It's almost the halfway point in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), and I'm well past the 25,000-word midpoint of the standard NaNo target. I'm hoping to have 34,000 or even 35,000 by the time you are reading this, and to hit the actual midpoint of my draft by the end of tomorrow (the middle of the month). Death By Library is growing fast, and I'm having fun tormenting JJ, especially with teen drama.
I think I hit a good balance between planning and letting things develop as they will, and I'm having fun with my characters. I know I'm writing too much daily detail, but I've made my peace with that: I seem to need to write those details to get to what's important. I just have to be ready to deal with the mess of deleting them when the time comes (I think that also means I should probably aim for closer to 90K words than 80K for a full draft, but I'll just see how the story arcs).
November can be a difficult month for the NaNo project (I have wondered if that's why they chose it: if you can write every day through the holiday season, you can do it absolutely any time). But for me this year, it's actually working well. The New England weather is closing in, with more rain and cold weather, curbing our tendency to travel. And we are far from family, so there won't be an extended Thanksgiving gathering to distract me (I'm not totally happy about that, but if we have to be away from the family, I'm willing to find the good in it).
The main thing my writing is missing this month is regular contact with my California writing pals. I keep feeling like I want to bounce ideas off someone, to have them check me if I'm going the wrong way. I'm not sure if anyone can do that, but it's what I want, and Lisa's usually my favorite victim. I'll just have to do it later, when there's time to slow down and take a look at what I've done.
How about you? If you are doing NaNo, are you hanging on? Writing every day, or nearly so? Or are you up to something else this month?
And which do you prefer: Thanksgiving dinner, or the leftovers?
LATE ADDITION: If you are having trouble with comment and use Safari, please read Jemima Pett's post on how to fix your privacy settings! It works for Blogger though I am still having trouble with her blog (which is Word Press based).
Showing posts with label Pismawallops PTA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pismawallops PTA. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
Friday, December 15, 2017
Friday Flash: A Pismawallops PTA Christmas, Part II
Last week our intrepid heroine and her side-kick found a kitten ravaging the tables of the PTA holiday bazaar. This week, they deal with finding the cat a home, against all the odds. I ran a bit over, at 1050 words.
A Pismawallops PTA Christmas, Part II
I put my hands on my hips and glared at Kitty. The kitty in her arms poked its furry little face toward me and mewed.
“How on earth do you intend to persuade Arne Hancock to adopt that creature?”
“It’s a kitten, JJ, not a ‘creature.’ And I have about three minutes to come up with the answer to that,” she added.
“While we tidy his table,” I pointed out. “I think it will go a lot better if he doesn’t see what the kitten did to his rainbows.” I left her trying to hold the cat in one arm while she moved potholders around with her free hand. Trotting across the gym, I flipped the switch that started the music, then scurried back the other way to open the door. Three PTA parents stood outside with trays and platters of baked goods.
I took the goodies, directed the one donor who was willing to stay to help Kitty, and tried to match the desserts with Patty Reilly’s signs. Fortunately, Patty came in before I could make too much of a mess of things, and I went back to directing people and coping with emergencies.
I spotted Arne at the door, and, a quick glance showing me that Kitty and her helper weren’t done with the table, set myself to delay him a minute or two.
“Oh, Arne. Glad to see you.” I clutched his arm, turning him so his back was to the scurry around his table. “Do you have the pricing tags for the art table?”
He looked at me, confused by the question, as well he might be. “I’m in charge of the crafts table, Ms. MacGregor, not the art.” He looked at my hand on his arm, and I got the message. I let him go.
“I’m sorry. I just thought that since you’re the art teacher… ” My words trailed off as he turned and saw what Kitty and Amy were doing.
“Why are they messing up my display?”
“Um, they’re just straightening up a bit. There was, ah, a bit of an accident.”
“Again?” His lips narrowed. “I fail to see why my table should be the one cast into disarray by every clumsy lout,” he began, then stopped. “I’m sorry. I suppose one of you bumped it while trying to do too much. No harm done,” he said without conviction as he hurried away to see to his goods.
I watched Kitty turn her back and trot off as he approached, the kitten now snuggled inside her gaudy Santa snowman sweater. I cut across the room at an angle to intercept her.
“I don’t know why Arne is so fussed about his perfect arrangement of potholders,” I murmured when I caught her. “The shoppers will reduce it to chaos in minutes in any case.”
She laughed. “And he’ll spend the whole time trying to restore it to order.”
“What are you going to do with the furball there?” I asked. “Even if Arne does adopt it, you have to do something with it for the day.”
“I’m not sure. I only know I have to keep her out of sight, because if Kat and Sarah see her, I’ll have another mouth to feed at my house.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m allergic.”
Kitty didn’t believe me, but I was gone before she could challenge that, off to calm another crisis. I called back over my shoulder, “take it to the teachers’ room and give it some milk!” I’d have to get along without my partner for a while.
The bazaar had opened while I was running around, and shoppers were swarming over the tables, especially the treats. I checked to make sure Amy was at the cashier’s table, and had everything she needed, then went to get the lids for the cups of coffee and hot cider we were selling.
After that, I spent my day dashing from table to table, giving people a break where needed, fetching whatever had been forgotten, and trying to keep a smile pasted on my face so I wouldn’t scare off the customers. Patty slipped me a broken cookie or two, and my coffee cup stayed filled, or I wouldn’t have made it.
Eventually, Arne Hancock waved me over. “I need a break,” he announced. “The crowd is getting rather large and loud and I must go somewhere quiet for a time.”
How on earth did this guy survive teaching high school kids? I hid my smile, and told him I could give him ten minutes.
“I’m going to the teachers’ room,” he said, and was off before I remembered.
Kitty had left the kitten sleeping in a box in the teachers’ room. I hoped Furball would keep quiet.
***
Arne didn’t return. I needed to leave the table and take care of business, like finding a bathroom to offload the four cups of coffee I’d drunk. Where was he?
I finally got someone over to take my place with the potholders, and found Kitty. “We need to find Arne. He went off to take his break and never came back.”
“Where’d he… oh, no!” Kitty said.
“Oh, yes. If that cat got out and made a mess in the teachers’ room, we will never hear the end of it.” We raced down the breezeway between the gym and the main school building, dreading what we might find. Opening the door of the teachers’ room, we came to a dead halt.
