walking, Mediterranean snacking for supper, and finally some Emmy action with popcorn. So, while I managed a few of the elements I wanted for Sunday, at least half of what I did was nowhere on the list--I had NO intention of laboring physically, I promise! I also managed a few loads of laundry in there and finished skimming three books, so it was a productive day.

I suppose the larger lesson is that as much as you can envision a perfect day, life intervenes, and the trick to salvaging a very good day is just to roll with it. And in all it was indeed a very good day.

In which I'm curious

Mostly about why I thought I had blogged today when I hadnt'! But beyond that, I'm curious about intentions. I've mentioned several times my work with intentions and how effective a tool they are for me. So far,I've used them in specific situations, but it suddenly occurred to me to wonder if I could use them to conjure a perfect day--or at least my version of one.

If I were to have a perfect Sunday today, it would go like this: Deacon would sleep in, which means we would sleep in. (I'm talking 7am here, so it isn't like I'm asking for the moon. He tends to get up about 5:30, so really anything past that is something to be happy about.) My husband makes breakfast every morning, which I love, and after that I would putter--topcoating my nails, walking the dog, and choosing an outfit for my father's birthday lunch. After feasting on Italian food, my husband leaves for work, and I would settle in to write a deeply satisfying scene. When I finish, I will have a healthy, light supper of Mediterranean nibblies--olives, pita, hummus, tomatoes. Then some reflective time for my journal and working on my aspirations list for the next year or my collage for the new book. Finally, I would settle into bed with my daughter and some popcorn and the Emmys, followed by some ghost stories before bedtime. It would be a day that balances me time with family and work, serious with silly, and lots of laughing.

We'll see how it goes as far as meeting those intentions, and in the meantime, what's your idea of a perfect Sunday, dear readers?

In which it's time to feel good

It's been one of those weeks, my dears. I've felt gloomy and snappish most of the week, and none of it is anything I have a right to complain about. As the too fabulous Jeff Lewis of "Flipping Out" would say, "Those are princess problems." (For example, I don't feel good grumping about my husband's current run of 16-hour days when I have friends whose husbands have been deployed. That kind of thing.)

Anyway, I've been trying a variety of mood elevators--none of them chemical--and one of the best has been music. I particularly love this because the song is catchy, it has a wonderful message, and I don't know if the video ever aired on "Sesame Street", but it looks precisely like the little "Sesame Street" features of my childhood. So, if you want to sing out, sing out, my friends. It's Friday.

In which I am done with margaritas

So the other evening I made my last margarita of the season and posted such on twitter, which prompted an outcry from margarita-lovers of my acquaintance. And then I realized that just as I read seasonally, so do I drink. In hot weather I like citrussy or tropical things--margaritas, limoncello, Malibu with orange juice--and sparkling wine like prosecco. Colder weather is for red wine and the occasional martini now that my editor has schooled me on the proper form. (Grey Goose with three olives.)

So, do you blend up your cocktails by season or does anything go at your house? (And I should point out that this is more precisely a weather-related issue than a calendar-dictated one. If I lived in Texas still it would be margarita season year-round...)

In which we chat about Dan Brown

Yesterday Reader Dan asked if I would be reading The Lost Symbol. I'm on page 99, actually. I'm immensely curious as to how he's going to follow up The Da Vinci Code, and I have great respect for what Dan Brown has accomplished. Yes, I know. Intellectuals like to turn up their noses and get sniffy about "commercial fiction". Since I am contrary, perhaps I like him because I'm not supposed to? Anyway, I do like him. Are his books flawed? Yep, and guess what? So are mine. All books are flawed to some degree or other because we're only human and we do the best we can, but any artistic endeavor is going to be a combination of the sublime and the ridiculous. Whether we're painting or writing or composing, we will always give you something that might have been improved upon. Hopefully, we get better with each attempt, but there will always be something we could have done more proficiently. One of the most difficult parts of writing is knowing when to let go and move on--thank God for deadlines or most of us would never let our editors wrestle our books from us and send them off into the world.

