Malice Domestic

Juliet Blackwell and Gigi Pandian at a 2011
Sisters in Crime reading: Juliet reading from her
witchcraft mystery series, Gigi reading from
her first locked-room mystery short story.

Next week, Gigi and Juliet will be at Malice Domestic, the book-lovers convention that celebrates the traditional mystery. If you'll be there, be sure to say hello! Details about their panels are below. 

But first, a fun little story: In 2007, both Gigi and Juliet were new to the mystery world and didn't know a soul. The 2007 Malice Domestic convention was the first either had attended. Juliet was up for an Agatha Award (for Feint of Art, writing with her sister as Hailey Lind), and Gigi was being awarded the William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant (for Artifact, when it was an unpublished work-in-progress). Though the two would come to learn they lived only a few miles from each other in California, they first met at the opening ceremonies on the other side of the country -- when Gigi told Juliet how much she loved Feint of Art! -- and immediately became friends. 

Since then, Juliet has had more than ten books published, and this year Gigi is up for an Agatha Award for her locked-room mystery short story "The Hindi Houdini." What a fun ride it's been! 

MALICE DOMESTIC 26: May 2-4, 2014

Hyatt Regency Hotel, Bethesda, MD

Gigi's panel is Saturday at 9 a.m.

Make It Snappy: Our Agatha Best Short Story Nominees

B.K. Stevens (Moderator), Barb Goffman, Gigi Pandian, Barbara Ross, Art Taylor

Juliet's panel is Saturday at 2 p.m.

Witches and Werewolves and Ghosts, Oh My!: Woo-Woo Authors Appear in Character
Dina Willner (Moderator), Juliet Blackwell, Dana Cameron, Jim Lavene, Leigh Perry/Toni Kelner

Have I died and gone to heaven? 'cause I think I see an author

by Juliet

Come on, admit it: you really, really want to date a writer, right?

I mean really, who wouldn’t? Unless, of course, you trust the likes of Chuck Wendig to tell you exactly why and how we are absolutely insane.

Or, you could check in with Charles Warnke, a young man with an incredible take on the romantic lives of those who read. (btw, this man is young enough to be my son and yet I have *such* a fangirl crush on him. I might to have to start stalking him soon. Someone might want to warn him. Apparently, he lives in the next town over.)

But seriously, if you can look past the unwashed hair, the deadline funk, the desperate gleam in our eyes when we’ve been spending waaaay too much time with the imaginary voices in our heads...we’re awfully interesting. And how cool would it be to bring an author home and say no, he has no means of support but he’s in the Library of Congress! Or to bring an author to a crowded cocktail party and ask her, loudly, what's the best way to kill someone with a shrimp cocktail?

So I asked around, and came up with a short list of good lines to try if you’re trying to pick up an author...or at least to get the conversational ball rolling:

1) Personally, I don’t think genre fiction gets the respect it deserves.

2) I’m going to assign your books as required reading in my class of 500 students.

3) I may be old fashioned, but good spelling and grammar turns me on.

4) What’s your opinion of the semi colon versus the dash? (insert ellipses, etc.)

5) You need a new plot for your next book. Let me introduce you to it, right here.

6) I think reading glasses are sexy.

7) Did you hear about that mummified body in the locked room? How d'ya suppose it got there? (substitute any appropriately gruesome crime here)

8) How many synonyms can you think of for “walked”?

9) Want me to bring you food and drink and take care of all the housework and not let anyone talk to you for a week while you’re on deadline?

10) Good Lord. Joe Konrath. There are no words.

How about you all? Think of any good pick up lines for the next time you're in a bar crowded with authors? (read: just about any genre lit conference.) I'd love to hear them!

Maybe I'll collect them all and write a book.

I Suck at Strategy

I suck at strategic thinking. And when it comes to acting strategically, well...it's a good think I'm lucky, because I'm a total loss at such things.

Like this one time at a conference when I had to go to my publisher's formal cocktail party. I'm standing around with a glass of red wine in my hand, feeling like an awkward idiot because I *know* cocktail parties like these are all about meeting the right people and schmoozing with folks who might be good for your career and selling oneself.

All of which I HATE.