Arne sat on the floor, surrounded by wads of crumpled paper. As we watched, he tossed one to the kitten, who pounced on it and batted it back to him. The stressed-out art teacher had a blissful smile on his face as he reached out to stroke the soft kitten-fur.
When at last he noticed us, he looked up, unperturbed. “You’ll have to get on without me over there. Someone abandoned this poor animal, and I need to take care of her.” He frowned. “It’s not yours, is it?”
“No,” Kitty managed to answer. “I found her in the gym.”
“Excellent. Then I shall take her home and see that she is cared for properly.”
We closed the door before we turned to grin at each other.
Two lonely creatures had found each other.
A Pismawallops PTA Christmas, Part II
I put my hands on my hips and glared at Kitty. The kitty in her arms poked its furry little face toward me and mewed.
“How on earth do you intend to persuade Arne Hancock to adopt that creature?”
“It’s a kitten, JJ, not a ‘creature.’ And I have about three minutes to come up with the answer to that,” she added.
“While we tidy his table,” I pointed out. “I think it will go a lot better if he doesn’t see what the kitten did to his rainbows.” I left her trying to hold the cat in one arm while she moved potholders around with her free hand. Trotting across the gym, I flipped the switch that started the music, then scurried back the other way to open the door. Three PTA parents stood outside with trays and platters of baked goods.
I took the goodies, directed the one donor who was willing to stay to help Kitty, and tried to match the desserts with Patty Reilly’s signs. Fortunately, Patty came in before I could make too much of a mess of things, and I went back to directing people and coping with emergencies.
I spotted Arne at the door, and, a quick glance showing me that Kitty and her helper weren’t done with the table, set myself to delay him a minute or two.
“Oh, Arne. Glad to see you.” I clutched his arm, turning him so his back was to the scurry around his table. “Do you have the pricing tags for the art table?”
He looked at me, confused by the question, as well he might be. “I’m in charge of the crafts table, Ms. MacGregor, not the art.” He looked at my hand on his arm, and I got the message. I let him go.
“I’m sorry. I just thought that since you’re the art teacher… ” My words trailed off as he turned and saw what Kitty and Amy were doing.
“Why are they messing up my display?”
“Um, they’re just straightening up a bit. There was, ah, a bit of an accident.”
“Again?” His lips narrowed. “I fail to see why my table should be the one cast into disarray by every clumsy lout,” he began, then stopped. “I’m sorry. I suppose one of you bumped it while trying to do too much. No harm done,” he said without conviction as he hurried away to see to his goods.
I watched Kitty turn her back and trot off as he approached, the kitten now snuggled inside her gaudy Santa snowman sweater. I cut across the room at an angle to intercept her.
“I don’t know why Arne is so fussed about his perfect arrangement of potholders,” I murmured when I caught her. “The shoppers will reduce it to chaos in minutes in any case.”
She laughed. “And he’ll spend the whole time trying to restore it to order.”
“What are you going to do with the furball there?” I asked. “Even if Arne does adopt it, you have to do something with it for the day.”
“I’m not sure. I only know I have to keep her out of sight, because if Kat and Sarah see her, I’ll have another mouth to feed at my house.”
“Don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m allergic.”
Kitty didn’t believe me, but I was gone before she could challenge that, off to calm another crisis. I called back over my shoulder, “take it to the teachers’ room and give it some milk!” I’d have to get along without my partner for a while.
The bazaar had opened while I was running around, and shoppers were swarming over the tables, especially the treats. I checked to make sure Amy was at the cashier’s table, and had everything she needed, then went to get the lids for the cups of coffee and hot cider we were selling.
After that, I spent my day dashing from table to table, giving people a break where needed, fetching whatever had been forgotten, and trying to keep a smile pasted on my face so I wouldn’t scare off the customers. Patty slipped me a broken cookie or two, and my coffee cup stayed filled, or I wouldn’t have made it.
Eventually, Arne Hancock waved me over. “I need a break,” he announced. “The crowd is getting rather large and loud and I must go somewhere quiet for a time.”
How on earth did this guy survive teaching high school kids? I hid my smile, and told him I could give him ten minutes.
“I’m going to the teachers’ room,” he said, and was off before I remembered.
Kitty had left the kitten sleeping in a box in the teachers’ room. I hoped Furball would keep quiet.
***
Arne didn’t return. I needed to leave the table and take care of business, like finding a bathroom to offload the four cups of coffee I’d drunk. Where was he?
I finally got someone over to take my place with the potholders, and found Kitty. “We need to find Arne. He went off to take his break and never came back.”
“Where’d he… oh, no!” Kitty said.
“Oh, yes. If that cat got out and made a mess in the teachers’ room, we will never hear the end of it.” We raced down the breezeway between the gym and the main school building, dreading what we might find. Opening the door of the teachers’ room, we came to a dead halt.
Arne sat on the floor, surrounded by wads of crumpled paper. As we watched, he tossed one to the kitten, who pounced on it and batted it back to him. The stressed-out art teacher had a blissful smile on his face as he reached out to stroke the soft kitten-fur.
When at last he noticed us, he looked up, unperturbed. “You’ll have to get on without me over there. Someone abandoned this poor animal, and I need to take care of her.” He frowned. “It’s not yours, is it?”
“No,” Kitty managed to answer. “I found her in the gym.”
“Excellent. Then I shall take her home and see that she is cared for properly.”
We closed the door before we turned to grin at each other.
Two lonely creatures had found each other.
***
©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2017
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!
Enjoyed the story? Take a look at the Pismawallops PTA mysteries.
What do you serve when all you have in the freezer is an ice-cold corpse?
JJ MacGregor thinks it’s hard enough to hold the
Pismawallops PTA together when a new mom starts tossing out insults. She discovers it’s even harder when the woman shows up dead where the ice cream bars should have been.
Formal dances, final exams, and dead bodies.
School’s almost out at Pismawallops High!
JJ thought starting the day without coffee was a disaster, but now
there's a dead musician behind the Pismawallops High School gym. His trombone
is missing, and something about the scene is off key. JJ and Police Chief Ron
Karlson are determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, but will they be
able to work harmoniously or will discord ruin the investigation? With the
music teacher as the prime suspect, JJ could be left to conduct the band, and
then Graduation might truly end in a death by trombone, or at least the murder
of Pomp and Circumstance!
