Danse Macabre

by Gigi

Dissonant music has always appealed to me. I recently learned that this might be related to my love of mysteries.

The "Devil's Interval" or the "Devil's Chord" is a tritone musical interval classified as dissonant that was banned during the Middle Ages. It was called diabolus in musica -- "The Devil in Music"-- because it evoked desire in people. The desire stemmed from wanting resolution in the dissonant music, not from being tempted by the Devil, but never mind the musical facts.

One of the more interesting uses of this tritone is in the composition Danse Macabre, composed by Camille Saint-Saens in the 17th Century. The song is used perfectly as the theme song to the brilliant mystery show Jonathan Creek.



Jonathan Creek follows the adventures of the consultant to a magician who is able to solve seemingly impossible crimes (if you read this you know I adore those puzzles). In spite of its rational explanations, the show creates a spooky, mysterious atmosphere -- just like the song.

Jonathan Creek

The audio recording of Neil Gaiman's wonderful Graveyard Book uses Danse Macabre in the background. As does one of the coolest episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Hush). Notice a pattern yet?

P.S. The song takes its name from the allegory of the Dance of Death, where the dead from all realms of society come together in the cemetery to dance atop the graves.

Martha Does The Bedbug Dance

I was looking forward to this week's topic of dance.

I wanted to blog about my youthful disappointment at being cast as a rat in a small production of Nutcracker and thinking I absolutely would *not* twitch my nose accordingly.


Or my lame attempts at hip hop (including shameful video!) and how I won't quit no matter how awful I am at it.


Or my husband learning salsa so he could take me dancing on my 30th birthday.


So many stories..but instead.... I attended the wonderful Romantic Times Convention this past week, and through no fault of the organizers, who were wonderful, my room had bed bugs.


I can't think of anything else. This bed bug situation has consumed me since that weekend.


I've never been paranoid about bed bugs. The first I even heard of this phenomena was December 2010 when my roommate at a lodge in Big Sur insisted we check our beds, and I did it to humor her. Even when my RT roommate mentioned we should check our room for bed bugs, I did a mattress check just to humor her and went on enjoying the first day of a wonderful convention with awesome attendees and panels. (Really - great convention - go.)


The next morning, my RT roomie and I ordered room service. We gleefully sat on our beds, the cart between us with chorizo breakfast burritos. Then, during our meal, my roomie slapped something on the bed and wiped a bloody trail on the tablecloth.


She asked, "Do you think it was a bedbug?"


Well....I didn't know so I looked up a picture on the internet. She said that was what the bug looked like. She ran into the shower as I called down to the front desk who said they would send someone "from security" and were looking into moving us to another room.


I was really pleased with the response! Within the hour, a security guy arrived to take a picture of the blood streak on the tablecloth and we were ushered into another room. My roommate asked for a breakfast comp since our meal had been interrupted and the hotel complied by sending up breakfast buffet certificates to be used during our stay.


We went on our way. I attended panels. I visited friends in their rooms. I networked at the bar. To be honest, I figured the drama was done.


But it wasn't. I was back in my new room when there was a knock on the door. The gentleman from security was there with a man in a pest uniform. "We're here to check the room," he said. I let them in, thinking thanks, and sure. Then a voice came in from the security guy's walkie talkie which mentioned inspections in other rooms - the ones adjoining ours, and I commented that was very proactive and then the pest guy said, "Well, we found the colony in the headboard."


He pointed to the side of the room my roommate had taken, and I felt awful that I was relieved it was in her headboard. I asked what we should do, and the pest guy, who was checking our room, said he didn't see any bed bugs and they left.


So I figured we were fine, right? Wrong!


Sure, there were no bed bugs in the current room which we had been in for a grand total of six hours, but who knew what was lurking in the bags we had brought from the other infected room.


My roommie began to fill me in on what she was fast learning about bed bugs - that they are virulent, that they hide and lay eggs in suitcases and fabric seams. That all our things were likely just as infected as our old room had been and we were doing no more than infecting our new room and possibly the rooms of other people since we were wearing the clothes from our suitcases when visiting other suites.


Gross - just gross.


I tried to tell myself it was no biggie, that we had done our best.


The next day, my roommie woke up with bites. The day after, we both had bites, more of them. To be honest, we felt defeated. My roommie actually said the words, "I've been defeated." She had it far worse than I. I had two sets of bites, three bites each, running up my forearm and encircling my ankle. Hers set off a rash on her face.


We had one more day in our stay and hoped we'd received the bites the first night and they were only now becoming irritated. But it became clear if we wanted to avoid the possibility of infecting other people and our home environments, measures needed to be taken. I had driven my car and would need to put my suitcase and goods in it.


Was it worth the possibility of bringing an infestation home? My roommate asked for our room to be comped. We were met with some resistance at checkout. Told we were moved and ergo the situation must have been fixed but bringing up another manager's name got our rooms (but not incidental meals and internet) comped.