But back to Dan Brown in particular. He writes quick, immensely readable books that knit up strands of logic and mysticism and art and adventure and sometimes that's precisely what I'm in the mood for. (After awhile too much Victoriana can be weighty and you need a change.) I give him tremendous credit for stirring readers up and getting them thinking and talking about questions of history and theology and ethics. People debated his last book ferociously; documentaries were filmed; tours are given around Paris and Rome detailing the exploits of his characters. Those are staggering accomplishments for a writer these days, particularly when we are constantly being told that reading is a lost pastime and books are over. (To which I say, "Piffle." Reading is the ultimate escapism and storytelling will always be around, even if we dress it up with e-readers and handhelds.)

So, yep. I'm reading Dan Brown, and I'm enjoying it. (I'm a sucker for secret societies and very interested in entanglement theory...)

If you're not in a Dan Brown mood yourself, but looking for something to peruse, I recently finished Frances Osborne's The Bolter and Alan Bradley's The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, both of which I enjoyed. And for something historical, Michelle Moran's newest, Cleopatra's Daughter, is just out this week and a superb choice.

In which I am in a MOOD

It doesn't happen that often, I promise, and it usually coincides with the husband's schedule being cattywampus. But I have the mean reds and Tiffany isn't close to hand, so whatever shall I do?

First, what has gotten me to this state, you ask? Incivility. I am fed up to the back teeth with people being mean for no good reason. Somewhere along the line, folks got the idea that just because you CAN say or do something, you SHOULD. Um, no. In fact, I'm pretty sure our parents, elementary school teachers, coaches, and various members of the clergy spent most of our formative years trying to convince us otherwise. So why hasn't it stuck? Why do we feel the need to be so awful to other people so much of the time? From celebrities to politicians, family members to friends, people are just acting like toddlers and I'm tempted to go pull the covers over my head until people can just make nice. (Is it astrological? I know Mercury is in retrograde, but is there something else up that's making people so fractious these days?)

I mean, it isn't as if we all have to agree all the time. In fact, it would be a dull and sad little world if we did. It would be beige. No, worse than beige; it would be GREIGE, that bloodless shade that mourns along somewhere between beige and gray. That would be our world without differences. But isn't being able to show civility in spite of those differences the essence of being a grown-up? Isn't that what separates us from poo-flinging monkeys? Well, that and grammar.

So, I will console my mean reds with muffins and tea and some Alexandra Stoddard, and I will remind myself of the adage that before we say anything, we ought to see if our words can pass through three gates--above the first is lettered, "Is it true?", above the second, "Is it kind?", and above the third, "Is it necessary?" And only then should we speak. And I'm going to work on making sure my own words are able to pass through all three gates.

And I will ponder cures for the mean reds--what are yours?

In which we talk sin again

First, my apologies for not posting on Saturday, but it was my darling husband's birthday and I took the day off completely to spoil him rotten. (And let me just say tender prayers on bended knees in gratitude for the fact that we are finally the same age again. Three months of him referring to me as his cougar and growling are quite enough.) Anyway, it was a delightful day, particularly as it's his last full day off for almost two weeks--I tell him he is a victim of his own success at this point.

But I digress, and today we are supposed to be musing on one of the deadly sins and I choose gluttony. (The ice cream cake and prosecco naturally suggested it.) Gluttony is perhaps the least attractive of the deadly sins--although I imagine one could make an argument against any of them. But how far must one go to cross the line from gourmet to gourmand? (I'm referring to the older usage of the word of course.) When does something cease to be merely pleasurable and become regrettable? Is one cookie acceptable, but four to be deplored? Can one feel virtuous after three cheese enchiladas with red chile gravy, but not six? (No, really, I'm asking. My daughter made cookies from my extremely secret recipe for luxurious double chocolate shortbread cookies and I've already had two. I suspect a third will be had, against its will, with a cup of Lapsang Souchong.)

I don't have much of a sweet tooth, in spite of the cookie incident--these are VERY good cookies, but I do have a weakness for yeast rolls and white potatoes and Tex-Mex cooked with lard. I resist, but when I crave, it's for these things. And I wonder--what tempts YOUR inner glutton out to play?