Wednesday, April 12, 2017
#AtoZChallenge #Jisfor ...JJ MacGregor
J is for JJ MacGregor
In a nutshell: The protagonist of the Pismawallops PTA mysteries is grumpy and tactless and willing to work her
fingers to the bone for the school or for her kid. Under it all, she is totally committed to justice and the kids.
Biggest secret: Totally has the hots for the police chief.
Favorite line:"Tact wasn't one of my strengths."
The Pismawallops PTA is a cozy mystery series (adult, not children's, but not *that* kind of adult), with two books out and a third on the way.
Book One:
What do you serve when all you have in the freezer is an ice-cold corpse?
JJ and her best friend Kitty struggle to
hold the Pismawallops PTA together, and new volunteer Letitia LeMoine isn’t
making it any easier. But when Letitia’s
strangled corpse turns up where the ice cream bars should have been, things get
a whole lot worse. JJ has to shoehorn in
a search for the killer along with all her other problems: divorce, a
15-year-old son with his first girlfriend, a desperate race to complete the
Yearbook on time, and her own tendency to get all wobbly-kneed around the Chief
of Police. JJ just can’t help asking a
few questions. But a loud mouth and
insatiable curiosity can be a dangerous combination. Especially when someone wants her stopped.
Amazon as Paperback or Kindle.
Smashwords (all ebook formats)
Barnes and Noble for Nook or paper
iBooks
Kobo Store
Paperbacks also in the Createspace Store!
Book Two:
Nothing like a corpse to add a little je ne sais quoi to the Senior Prom.
JJ thought starting the day without coffee was a disaster, but now
there's a dead musician behind the Pismawallops High School gym. His trombone
is missing, and something about the scene is off key. JJ and Police Chief Ron
Karlson are determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, but will they be
able to work harmoniously or will discord ruin the investigation? With the
music teacher as the prime suspect, JJ could be left to conduct the band, and
then Graduation might truly end in a death by trombone, or at least the murder
of Pomp and Circumstance!
Purchase any ebook format from Smashwords
Paperback and Nook from Barnes & NobleEbooks from Kobo
Find it at iBooks
Or purchase paperbacks from the Createspace store
©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2017
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!
Following the suggestion of fellow blogger and amazing author Jemima Pett, I'm doing a very simple A to Z with characters from my writing and the books of my author friends! I'm just posting a brief profile, sometimes a quote, and the book cover with links. Though you may also see some of my typical reviews (when I feature other peoples’ books) and the usual Friday Flash Fiction.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Bonus Flash fiction, and a book sale
It's summer, it's Monday, and the Ninja Librarian has nothing new to say. Instead, enjoy this repost of a little Pismawallops PTA mystery, to kick off a sale on the books. For the rest of June, Death By Ice Cream will be just 99 cents for the ebook, and Death By Trombone just $2.99. Get a jump start on the series, as I contemplate returning to work on Book 3 (while Book 3 of the Ninja Librarian is with the beta readers).
There are few words more chilling to the heart of a mother on a schedule. No use ignoring him, though. I’ve known Brian almost 16 years, and he doesn’t give up.
With a sigh, I hit “save” and turned from the computer to call up the stairs, “There were a dozen pairs in your sock drawer yesterday.”
“I mean my new running socks. The ones Coach brought me from Seattle.”
I began the standard litany. “Are they in your gym bag?”
“No!”
“Did you leave them in your locker?”
“No! Mom, this is important. We have a meet today in Sedro-Woolly!”
Brian runs the 1500 meter race for the Orcaville High track team. His socks bear a life-and-death importance to him on meet days. This was serious.
I stood up, preparing myself for a desperate search for the truth even as I made one last effort to avoid the crisis. “Don’t you have any others?”
“Not like these. I need the new ones for the meet!”
I hauled myself up the stairs, muttering to myself about useless males. Brian stood in the middle of his room, gym bag in one hand and book bag in the other, looking frantically about him.
I looked at my watch. We had about three minutes before we had to leave for school. I’d meant to spend those minutes finishing an article I was writing for the new “Rural Urbanites” magazine, but this took precedence.
“Finish getting ready. I’ll look.”
Brian dropped both bags and looked around frantically . “What? I've got my uniform.”
“Hair.” I pointed. “And teeth. And shoes would probably be good.”
He clutched at his head and disappeared into the bathroom.
A few years ago I’d have wasted my time quizzing him about where he’d last seen the socks. I’m wiser now. It’s one of the mercifully few ways Brian resembles his father: Allen can’t find things either, but he’s not my problem anymore. Brian is.
I began with the sock drawer, rummaging hastily through the jumble of socks and underwear to see if Brian had really looked, or just glanced at the mess and given up. The new socks were neon green, which made it unlikely that even a guy could miss them. Still, it was the most reasonable place to find a pair of socks. Ninety percent of the time, when a male can’t find something, it is right where it should be, only under something else.
I made that statistic up, but it’s true.
From the sock drawer I turned to the other drawers. Nothing. Then the desk. I was starting to feel the pressure of time slipping away, and I left an even worse mess than I’d found, and still no socks.
Moving to the bed as the clocked ticked down to doom, I vowed Brian would clean his room that very day. Or maybe the next. He’d be late coming home from the track meet. Any time the team ran anywhere but at home, it was a major expedition for the same reason I couldn’t just run out and buy Brian new socks: tiny Pismawallops Island is a 40-minute ferry ride from everything.
No, the honor of Orcaville hung on the keen detective abilities of JJ MacGregor, and I wasn’t going to let the team down.
I grabbed the bedcovers, yanked them back to expose the interior, and shook. Brian needed clean sheets, but he wasn’t sleeping with the new socks. A few garments fell to the floor as I shook out the covers, but not the socks.
I swept the bedding back into place as I heard the bathroom door open. It was crunch time, and I had to come through.
As Brian’s footsteps sounded in the hall, I dropped to my stomach on the hardwood floor and stuck my head under the bed.
“Mom! Have you found them? We’ve got to go!”
I jerked when he yelled, banging my head on the underside of the bed, so hard the bed moved. “Unspeakable excrescence of a cursed hunk of furniture,” I began, then stopped.