I made the decision to leave my suitcases and clothes behind. I couldn't chance bringing them into my home. I picked out some select items of emotional value and placed them in plastic bags I lifted off a cleaning cart but left everything else behind - goods far more than quintuple the price of the room.


I understand the situation is frustrating for the hotel. My family works in hotel management, and I know the struggles and challenges, and I have never before asked for a comped room. Trust me, I've had my share of hotel annoyances, but figure whatever, I'm just looking for a place to sleep. My roomie and I were reasonable. We were downright pleasant during the first call. We were firm but not loud during checkout as she said, "I would like my room comped to make up for the inconvenience we're going to face related to these bed bugs."


We also asked that they check our new room. The response? "Well, did you file a report with security?" No, we did not file a report - do it anyway!


At no time did the hotel admit culpability or that there were bed bugs - remember, it was the independent pest inspector who told me about the colony. When a friend told the hotel she heard there were bugs, they said, ""Guests call about bed bugs but when we inspect, it's another kind of bug." They also said things to us like, "The hotel doesn't have bed bugs - guests bring them in."


What do I wish? After all - the room was comped, right? Here's the thing - I don't care about the free room.


I wish the hotel had helped us by telling us what we needed to do to minimize the chance of spreading bed bugs or bringing them into the next room, even if it meant admitting culpability. I wish they had been proactive about producing us with plastic bags or access to a heated clothes dryer.


I am not only paranoid about myself, but about my friends. I had been in their hotel rooms. I had borrowed their party clothes. Another friend had brought her one year old baby into our room for a visit.


I literally drove home having left most of my things behind, stripped naked in my garage, threw out that outfit, and ran into the house to take a shower then wiped down my leather car seats with alcohol. I admit a consumer responsibility as well, but it wasn't for a few days where I had been able to fully research bed bugs. Now I feel like I could lead a class on it.


I've woken up the past few days paranoid to find new bites on me or my husband. The other two sets of bites itch like the devil and have rashed. I'll never be casual about bed bugs again.

The Dance of Volleyball

I spent the weekend at the Far Westerns No Dinx Volleyball tournament. My daughter, the Princess, started playing competitive volleyball this year.
If your vision of volleyball was like mine a few years ago, there are six players on the court, three in front, three in back, and the right back corner player serves. The players stand in their spots, and only move when the ball comes to them, in order to get the ball over the net.

It turns out there is quite a bit more to competitive volleyball. They have plays. They have moves. They have rotations. Their movement on the court is a different kind of dance. And I have to say it is beautiful and atheletic and amazing.

If you've never seen competitive volleyball, take a look at this video and watch the Dance of Volleyball.




Stanford vs. Long Beach in 2001

The Wallflower Way

L.G.C. Smith

A lot of writers are wallflowers by nature. It’s not a hard and fast rule, but, on the whole, if a body spends too much time at the ball dancing, flirting and drinking the spiked punch, that person is going to be too tired, busy or buzzed to write about it later. However, if a body lurks along the periphery observing the dancing and revelry, that person is going to hear and see a lot of interesting things. Some might resort to thinking interesting thoughts, or even, God save us, fantasizing.

And voila. Stories.

Wallflowers are ever alert to the scent of a story. Wallflowers watch. Wallflowers listen. Wallflowers wonder.

That last bit alone separates wallflowers from the gyrating masses.

When the wallflower gets home from the dance, he or she has built up a head of creative steam that must be vented. Clouds of words and sentences issue forth from teeming brains and hearts. Since wallflowers don’t expend all their energy dancing, they have enough to fuel sitting on their (frequently wider than average) butts for the hours it takes to hone their tales.

Many people assume wallflowers are forlorn souls yearning for the chance to waltz with the most desirable lad or lassie in the ballroom. They are frequently objects of pity and scorn. Ha. Being so misunderstood only preps them to write authentic Young Adult fiction well into old age.

Besides, it’s not always true. Some wallflowers could teach the whole room to polka if so inclined. Some are accomplished dancers who could make The Terminator weep for their grace and beauty. (It could happen.) Instead, the wallflower prefers to remain incognito in order to gather material and conserve energy for writing.

Wallflowers sacrifice. Wallflowers eschew pride. Wallflowers take the road less travelled.

Writing’s a dance that rewards wallflowers. I think it highly probable that wallflowers invented writing—possibly so they would have something interesting to think about during dances at the ziggurat.

Posh Dancing

--Adrienne Miller

One of the Pens recently confessed that she didn’t much care for Regency-set historical romances. They’re too many rules, she said. Too few ways that the hero and heroine can court. I understood, but also I found it interesting that the reasons she didn’t like the genre were the very same reasons that I loved it. 

Rules of courtship were strict and demanded that interactions remained formal. Country dancing was more like choreographed walking than our free spirited idea of dance. 