Then I notice someone leaning up against a column, looking kind of weird and out of place --like me! So I approach him, and he turns out to be fascinating, and funny, and geeky, and we get more drinks and proceed to have a grand old time. Then another fellow joins us, who turns out to be the first guy’s assistant, and we start making inappropriate comments and snide remarks and laughing so loudly that my editor’s boss joins us, at which point we rein it in and behave ourselves.

As soon as the two men walk off, my editor’s boss turns to me and says: "Good for you! That’s an important connection to make."

And I say, "Wha…?"

And in response to my vague look she says, "You realize he’s the national buyer for ****" (fill in incredibly important chain of bookstores)

And I say "Wait, wha…?" ... and only then realize I've been saying inappropriate things to someone Very Important.

And then later in the evening I'm all tongue-tied around the fellow because I now know he could be a Strategic Asset.

That’s the kind of suave, strategic player I am. So if I ever approach you at a party, you can be sure I think you're not important.

Wait. That didn't come out right...

When a snake is just a snake

-- By Juliet

I remember the first time I read that Freud believed snakes to be phallic symbols.

I was an impressionable high school student, and I was learning a little about a lot of things-- art and psychology and history. And as I flipped through my art books, well...there was something to be said for Freud's phallic theory. I mean, check out Lilith with the snake (to the right). She sure looks like she's about to have sex with that serpent. (Like so many students before me, I was largely intrigued by art history because I couldn't believe I was allowed to look at smut like this, right there in the school library! Ah, those innocent pre-internet days...)

And the truth was, at fifteen I hadn't had much experience with snakes, whether of the phallic or the serpentine variety. But frankly, looking at this painting of Lilith -- who was pretty kick-ass and much more interesting than Eve-- made snakes seem just a little bit...sexy.

And then there was this sculpture, entitled 'Femme piquee par un serpent - Woman bitten by a snake' by Jean-Baptiste Clesinger, known as Auguste.
You can certainly see how "bitten by a snake" might be a euphemism for something nasty, and yet wildly intriguing. Finally, I stumbled across this painting of a snake charmer, by Jean Léone Gérôme, in which it certainly does look like there might be something else going on right after the show:

But it didn't take long for my nascent feminism to assert itself: all these paintings had been created by men, and a lot of the boys I knew seemed to be a little preoccupied with all things phallic. And then it occurred to me: Freud was also a man, and therefore also likely preoccupied with anything he might consider to be phallic.

Without the sensual portrayals of serpents in art, I really didn't find snakes to be sexy at all. In fact, there was a picture that rather summed up my feelings for reptiles in general, by one of my favorite artist of all time: Medusa, by Caravaggio. Her hair was made of snakes, but there wasn't anything sexy about it, not in the least.

French Kiss

--by Juliet

Below is a actual conversation between me and a French friend:

Me (while munching on French fries): Why are these called French fries?

Him (shrugging in a Gallic fashion): They are fried potatoes, pommes frites, nothing especially French about them.

Me: How about French vanilla?

Him: Another shrug.

Me: French kissing?

Him: Ah! Now we are getting somewhere interesting. Baiser avec la langue is the only way for lovers to kiss, no? This, my country will take credit for: c'est le bise amoureux.

Me: I don't understand. You're saying your people invented this form of kissing? In Wikipedia it says the French used to call it baiser florentin, or Florentine kissing.

Him (snorting and saying many fast words in French while throwing up his hands in exasperation): This is ridiculous. Italians. They are always taking credit for the most wonderful inventions of the French.

Me: So you're saying that French kissing is truly French in origin?

Him: I don't really understand the question. What I would like to know is this: what in the world is 'American cheese'? Is it actually...cheese?

Excellent question. Probably we should all stick to kissing. It's healthier.

I Need a Nag!

--by Juliet

I need a nag to make me get stuff done.

I start things just fine. It's the finishing that kills me.

For instance, right now I’m on deadline. It’s that time in my writing schedule when someone asks me how I’m doing, and I take it as an act of aggression.

“Just how do you think I’m doing? I haven’t taken a shower in three days. I forgot how to brush my teeth and put on clothes. I'm hoping a car crashes outside my window so I'll finally have an ending to this freaking novel! That’s how I’m doing!”