I reached out an arm, grabbed the glowing bundle that dropped from behind the bed, and back out from under before accepting Brian’s hand up.
Of course, when he saw the socks, he dropped my hand and grabbed them like a drowning man clutching a life ring. Or a lover clutching his true love. For a moment I saw red, which went well with the stars I was still seeing from cracking my head. Self-centered little beast, just like his father!
While Brian stowed the socks and gathered his belongings, I climbed more slowly to my feet.
Then he turned again. “You’re the greatest, Mom! A real Sherlock Holmes.” And not a hint of irony in his tone.
I could almost feel my deerstalker hat and Inverness Cape as I followed him down the stairs. Not so much like his dad, after all. Brian had an actual sense of gratitude, and a sense of humor.
“Come on, Mom!” Brian called again. He already had the car keys and was leading the way out the door.
The last misty hints of the deerstalker faded away as I climbed into the passenger seat, and the greatest sleuth on Pismawallops Island became once again a driver training instructor. I tightened my seat belt and crossed myself, muttered three “om manis” and followed it up with “Now I lay me down to sleep,” just to cover all my bases.
A real sleuth can face any danger, but not always without blanching.
The Baffling Case of the Missing Socks
A Minor Domestic Mystery
“Mom! I can’t find my socks!”There are few words more chilling to the heart of a mother on a schedule. No use ignoring him, though. I’ve known Brian almost 16 years, and he doesn’t give up.
With a sigh, I hit “save” and turned from the computer to call up the stairs, “There were a dozen pairs in your sock drawer yesterday.”
“I mean my new running socks. The ones Coach brought me from Seattle.”
I began the standard litany. “Are they in your gym bag?”
“No!”
“Did you leave them in your locker?”
“No! Mom, this is important. We have a meet today in Sedro-Woolly!”
Brian runs the 1500 meter race for the Orcaville High track team. His socks bear a life-and-death importance to him on meet days. This was serious.
I stood up, preparing myself for a desperate search for the truth even as I made one last effort to avoid the crisis. “Don’t you have any others?”
“Not like these. I need the new ones for the meet!”
I hauled myself up the stairs, muttering to myself about useless males. Brian stood in the middle of his room, gym bag in one hand and book bag in the other, looking frantically about him.
I looked at my watch. We had about three minutes before we had to leave for school. I’d meant to spend those minutes finishing an article I was writing for the new “Rural Urbanites” magazine, but this took precedence.
“Finish getting ready. I’ll look.”
Brian dropped both bags and looked around frantically . “What? I've got my uniform.”
“Hair.” I pointed. “And teeth. And shoes would probably be good.”
He clutched at his head and disappeared into the bathroom.
A few years ago I’d have wasted my time quizzing him about where he’d last seen the socks. I’m wiser now. It’s one of the mercifully few ways Brian resembles his father: Allen can’t find things either, but he’s not my problem anymore. Brian is.
I began with the sock drawer, rummaging hastily through the jumble of socks and underwear to see if Brian had really looked, or just glanced at the mess and given up. The new socks were neon green, which made it unlikely that even a guy could miss them. Still, it was the most reasonable place to find a pair of socks. Ninety percent of the time, when a male can’t find something, it is right where it should be, only under something else.
I made that statistic up, but it’s true.
From the sock drawer I turned to the other drawers. Nothing. Then the desk. I was starting to feel the pressure of time slipping away, and I left an even worse mess than I’d found, and still no socks.
Moving to the bed as the clocked ticked down to doom, I vowed Brian would clean his room that very day. Or maybe the next. He’d be late coming home from the track meet. Any time the team ran anywhere but at home, it was a major expedition for the same reason I couldn’t just run out and buy Brian new socks: tiny Pismawallops Island is a 40-minute ferry ride from everything.
No, the honor of Orcaville hung on the keen detective abilities of JJ MacGregor, and I wasn’t going to let the team down.
I grabbed the bedcovers, yanked them back to expose the interior, and shook. Brian needed clean sheets, but he wasn’t sleeping with the new socks. A few garments fell to the floor as I shook out the covers, but not the socks.
I swept the bedding back into place as I heard the bathroom door open. It was crunch time, and I had to come through.
As Brian’s footsteps sounded in the hall, I dropped to my stomach on the hardwood floor and stuck my head under the bed.
“Mom! Have you found them? We’ve got to go!”
I jerked when he yelled, banging my head on the underside of the bed, so hard the bed moved. “Unspeakable excrescence of a cursed hunk of furniture,” I began, then stopped.
I reached out an arm, grabbed the glowing bundle that dropped from behind the bed, and back out from under before accepting Brian’s hand up.
Of course, when he saw the socks, he dropped my hand and grabbed them like a drowning man clutching a life ring. Or a lover clutching his true love. For a moment I saw red, which went well with the stars I was still seeing from cracking my head. Self-centered little beast, just like his father!
While Brian stowed the socks and gathered his belongings, I climbed more slowly to my feet.
Then he turned again. “You’re the greatest, Mom! A real Sherlock Holmes.” And not a hint of irony in his tone.
I could almost feel my deerstalker hat and Inverness Cape as I followed him down the stairs. Not so much like his dad, after all. Brian had an actual sense of gratitude, and a sense of humor.
“Come on, Mom!” Brian called again. He already had the car keys and was leading the way out the door.
The last misty hints of the deerstalker faded away as I climbed into the passenger seat, and the greatest sleuth on Pismawallops Island became once again a driver training instructor. I tightened my seat belt and crossed myself, muttered three “om manis” and followed it up with “Now I lay me down to sleep,” just to cover all my bases.
A real sleuth can face any danger, but not always without blanching.
###
©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2013
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!
As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated!
Now grab your copies of the books and find out what JJ can do with a real mystery!
Friday, April 29, 2016
Friday Flash: Senior Sneak
In celebration of the final two days of the special sale price for Death By Ice Cream, I am offering a short story featuring JJ MacGregor and her friend Kitty, neatly solving another problem for Pismawallops Island high school. This would take place between the events of Death By Ice Cream and those of Death By Trombone. 998 words.