In which I love my readers

Oh, yes, I do. I love y'all in ways you cannot begin to comprehend because just for y'all I am watching a program called "Raw Nature"--a program, I should point out, that begins with the disclaimer that they are about to show some very graphic footage and that's why they called it "Raw Nature" instead of "Sleepytime Nature". And the subject of this program? Snakes. Big, venomous, slithery snakes. From India. I don't even have poisonous snakes in the book, but I want to see if there's anything at all I can glean from this that would add local flavor to the novel. So, really, I blame y'all for the fact that I am fetal under the sofa right now, hiding behind the dog while watching some dude (okay, he's a herpetologist, but he seems very casual) catch snakes using a cut up Evian bottle and a pillow case. *whimper*

In which we have wallpaper

I'm sure you will remember the EXTREMELY fabulous depiction of Nicholas Brisbane created by the talented and generous Doris. Well, Doris has very kindly struck again! She's offering up Brisbane wallpaper for those of you who just can't get enough of his tall, dark, and enigmatic goodness. Many thanks to Doris--enjoy!

In which I'm musing on a truth

I have made no secret of my girl crush on Kimberly Wilson--she's just adorable, and I love how she combines her entrepreneurial endeavors with her spirituality and frosts it all with a big dollop of pink sugar icing. Recently I ran across a quote on her blog that speaks volumes to me in the way that only an immutable truth can do:

"i've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” - maya angelou

Today I'm thinking about my friend Kim. Her energy is warm and embracing, and just being around her makes you feel like you've been hugged. And I'm wondering, who makes YOU feel good?

In which I ponder dreams

Dreams are a curious thing, not least because nobody knows precisely what they are. Are they the result of unresolved tension in your psyche rising up to work itself out without the interference of your conscious mind? Are they bits and pieces of your memories and thoughts, all stirred up in a nice Freudian soup to be used as a tool to unlock your deepest fears? Or are they just random shards of nonsense reassembled into surrealistic pictures?

Yesterday I blogged about sloth. Since I'm in the very, VERY early stages of Julia Grey #4, I wrote that blog entry last week when I had a little extra time. I filed it away mentally and left it there while I got on with the business of writing my novel. Or so I thought. Sunday night, I dreamed I was staying at a Ritz-Carlton resort with extensive, lush grounds. (I knew it was a Ritz because the lobby looked exactly like the Ritz lobby in Manhattan--dark wood walls, elegant furniture, and extremely courteous waiters...) Anyway, the grounds were thick with animal life--baboons, macaques, and other assorted things that chattered in the trees. I boarded a tiny jitney bus to do some sightseeing, and right after me came a tiny sloth. It was chocolate brown, about the size of a toddler, and just like a toddler, it held up its arms to be carried. I settled it onto my hip, where it stayed for eight hours, its little arms looped about my neck. (My husband, who has sloth experience, assures me that this is precisely what they do--they simply act like people are trees and they hang out on you for quite awhile.) And here's the great part--no one at the Ritz seemed remotely alarmed by the fact that I was carrying a sloth around. Now that's good service.

In which we are onto sin #3

Well, we are just buzzing right through these deadly sins, aren't we? This week we're talking about sloth, one of my personal favorites. I am a big believer in indolence as a component of creativity. (One must stop DOING and just BE.) Quite serendipitously, I ran across this entry on the Lazy Manifesto on the blog Zen Habits. It was written by Leo Babauta, a person who understands the profound importance of doing less.

(And I quite like the irony of contemplating doing less on Labor Day!)

In which we talk sources

Ah, my friends, who would have thought, but today we reach the END of reader questions! Several of you queried about books or websites related to research, so I'm answering in one post.

First, a caveat. When I researched SITG, I read LOADS of books. I was writing just before the internet became a viable research tool, so most of my sources were books. I am still exceedingly careful about internet research. I am occasionally asked if I consider myself a historian based on my degree in history and English. Absolutely not, because I never deal with primary sources. I rely on sources that are secondary at best, however, one thing I did learn was always to consider the source before I gave it too much importance. For example, Wikipedia is where I often begin my research because it can give a quick, concise overview of a topic with relevant links. But I am always keenly aware of the fact that ANYBODY can publish on Wiki. (The Wiki entry about me was written by someone I don't even know, although last time I checked it was accurate.)