All of this is accompanied, of course, by a crazed gleam in my eyes. Because I’m not really seeing the person talking to me, I’m seeing the fact that my inner nag failed, once again, to get me anywhere near finished before deadline.

As a mom, I nagged my son all the way through French school (bilingual nagging, even!) and then I nagged him through AP classes and SAT exams and college applications and now, guess what? He doesn't need me to nag him anymore! He now has his own inner nag, and does sensible things like getting his papers done ahead of time, and he's rocking something close to a 4.0 at his university. And he still manages to party.

So, um, why can't I manage to internalize my own nagging in some kind of effective way? Don't know, and I can't figure it out right now because I'm pulling an all-nighter to reach my deadline. I'm a mad writer stuck in my aerie.

And I’m trying not to take the need to write this blog as an act of aggression. I apologize ahead of time for my bad attitude. I’ll be me again in, oh, seventy-eight hours or so.

And after that...feel free to step up and nag. I need it.

Vintage Vice

--by Juliet

As an adolescent in suburban Cupertino California in the 1970s, I had to keep on my toes if I wanted any shot at finding vice of any kind. Oh sure, drugs could be had at the high school, but I never liked the folks who used – if I wanted to sit in a corner and babble, I could do it without external influences. The vice I was most interested in was SEX.

But smut was hard to find.

Keep in mind: back then “Adult Content” was available only through “Adult Stores”. And those kinds of places did not exist on Cupertino’s leafy streets.

But then one day I was snooping, and I came across my dad’s stash of Playboy magazines.

It was a revelation. I know, I know, objectification of woman, yada yada yada. I get that. As an adult I can see that the women featured in these magazines were made out to be acted upon, rather than as independent actors in their own sexuality. But at the time all I could think was: these women appeared to be having fun. They seemed to like sex. They were smiling, sunny and happy in their nakedness.

I spent many delectable hours poring over these publications. And I didn’t just check out the magazines for the pictures. Oh no, I was there for the articles. Okay, not all the articles…but some of them were highly informative. For someone with almost no sex education at school, and very little on the homefront --my dear mother tried, but women from her background simply did not talk about such things-- this was all incredible information, ripe to be shared with friends. I especially liked the jokes at the back. They carried with them a wealth of cultural as well as sexual information.

Soon I realized that every home I babysat in was a potential gold mine. I don’t mean to disillusion anyone about a) what a nosy kid I was and b) what babysitters in your house might be up to, but I looked around. Usually you didn't have to go any further than a bedside table. And it wasn't just Playboy or Penthouse. I found The Kama Sutra. The Joy of Sex. Our Bodies, Ourselves. Wow. My young mind was blown.

Granted, now that so much more is available on the internet, I'm sure much of the motivation for snooping has been leached from our young. And it's worthy of note that much of vintage Playboy's "art" would be too tame for the likes of many fashion and gossip magazines, today.

As far as introductions to smut go, this was much gentler than what the average adolescent finds today when she Googles "sex" or anything of the ilk. Some of that stuff shocks the hell out of me, so I can only imagine what an innocent young mind might make of it all.

And no, 1970s "men's magazines" were not the best introduction a young woman could have to the world of sex and sexuality. But as far as smut goes...it was exciting, fun, and so, so naughty.

Oooh, the wonderful vice of it all.

Serenity Sucks (or, writing in cafes with friends)

The other day I was imposing myself on a very patient Penfatale (I won’t say who, but she’s an excellent knitter) who was writing in her favorite café. Since I’m on deadline, I’ve become a child about writing and needed her presence across the table to keep my you-know-what in the chair.

It’s a bustling coffee shop, always full of folks chatting and plotting and studying and writing. It also has a dedicated section for children, with toys and chalkboards and toddler-style effluvia – the kind of place I would have given my left arm for when my own son was a tot.

So as we’re writing, the play-sounds of children begin to rise above the murmur of the adult patrons. Specifically, some kid starts banging on something wooden with something metal. Or something. Point is, someone small is making noise.

The man at the table next to us sighs heavily in exasperation. He looks over at the children’s corner and scowls, harrumphing loudly. Bangs his hands on the table. Sighs again.

Then, since his will is still not done –despite his obvious displeasure-- he glances over at me and tries to engage me in conversation: “Can you believe what people let their children get away with these days?”