Instead, he groaned. “What should there be, JJ? I’m sitting in the office doing paperwork when I should be teaching algebra and trigonometry, coping with everyone’s moods and issues and crises, not to mention that the seniors get insufferable this time of year. Apart from all that it’s just hunky-dory.”
I mumbled something about, “let me know what we can do to help,” and tried to rest the corner of my basket on a shelf to take some weight off. Why had I said that? I just wanted to get home with my groceries so we could have dinner.
Too late.
“As a matter of fact, I do want a little help from you and Kitty.”
Kitty Padgett is my best friend, and PTA president. I’m the VP, and in a school as tiny as Pismawallops Island’s high school, it’s hard to hide when the principal wants something. I set my burdens down and waited to hear what was needed now. Chaperones for a field trip? Decorations for a party? Maybe he hoped we’d throw a nice lunch for the teachers. We could do that.
“The seniors are up to something. Some kind of prank or other.”
“They do that every year, don’t they? Senior Prank, Senior Skip day, that sort of thing?”
“They do. But I need to know what they have in mind.”
“Aren’t you going to let them have their fun?”
“They can have their fun. I just want to see if we can’t have some, too. And I do need to know what they’re up to. The school board is just a bit touchy about liability right now.”
I could understand that. The whole island was still reeling from a nasty scandal, not to mention murder, that had involved the principal and vice principal. That was why Russ Ammon was acting as principal instead of teaching math.
There was only one response to make, and I made it. “So what can Kitty and I do?”
“Find out what they’re up to. Then—we’ll see.”
The thing is, Kitty and I recently acquired something of a reputation for finding things out, on top of our usual reputation for doing whatever needed to be done around the school. I phoned her after dinner.
“We’ve got a case, Watson.”
“JJ, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Mr. Ammon wants us to figure out what the seniors are planning so he can decide what should be done about it. And then no doubt ask us to do it.”
“Why should he do anything about it?”
I told her.
#
Next morning we quizzed the kids—her two daughters and my son—while we carpooled to school, but none of them knew, or admitted to, anything of what the seniors were planning. That didn’t surprise me. Part of the fun each year is that no one outside the graduating class knows what they’ll do.
“Well, we can’t just ask,” Kitty said. “No one is going to confess without rack and thumbscrews.”
I thought about a couple of the kids I wouldn’t mind treating to a little lesson in medieval life, and stifled the thought. I suggested bribes; Kitty suggested spying scopes and bugs.
Compared to rounding up a murderer, the kids proved laughably easy. We were still sitting in our car floating silly ideas when a group of students came out to the parking lot and clustered around a nearby vehicle. They never even glanced our way. Since our windows were already down, all we had to do was sit quiet and listen.
As usual, the students weren’t all that imaginative. They planned to gather at the lighthouse instead of on campus the following Tuesday, and none too early, either. What was the point of skipping school if you still had to get up early?
That was when we began to get ideas of our own.
It took little to persuade Russ Ammon, who had a wicked sense of humor hidden under his mathematical exterior. He suggested two or three teachers who might go along, and we were off and running.
The hardest part was making sure our own kids didn’t know what we were up to. They were good kids, but the temptation to talk would be powerful. We dealt with that by not doing anything concrete until we’d dropped them off Tuesday morning. Then we got busy, starting with groceries.
Ms. Day and Brett Holt were already in the picnic shelter at the lighthouse, unpacking boxes. I passed around cups of coffee from a take-out box I’d gotten at the Have-a-Bite bakery, and we had plenty of time to set everything up before most of the senior class arrived in a clump.
What they found where they had planned to meet, hang out, and eat a few chips and sodas was…a classroom with piles of textbooks and two teachers handing out exams.
“Exit exams today, kids,” Brett told them, struggling to hold a straight face.
Kitty and I lurked behind the big stone fireplace and snapped photos of their shocked faces. We’d find a use for those.
When the kids had worked themselves up to a desperate protest, we admitted it was a joke and pulled out the food. Their chips and sodas would make a nice counterpoint to the sandwiches, cake, fruit bowls, and other snacks that we provided. A few of the kids continued to pout, but most of them took it in good grace, laughed, and began to eat.
None of them even noticed that their sneak day, when they might have thought of partying with more hazardous things than soda, had fallen under adult supervision. They were too busy playing with the Frisbees and soap bubbles.
Senior Sneak
“Anything interesting at school?” I juggled a gallon of milk and an overloaded hand-basket as I made the polite inquiry of my son’s principal. I expected Mr. Ammon to smile and give an equally polite and meaningless answer and get on with his shopping.Instead, he groaned. “What should there be, JJ? I’m sitting in the office doing paperwork when I should be teaching algebra and trigonometry, coping with everyone’s moods and issues and crises, not to mention that the seniors get insufferable this time of year. Apart from all that it’s just hunky-dory.”
I mumbled something about, “let me know what we can do to help,” and tried to rest the corner of my basket on a shelf to take some weight off. Why had I said that? I just wanted to get home with my groceries so we could have dinner.
Too late.
“As a matter of fact, I do want a little help from you and Kitty.”
Kitty Padgett is my best friend, and PTA president. I’m the VP, and in a school as tiny as Pismawallops Island’s high school, it’s hard to hide when the principal wants something. I set my burdens down and waited to hear what was needed now. Chaperones for a field trip? Decorations for a party? Maybe he hoped we’d throw a nice lunch for the teachers. We could do that.
“The seniors are up to something. Some kind of prank or other.”
“They do that every year, don’t they? Senior Prank, Senior Skip day, that sort of thing?”
“They do. But I need to know what they have in mind.”
“Aren’t you going to let them have their fun?”
“They can have their fun. I just want to see if we can’t have some, too. And I do need to know what they’re up to. The school board is just a bit touchy about liability right now.”
I could understand that. The whole island was still reeling from a nasty scandal, not to mention murder, that had involved the principal and vice principal. That was why Russ Ammon was acting as principal instead of teaching math.
There was only one response to make, and I made it. “So what can Kitty and I do?”
“Find out what they’re up to. Then—we’ll see.”
The thing is, Kitty and I recently acquired something of a reputation for finding things out, on top of our usual reputation for doing whatever needed to be done around the school. I phoned her after dinner.
“We’ve got a case, Watson.”
“JJ, what on earth are you talking about?”