Having said that, I am going to disappoint you now by saying I don't use any Victorian sites at all. When SITG was going to be a Regency, I found A Regency Repository and the JASNA sites to be enormously wonderful, but once I changed the setting to late Victorian, they became diversions rather than necessities. All of my online research is specific to a topic I need for an individual book. When I was researching SOTM, I found Egyptian love poetry, a timeline of Egyptological discoveries, information about sheep dip, mycology sites, and sites devoted to East Riddlesden Hall and Yorkshire flora and fauna. For SITS, I used sites related to Cistercian architecture, Sussex, Italian greyhounds, poison, topography of the Italian lakes, and medieval sanctuary laws. Each book will have its own folder of bookmarks for research specific to that book in case I need to check a fact, and I often supply those links to the art department to make certain they know the architecture in the novels.

As far as research books, I am continuing to amass a private library on Victoriana and topic-specific research. (I can never have too many books about poisons.) I have costume books for clothing reference, the best being Victorian and Edwardian Fashion: A Photographic Survey by Alison Gernsheim. For general research about poisons and nasty things I might use in future books, I just purchased the excellent Wicked Plants by Amy Stewart. For the book I'm currently writing, I have acquired books on tea planting, India and Indian cooking, memoirs of people who grew up under the Raj, Margaret MacMillan's superb book Women of the Raj, and a number of books about Julia Margaret Cameron--an early pioneer of female photographers.

When I'm beginning a subject with which I'm unfamiliar, I often start with a DK Eyewitness book for a comprehensive overview. I might use children's non-fiction books from the library for a brief look at a topic. From there I can narrow my focus an figure out where I want to concentrate the rest of my research. I read lots of biographies, memoirs, and journals or letters from the period, as well as novels written in the Victorian period. People often have a painfully narrow view of Victorians and persist in thinking of them as perfectly upright people who always conducted themselves beyond reproach. Nothing could be further from the truth, as the merest scratch of the surface shows. Ruth Brandon's excellent Governesses is a perfect place to start if you think the Victorians were one-dimensional. I often hear people say that we know Victorians were a particular way because of the etiquette guides and periodicals of the times. This is of course absurd. It would be like someone in 2105 looking at us and deciding that everyone wrote thank-you notes on embossed stationery and fashioned a perfect croquembouche at Christmas because that's what Miss Manners and Martha Stewart said we should do. The reality is that those things are where we strive to be, but the reality is that folks have always been busy just getting along with life and doing the best that they can. Reading journals and letters reveals just how different Victorian were from our popular mythology of them.

In particular, dip into Isabella Bird's travels and be prepared to be amazed. Penguin Great Journeys editions have a fabulous, very tiny version of Adventures in the Rocky Mountains which is astonishing. Bird, a vicar's daughter, traveled around the world at precisely the same time Julia and Nicholas are sleuthing around. And she didn't do so with a maid and a Baedeker's guidebook. She rode through lands that had seldom seen a white woman, sometimes with nothing but her horse for companionship. She was intrepid and courageous, and yet still maintained her ladylike demeanour enough to be the recipient of marriage proposals from a respectable Edinburgh doctor. Stepping off my Victorian soapbox now...

In which we talk Sherlock

Reader Elizabeth--who was gracious enough to come to my signing in March and looked adorable in an outfit I coveted--posted the following: One aspect I've always noticed regarding Nicholas Brisbane is that initially, in Silent in the Grave you painted him as having many parallels to Sherlock Holmes. Both are private detectives, both are pugilists, both play the violin, both explore a wide range of odd and curious activities, both are loners with a loyal servant and physician sidekick, both have a vague childhood that emerges as the series go on. Obviously as the Grey-Brisbane relationship develops some of this dissipates. Do what degree is it conscious? I know that Sherlock Holmes is one of the literary works central to the late Victorian and early Edwardian eras, do you think that you can write about any detective from that time without some comparison being made. Finally is it Brisbane's feeling that separate him from Holes, and likewise from greatness as a detective, because clearly Julia seems to impact his professional performance to a degree.