I stare at my computer screen, pretending not to notice his very public discontent. I decide I love the loud banging and laughing from the children’s area. I decide that pretty much whatever this guy likes, I like the opposite.

After a few more minutes he packs up his computer and books – including one titled Too Many People—and goes to complain at the counter, then hangs around to grouse with a trio of other middle-aged white guys for a few minutes before leaving the shop in a huff.

This leaves me pondering what my friend calls "white people problems". By which she means, of course, the relatively inconsequential inconveniences that ruin the day of folks who are far too privileged to understand exactly how privileged they are. And thus have their days ruined by children having the audacity to act like children in a children's play area, while they're trying to read.

Speaking only for myself, I’ve noticed something important in my life: When I feel peaceful on the*inside*, I can cope with a good deal of external chaos. In fact, I often search for a lack of peace. I once painted a mural in a massage studio and between the peaceful music and the peaceful quiet and the peaceful whispers and the peaceful colors, I thought I was going to tear my hair out. I left everyday and sought out brilliant colors and raucous laughter and vibrant life.

Sure, there are days when I want nothing more than to curl up in bed and ignore the phone and not talk, at all. Or go sit in a redwood forest somewhere all by myself and breathe in the serenity. But in general, some of my favorite things are just not peaceful. Children, animals, cities, my friends, beach boardwalks, dancing, parties….just about my whole life.

All that said, if you need peace and quiet in your surroundings, by all means, go for it.

But here’s a tip: don’t choose a busy café with a dedicated space for children to play. Things are going to get loud.

Drown your Leftovers in Mole

--by Juliet

First: We have a winner of Rochelle Staab's debut novel, Who Do, Voodoo? Linda Jay, you're the winner! You'll be receiving your book and pen soon!
Now, on to leftovers...

They say all the stories have been told, and that our task as writers is to come up with fresh ways of telling them. I see leftovers in that light.

Unlike some other Pens I could mention, I was raised to use leftovers for something fun and exciting the next day. My mother was from a Cajun family, and boy could she turn just about anything into croquettes: fish, chicken, broccoli...she was gifted. And my father was the soup king -- everything went into the pot. And I mean, everything.

This was how I was taught to cook: not by finding a recipe and buying the ingredients -- that was cheating. No, we were trained to poke around the cupboard and the fridge and "come up with something." The challenge was to make the leftovers so interesting and tasty that no one recognized them.

So I have an idea for all those tedious post-Thanksgiving leftovers out there: Mole. Keep a jar or two on the shelf; it's as easy as, well, mole from a jar.

Mole (pronounced mole-AY) comes from mulli in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. Though the Aztecs were devastated by the arrival of the Spaniards (and European diseases), they did not disappear. Their descendants, the Nahua Indians, survived, as did their language and much of their culture, especially culinary traditions.Mole simply means “sauce”--which is why it’s fun to see it referred to on menus as “mole sauce”. Guacamole, for example, literally means avocado sauce.

There are dozens, if not hundreds of different moles in Mexico. Like curries from India, In Mexico many a region or inventive cook (or family matriarch) maintains their own secret recipe, a complex combination of spices and ingredients.

The version most commonly known in the US is the poblano or “chocolate” mole, which includes unsweetened cocoa as one of its many ingredients. But there are also black, red, yellow, colorado, green, almendrado, and pipián (pumpkin seed) moles, just to name a few.

Moles might include walnuts, peanuts, pine nuts, sesame seeds, pumpkin or other squash seeds, bread crumbs, sugar, orange juice, cilantro, fruit, plantains, garlic, onion, cinnamon, chocolate, and a variety of other spices. Most include several chili peppers, especially ancho, pasilla, mulato and chipotle.

Moles do what tasty, spicy, flavorful sauces all over the world are meant to do: they enhance -- or disguise-- whatever it is you’re eating. Bored with Thanksgiving turkey with stuffing and gravy? Shred or chop your turkey, mix it with mole, wrap it in a tortilla and it’s a whole new taste treat.

And once you've eaten your full, get back to writing that story: add some new spices, give it a little kick, and tell it in your own unique way.
Because guajolote en mole might start out with Thanksgiving leftovers, but it ends up being so much more.