“Mr. Ammon wants us to figure out what the seniors are planning so he can decide what should be done about it. And then no doubt ask us to do it.”
“Why should he do anything about it?”
I told her.
#
Next morning we quizzed the kids—her two daughters and my son—while we carpooled to school, but none of them knew, or admitted to, anything of what the seniors were planning. That didn’t surprise me. Part of the fun each year is that no one outside the graduating class knows what they’ll do.
“Well, we can’t just ask,” Kitty said. “No one is going to confess without rack and thumbscrews.”
I thought about a couple of the kids I wouldn’t mind treating to a little lesson in medieval life, and stifled the thought. I suggested bribes; Kitty suggested spying scopes and bugs.
Compared to rounding up a murderer, the kids proved laughably easy. We were still sitting in our car floating silly ideas when a group of students came out to the parking lot and clustered around a nearby vehicle. They never even glanced our way. Since our windows were already down, all we had to do was sit quiet and listen.
As usual, the students weren’t all that imaginative. They planned to gather at the lighthouse instead of on campus the following Tuesday, and none too early, either. What was the point of skipping school if you still had to get up early?
That was when we began to get ideas of our own.
It took little to persuade Russ Ammon, who had a wicked sense of humor hidden under his mathematical exterior. He suggested two or three teachers who might go along, and we were off and running.
The hardest part was making sure our own kids didn’t know what we were up to. They were good kids, but the temptation to talk would be powerful. We dealt with that by not doing anything concrete until we’d dropped them off Tuesday morning. Then we got busy, starting with groceries.
Ms. Day and Brett Holt were already in the picnic shelter at the lighthouse, unpacking boxes. I passed around cups of coffee from a take-out box I’d gotten at the Have-a-Bite bakery, and we had plenty of time to set everything up before most of the senior class arrived in a clump.
What they found where they had planned to meet, hang out, and eat a few chips and sodas was…a classroom with piles of textbooks and two teachers handing out exams.
“Exit exams today, kids,” Brett told them, struggling to hold a straight face.
Kitty and I lurked behind the big stone fireplace and snapped photos of their shocked faces. We’d find a use for those.
When the kids had worked themselves up to a desperate protest, we admitted it was a joke and pulled out the food. Their chips and sodas would make a nice counterpoint to the sandwiches, cake, fruit bowls, and other snacks that we provided. A few of the kids continued to pout, but most of them took it in good grace, laughed, and began to eat.
None of them even noticed that their sneak day, when they might have thought of partying with more hazardous things than soda, had fallen under adult supervision. They were too busy playing with the Frisbees and soap bubbles.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Ready for Release!
Death By Trombone is ready for release! Enter the Giveaway below!
Official release day is Jan. 8...but if you want to get the early-bird copy, check here. As always, direct orders for signed copies are accepted by email to Rebecca.douglass@ninjalibrarian.com.
Amazon pre-orders for the Kindle!
Smashwords pre-orders for all ebook formats.
And in case you haven't read the first book, get Death By Ice Cream at Amazon, Smashwords, or Barnes & Noble.
We are very excited about this release! Huge thanks to everyone who made it possible, and who made the book the best it could be.
Enter Giveaway
Official release day is Jan. 8...but if you want to get the early-bird copy, check here. As always, direct orders for signed copies are accepted by email to Rebecca.douglass@ninjalibrarian.com.
Amazon pre-orders for the Kindle!
Smashwords pre-orders for all ebook formats.
And in case you haven't read the first book, get Death By Ice Cream at Amazon, Smashwords, or Barnes & Noble.
We are very excited about this release! Huge thanks to everyone who made it possible, and who made the book the best it could be.
Goodreads Book Giveaway
Death By Trombone
by Rebecca Douglass
Giveaway ends January 31, 2016.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
See the giveaway details at Goodreads.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Cover Reveal: Pismawallops PTA #2 is coming soon!
Coming January 2016!
After months of fussing about, the second entry in the Pismawallops PTA mystery series is nearly ready...and I'm giving the first look at the new cover for....Death By Ice Cream, by Rebecca M. Douglass (That's me)
(Cover by Danielle English)
JJ MacGregor's very bad day has just gotten a lot worse.
JJ thought starting the day without coffee was a disaster, but now
there's a dead musician behind the Pismawallops High School gym. His trombone
is missing, and something about the scene is off key. JJ and Police Chief Ron
Karlson are determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, but will they be
able to work harmoniously or will discord ruin the investigation? With the
music teacher as the prime suspect, JJ could be left to conduct the band, and
then Graduation might truly end in a death by trombone, or at least the murder
of Pomp and Circumstance!
Haven't read Book 1? Purchase links for Death By Ice Cream (and all the others) are here.
And for the rest of November, it's available at special sale prices--$.99 for the ebook (Amazon and Smashwords direct). Or use coupon code RQZLV6EA for 30% off at the Createspace store.
Friday, July 11, 2014
Friday Flash Fiction: Haunted House
This one was sparked by a Wendig Challenge from a few weeks back. Because I'm traveling, I couldn't do it on schedule. But I'll shared it anyway. It's supposed to be a sub-genre mash-up of a haunted house and a cozy mystery--not really much of a stretch, and an obvious chance for JJ MacGregor and the Pismawallops PTA. If you enjoy the story, please consider checking out JJ's book!
I apologize for any weirdness. I am publishing from my iPad and from a B&B in Peru. . . Neither is guaranteed to work.
"Kitty, have you heard the rumors about the LeMoine house?" I asked my best friend the question over our weekly binge at the Have-a-Bite bakery.
"Rumors like what?" Kitty's response was not so much an inquiry as a caution. I wasn't sure just how to answer, now I'd brought the matter up. The kids hadn't known I was listening. Maybe that was all the more reason to share what I'd heard.
"I gathered from something Brian and Kat were saying that kids are daring one another to spend the night there. That something might get them if they do." Presumably the ghost of Letitia LeMoine, I didn't need to add. "In any case, they expect something scary to happen."
"As a parent," Kitty said with a dryness I would have been proud to own, "it sounds like something scary all right."
We considered teens for a moment while consuming espresso brownies a nibble at a time. I only allow myself one a month, so I wasn't going to miss any taste of this one.