First, no, I don't think you can write about a male Victorian detective without SOME parallel being drawn between that character and Sherlock Holmes. Conan Doyle created THE definitive Victorian detective, and his longevity is astonishing. (Even now, a new film version is about to be released featuring the combined talents of Guy Ritchie, Robert Downey Jr., and Jude Law. I cannot WAIT.) Direct parallels between Brisbane and Holmes were largely unintentional. The facility with both fists and violin came from Brisbane's past, as well as his loner tendencies. As far as having a physician friend, that is simply expedient when you're writing murder mysteries!

Second, you have certainly hit upon the most striking difference between them--Brisbane feels, deeply, and is willing to sacrifice his professional sang-froid for the pleasure of having Julia around. You are actually the first person to ever point out the fact that for a first-rate professional investigator, Nicholas is not very focused when Julia is on the scene! And that's one of the things I love most about his character. I think it makes him more flawed, more human than Holmes. I knew from the beginning of SITG that he was going to challenge her, but I wanted that to be reciprocal. I wanted him to be thrown off of his game and even a little vulnerable where Julia was concerned because it was important to me that she never be an afterthought or appendage to him.

In which we talk theme

Reader Meredith posted the following : I can tell that /Silent on the Moor/ is set in dialogue with /Wuthering Heights,/ and when I contrast the actions and comments of Julia and Nicholas with those of the protagonists in /Wuthering Heights/ (whom I have always had some issues with, I'll just be honest,) the themes that emerge are, I feel, central to the entire Julia Grey series. And then when you add in the relationships between the inhabitants of Grimsgrave--! Very interesting, indeed.

So my questions are, what led you to want to explore the territory of /Wuthering Heights/? And are there any other books that might have a similar relationship with the Julia Grey series? And I know this puts the writer on the spot, but what do /you/ think are the central themes of the books? What would you have the reader come away with?

No doubt I've been hugely influenced by the Brontes and Jane Austen, and a trifle by Dickens, although that was entirely against my will, I assure you. Wuthering Heights has long been one of my two favorites of the Bronte novels for a variety of reasons. I love the fact that it isn't an easy book, and I don't mean the syntax or vocabulary. The emotions are difficult. It is hard to read about the violence of the love that Cathy and Heathcliff have for one another. There is no happy ending for them, and at no point can a reader easily imagine one. Can you honestly see Cathy tying on an apron and churning butter while Heathcliff herds sheep? There is no gentleness in their love for each other. It's brutal and it is destructive. Both characters--well, let's be honest, MOST of the characters--are deeply flawed and it's those flaws that make them more interesting. (I keep pointing out that women always cite Heathcliff as one of their favorite tall, dark, and handsome heroes, but how many actually remember that he HANGED HIS WIFE'S DOG on their wedding day just to show her who was the boss?)

The central theme in SOTM--as well as one of the themes in Wuthering Heights--is that you cannot escape the past. Whatever you do, it will find you; it is part of you, as elemental as the moor itself.

In which it's back to reader questions!

Reader Lynn e-mailed me the following: I'm going to add to your probable backlog of reader questions. Mine has to do with an author's relationship with his/her editor. I recently finished reading a book that, to my mind, needed serious editing. The basic story was interesting, but there were so many plot threads that just kind of hung out there, I wished by the end of the book that somebody had clipped them off. When I finished, as a reader I felt very dissatisfied, yet it was never so bad that I was ready to give up before finishing. What really is the role on an editor, and what kind of relationship do you have with yours? Do you think it's typical of a writer/editor relationship?