The LeMoine house had stood empty since Kat's daughter and my son and their best friends had found the owner strangled where the Pismawallops PTA usually stored ice cream bars. To the best of my knowledge, the house was empty because the ownership was under dispute, not because no one would live there. Letitia's daughter had gone to the mainland to live with her mother's aunt,and she couldn't even rent it out because no one knew if it a was hers.
"You don't suppose someone is squatting there?" Kitty finally suggested. "That might lead to lights in the windows or whatever started the stories. And once they get started, you know how stories like that grow."
"And getting a story like that going might allow someone to stay a long time, if they make it convincing enough," I agreed.
"You should tell Ron." To my annoyance, Kitty winked when she said it. As if I needed reminding that I had--something--going with the Pismawallops Island chief of police. I refused to rise to the bait or satisfy her curiosity about how things were with us.
"I'm sure he already knows."
In the end, we shrugged it off. Kids like a scary story, and an empty house belonging to a murdered woman offered good material. Our job was to make sure Brian and Kat were not among those who tested the ghost story. I wasn't too worried.
A week later I was less sanguine. Not about the kids, who were behaving well, but about the LeMoine house.
"I drove by there again, and someone is definitely changing the curtains around and stuff."
"Maybe a real estate agent, trying to keep it from looking empty?"
"Nice try, Kitty. But everyone on the Island knows about it, so what's the point?" I took another bite of my low-fat blueberry scone and tried to convince myself it was as good as the brownie had been the week before.
Kitty shrugged. "Then we're back to squatters."
"Do you think we should have a look? If someone's broken in, we should do something. Chantal LeMoine may be a piece of work, but the house may be her only inheritance."
"The police, JJ. Talk to Ron."
***
I'm not an idiot despite some evidence to the contrary, and I was on good terms with Ron that week, so I did what Kitty suggested. I did it at the Station, though. Neither of us could be trusted in private just then, and I didn't know what I wanted from the relationship. Ron knew all too well what he wanted. At the Station he couldn't very well make a play for it.
"I've heard the rumors, JJ, but when one of us drives by, there's no sign of anything."
His department consisted of himself and a worse-than-useless deputy. Leave it to a pair of guys to miss the changes in the curtains.
"So can't I take you to dinner?"
That was the trouble with Ron. He didn't care if the world knew how he felt about me. He'd have kissed me in front of the whole Island, so long as he wasn't in uniform.
"No." Until I resolved some of my existing issues, I wasn't taking on any more.
***
Really, Ron left me only one option. I'd have to investigate the LeMoine ghost myself. Or rather, with Kitty, because I wasn't going there alone.
"Oh, come on, Kitty," I wheedled. "It'll be a lark."
She reminded me of a couple of other things I'd talked her into that hadn't worked so well, and I winced. "We won't go at night. We can just stop in for a minute, look in the windows, and see if it looks like anyone is living there."
Kitty was still reluctant. "Your ideas always sound good," she began.
"Because they are," I insisted. We exchanged looks, her dubious, mine stubborn. At last she gave in.
"Oh, fine. I'll go."
"After dinner tonight."
"That's not broad daylight."
"It's light until late, this time of year. It won't be later than 7:30."
"Fine." Odd. She sounded a lot like Brian at his most teenaged.
**
In fact it was a little later than 7:30, and a little duskier than I'd expected, when we approached the "haunted house." We hadn't told anyone--my son or her family--where we were going for fear of being laughed at. Suddenly, I wished we had. I ignored the unworthy thought.
I parked boldly in front of the house, and we stepped up on the porch with pointless caution. I peered in the front window and let slip a word I don't let Brian use.
"What?" Kitty squeaked. She seemed oddly jumpy.
"I can't see anything. Too dark." I moved to the door before she could say "I told you so," and laid a hand on the knob. The door swung open with a small squeak, just like in the horror movies.
We exchanged looks. Then I went in, before Kitty could get reasonable and drag me away.
The front room was neat, and what I could see of it looked much as I'd last seen it.
Too much so. I realized that once again someone was sitting on the couch in he dusk just as they had that day. . . I screamed. I'm not proud of it, but the memory was too strong, and I'd nearly died that day.
The figure on the couch jumped up and turned into a teenaged girl. "Oh, god,I'm sorry!"
I thought I knew who it was, and reached for the light, but of course the power was off.
"Hang on," said Chantal LeMoine, and a moment later a flashlight came on.
I glared at the dead woman's daughter. "You have some explaining to do."
I apologize for any weirdness. I am publishing from my iPad and from a B&B in Peru. . . Neither is guaranteed to work.
Haunted House
"Kitty, have you heard the rumors about the LeMoine house?" I asked my best friend the question over our weekly binge at the Have-a-Bite bakery.
"Rumors like what?" Kitty's response was not so much an inquiry as a caution. I wasn't sure just how to answer, now I'd brought the matter up. The kids hadn't known I was listening. Maybe that was all the more reason to share what I'd heard.
"I gathered from something Brian and Kat were saying that kids are daring one another to spend the night there. That something might get them if they do." Presumably the ghost of Letitia LeMoine, I didn't need to add. "In any case, they expect something scary to happen."
"As a parent," Kitty said with a dryness I would have been proud to own, "it sounds like something scary all right."
We considered teens for a moment while consuming espresso brownies a nibble at a time. I only allow myself one a month, so I wasn't going to miss any taste of this one.
The LeMoine house had stood empty since Kat's daughter and my son and their best friends had found the owner strangled where the Pismawallops PTA usually stored ice cream bars. To the best of my knowledge, the house was empty because the ownership was under dispute, not because no one would live there. Letitia's daughter had gone to the mainland to live with her mother's aunt,and she couldn't even rent it out because no one knew if it a was hers.
"You don't suppose someone is squatting there?" Kitty finally suggested. "That might lead to lights in the windows or whatever started the stories. And once they get started, you know how stories like that grow."
"And getting a story like that going might allow someone to stay a long time, if they make it convincing enough," I agreed.
"You should tell Ron." To my annoyance, Kitty winked when she said it. As if I needed reminding that I had--something--going with the Pismawallops Island chief of police. I refused to rise to the bait or satisfy her curiosity about how things were with us.
"I'm sure he already knows."
In the end, we shrugged it off. Kids like a scary story, and an empty house belonging to a murdered woman offered good material. Our job was to make sure Brian and Kat were not among those who tested the ghost story. I wasn't too worried.
A week later I was less sanguine. Not about the kids, who were behaving well, but about the LeMoine house.
"I drove by there again, and someone is definitely changing the curtains around and stuff."
"Maybe a real estate agent, trying to keep it from looking empty?"
"Nice try, Kitty. But everyone on the Island knows about it, so what's the point?" I took another bite of my low-fat blueberry scone and tried to convince myself it was as good as the brownie had been the week before.
Kitty shrugged. "Then we're back to squatters."
"Do you think we should have a look? If someone's broken in, we should do something. Chantal LeMoine may be a piece of work, but the house may be her only inheritance."
"The police, JJ. Talk to Ron."
***
I'm not an idiot despite some evidence to the contrary, and I was on good terms with Ron that week, so I did what Kitty suggested. I did it at the Station, though. Neither of us could be trusted in private just then, and I didn't know what I wanted from the relationship. Ron knew all too well what he wanted. At the Station he couldn't very well make a play for it.
"I've heard the rumors, JJ, but when one of us drives by, there's no sign of anything."
His department consisted of himself and a worse-than-useless deputy. Leave it to a pair of guys to miss the changes in the curtains.
"So can't I take you to dinner?"
That was the trouble with Ron. He didn't care if the world knew how he felt about me. He'd have kissed me in front of the whole Island, so long as he wasn't in uniform.
"No." Until I resolved some of my existing issues, I wasn't taking on any more.
***
Really, Ron left me only one option. I'd have to investigate the LeMoine ghost myself. Or rather, with Kitty, because I wasn't going there alone.
"Oh, come on, Kitty," I wheedled. "It'll be a lark."
She reminded me of a couple of other things I'd talked her into that hadn't worked so well, and I winced. "We won't go at night. We can just stop in for a minute, look in the windows, and see if it looks like anyone is living there."
Kitty was still reluctant. "Your ideas always sound good," she began.
"Because they are," I insisted. We exchanged looks, her dubious, mine stubborn. At last she gave in.
"Oh, fine. I'll go."
"After dinner tonight."
"That's not broad daylight."
"It's light until late, this time of year. It won't be later than 7:30."
"Fine." Odd. She sounded a lot like Brian at his most teenaged.
**
In fact it was a little later than 7:30, and a little duskier than I'd expected, when we approached the "haunted house." We hadn't told anyone--my son or her family--where we were going for fear of being laughed at. Suddenly, I wished we had. I ignored the unworthy thought.
I parked boldly in front of the house, and we stepped up on the porch with pointless caution. I peered in the front window and let slip a word I don't let Brian use.
"What?" Kitty squeaked. She seemed oddly jumpy.
"I can't see anything. Too dark." I moved to the door before she could say "I told you so," and laid a hand on the knob. The door swung open with a small squeak, just like in the horror movies.
We exchanged looks. Then I went in, before Kitty could get reasonable and drag me away.
The front room was neat, and what I could see of it looked much as I'd last seen it.
Too much so. I realized that once again someone was sitting on the couch in he dusk just as they had that day. . . I screamed. I'm not proud of it, but the memory was too strong, and I'd nearly died that day.
The figure on the couch jumped up and turned into a teenaged girl. "Oh, god,I'm sorry!"
I thought I knew who it was, and reached for the light, but of course the power was off.
"Hang on," said Chantal LeMoine, and a moment later a flashlight came on.
I glared at the dead woman's daughter. "You have some explaining to do."
Saturday, April 26, 2014
W: My Writing Process Blog Tour
I was going to put this off to next week, but I realized that I needed a post about writing for Saturday. . . a post on the letter W. Sounds like a good fit!
Last week blogger and writer of great stories for all ages, Jemima Pett, tagged me in the "My Writing Process" blog tour. My mission: to answer three questions about my writing process, and to tag three other writers.
First the questions:
1. What am I working on?
Too many things! I am working on edits for a middle grade fantasy, a humorous take on the genre which I hope I will be able to send to beta readers in a week or so. I'm also writing a bit here and there on a third Ninja Librarian book, focusing more on young Peggy Rossiter, Big Al's math prodigy student. Then there's Death By Trombone, the second Pismawallops PTA mystery, which I drafted back in November and am itching to get my hands on. Several other projects (like a short-story collection) are also running around in my head and have to be firmly stuffed back into a dark room to keep them from sprouting too fast (can I mix the metaphor any more, if I really, really try?).
2. Why do I write what I do?
Ideas come in and demand to be developed. Or characters. Halitor the Hero (the tongue-in-cheek fantasy up next) was sparked by a bit of flash fiction that I wrote. In that story, a hero was aging and at the end of his career, but it made me wonder how he got there. What I found when I took him back to his teens was a very different person! Maybe not even the same character. I write the stories and characters that come to me, but I write it all with humor because I can't write any other way (not an have it be anything anyone would want to read).
3. How does my writing process work?
Well, it's evolving. And maybe, as Facebook has it, it's complicated. I have mostly in the past had a spark of an idea, or a character (on reflection, the character has usually come first), and just jumped in and started writing. I've mostly known what genre I'm working in (though the jury is still out about genre re: the Ninja Librarian), but not where the story is going to go or how it'll get there. With Death By Trombone, because I wanted to write it as a NaNo project and because I wanted to make editing it less of a gargantuan task than usual, I created an outline. Sort of. It definitely made writing easier, since when I ran into trouble I could look and see where I thought I was going. It remains to be seen if it makes revising easier. With luck, I start on that in a couple of weeks.
Now for the two writers I want to tag, to post about their own writing processes in the next week or two or so (it was supposed to be three, but hey, I put off asking until a little late. . . ):
Dixie Dawn Miller Goode has written a series of books about a boy named Duffy Barkley, who may have Cerebral Palsy but still has no end of adventures; and a historical fiction with a touch of time travel, Double Time on the Oregon Trail.
And last but definitely not least, Gus Sanchez blogs irreverently at Out Where the Buses Don't Run, and is working on his first novel. Right, Gus?
Check them out--go ahead and follow their blogs and see what they come up with. I'm not sure I could come up with two more different writers, so maybe that can count for three.
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