Ouch. There are few worse experiences as a reader than finding a book that needed a firm editorial hand and didn't get it. Unfortunately, that is far likelier to happen now than in the good old days because of how much the business has changed. I'm told that in times gone by, editors were able to guide their writers' careers, nurturing each book on its way and establishing a personal relationship with each author. I can't say from personal experience that this is how it used to be, but I've heard stories of editors who actually had the time to work at their desks. Now, I don't know of any editor who has time to edit. (My own editor only reads at home to ensure privacy and focus.)There are endless meetings and acquisitions, conferences and planning sessions and I don't know what-all. Many houses have been forced to slash their editorial staff, causing fewer people to do the same amount of work, and some--alas--have essentially abandoned the editorial process altogether, permitting deeply flawed books to hit the shelves just as they were when they left the authors' hands. (There is one house whose books I refuse to read EVER because I thought the books were painfully lacking in editorial guidance. I later learned that this is because they don't edit--a huge disservice to their authors and readers alike, but editing costs money and this particular firm is more interested in the bottom line.)

Having said that, I will tell you that my experience is vastly different. My editor is deeply involved in my books from start to finish. (She just made one suggestion regarding Julia Grey #4 that I am gutted I didn't think of first, but it's so good I'm just happy to be able to use it.) Some books require more editorial input than others--she made no changes in SITG at ALL, but requested that I lose three of the murders in SITS. She edits with an eye not just to the book we're working on, but to my career as a whole. And I'm extremely fortunate--thanks to my agent's forethought--that even though she's been promoted to executive editor, we're still able to work together. (Such transitions often mean that an editor is forced to shuffle their stable and assign some of their writers to other editors.) We get along extremely well, and although we are very different in many ways, we have a similar sensibility and are often able to short-hand our conversations in ways that would probably make sense only to us.

In which I have socks

And not just socks. Beautiful, hand-knit, intricate socks in luscious yarn, crafted specially for me. I feel very privileged, not least because this is a skill I will never have. I play with yarn and needles, but let's be real. I am not terribly dexterous and I'm never going to devote myself to learning how to knit like THIS--and even if I did, I'm quite certain I would never achieve this result. These socks were made by my friend Jerusha, a woman who could give Madame Defarge a run for her money when it comes to speedy needles. She made them as a thank-you for using her name in Silent on the Moor. (She graciously gave me permission to use her unusual and Biblical name. Many of the names I use in my books are tiny tributes to characters or authors I have enjoyed. This is the first time I've used the name of an actual person I know, and if I had realized I would get presents, believe me, I would have done it a lot sooner.)

Anyway, it was a complete surprise to receive them, and it got me thinking about how wonderful handmade gifts are. I have received hats and scarves, marmalade and flowers cut from a friend's garden. I have been given a blown-up photograph of a cemetery monument from a friend who is rarely without his camera. The most delicious cookies I have ever eaten were a present, as was the curious, quirky piece of knitting that represents a dear friend's first attempt at knitting and which I use as a Ben & Jerry's cozy. And the most prized items I stocked my daughter's nursery with were the crib quilt and tiny rosebud-print flannel gowns hand-sewn by my mother. I have loved and treasured each of these things, knowing that the investment of time and effort and thought was usually more significant than that of money. (Except in the case of the socks. I suspect Jerusha used VERY spendy yarn.) But even more than the gorgeous yarn, I appreciate the hours it must have taken her to make them--hours she was happily engaged in doing something she loves. I appreciate the fact that she texted our friend Glamorous Ashley to find out my shoe size to make certain they would be a perfect fit.

So here's what I'm thinking: if there's anything you do--cooking, canning, sewing, embroidering, beading, marbling papers, making bat houses, whatever--share it. Christmas and Hanukkah are just a few months down the road, plenty of time left to make a few handmade gifts for the people you love. Crafting is therapeutic and the results are hugely appreciated by those of us who don't dabble in what you do. Dazzle us with your skills! And if you aren't particularly skilled, you can still dazzle. Homemade tea breads or jars of lemon curd, perfumed bath salts and scrubs, stamped notecards--I've made them all and they were EASY. If you are handy with a needle, try Sublime Stitching for embroidery patterns that are drop-dead fabulous and dirt-cheap--two things that almost never go hand-in-hand!

Blogger is stubbornly not allowing me to post photos today, but if you want to see my fabulous socks, this link might work if you cut and paste it: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=5926&id=1291673294&saved#/photo.php?pid=646309&id=1291673294