There was a reason the waltz was so scandalous when it was first introduced. Touching while pressed face to face, why people only do that when they...

Even so they made the most of the time they had. In Pride and Prejudice the dance between Mr. Darcy and Lizzie allows for the longest conversation between the two characters up to that point.

It’s a turning point in the story, the point were we begin to glimpse that there might be a more enigmatic side to the taciturn Mr. Darcy than we had imagined. And it only happened because the two characters had a few moments of semi-privacy to speak openly. Finding a way around all of society’s rules made the discovery all the sweeter. 

Of course, this is pretty funny too. (Go to 1:32 for the line that I believe all P&P fans secretly craved in the original. NSFW)

Smile. You're dancing.

by Juliet

As far as my memory serves (and since I'm too lazy to look it up, my flawed memory will have to serve) humans are the only creature that dances.

Oh sure, ants and bees have “dances” that they use to communicate to their brethren where to find honey-filled flowers, or a pungent carcass. Many mammals indulge in interesting mating boogies, and birds often strut their stuff while singing, rather like they’re putting on a show.

But moving one’s body for no reason related to food or reproduction…that’s a human thing.

(Not that dancing’s not related to sex-- after all, there’s a whole lot of courtship going on out on the average dance floor. In fact, in more genteel times, dancing was about as close as most couples got to having sex, and it’s clear why every elder generation is afraid that the young people’s dances lead to nothing but smut and ruination – seen teenagers dirty dancing lately? My lord in heaven…*waves hands over face*)

It has something to do with the ability to really enjoy music, obviously. It’s the rare human who has never been transported by music, at one point or another. The right music can speak to our souls, bypassing the intellect and moving right on into one’s gut. When music speaks to your heart, it’s magic. And then letting that magic travel right one out through one’s appendages in dance…well, that can be nirvana.
{at left, a Halloween dance. Yes, I'm the Pen who gives dance parties...}

Let me be clear: I’m not any good at it. Not ANY good at it. Especially if there are actual steps involved, in which case I get caught up in trying to figure out which way my foot’s supposed to be landing, and I forget to hear the music, and can’t remember how to respond, and I feel like a fool.

But whenever I fear looking ridiculous I remember a sultry night in Spain, many many years ago. I sat in a humble little plaza, watching as a group of migrant workers on their way back to Andalusia sang a flamenco tune. A few young men tapped out a beat on the stone benches, others called out and laughed, and an old woman got up. I’m talking OLD, wrinkled and stooped. She started to dance, to sway, holding her arms over her head, snapping her fingers and stomping.

Even I could see that she wasn’t much good –she was off-beat and rather clumsy. But she smiled as she turned, her black skirt swishing around her legs, her body swaying with abandon, and every young person in that crowd cheered her on.

So forget the steps. The self-consciousness. Let the music into your heart, and let yourself sway. Throw in a gyration or two. Stomp your feet. Lift your arms up. Close your eyes.

Smile. You’re dancing.

Rachael's Old Fashioned

I love to dance, but only when there are prescribed rules, forms to follow. If there's a dance beat at a club and I'm supposed to just move, I feel completely lame, but I'm a great contra-dancer (New England line dancing). I can stomp my feet to the sound of a fiddle. I can pull off a square-dance or two. I'm not that hot at the polka, but you can't beat me at the waltz: the only dance that, when done right, makes a person feel like they're actually flying.

I love contra-dancing so much that I put one in my next book, WISHES AND STITCHES, out in October. Here, in a short sneak peek, we see Naomi dancing with a Cypress Hollow rancher.

Naomi moved into Stephen’s arms, her hand in his work-roughened palm, her arm at his shoulder, grateful that there was no way to keep from smiling when an old cowboy was spinning a girl round and around so fast that Naomi knew if he let her go, she’d fly across the room like an out-of-control top. She didn’t know what she was doing, but he made her feel coordinated and graceful.

Elbert Romo, dapper in his new blue overalls that were creased as if he’d just ironed them, cut in as the music turned to a waltz. He smelled not unpleasantly like a cough drop and was just as good as Stephens on the floor. As they spun through the crowd, Naomi felt the grin again creep across her face.

“You’re good at this dance,” said Elbert as they wheeled past Mayor Finley, resplendent in a yellow sequined gown that made her look like Big Bird in drag. “Who taught you?”

Naomi felt her smile fade. “My father. The waltz was his favorite.”

“He did good, teaching his daughter. But I gotta say, you should dance the next waltz with that new doc who’s got his eye on you. You two look fine together, and I have to admit, though I’m young for my years, it’s possible I’m a little old for you.”

Elbert led them backwards past the refreshments table, and for once dizzy second Naomi met Rig’s gaze. The blood roared in her ears and she stumbled. Elbert caught her, “Whoopsie! It’s one-two-three, four-five-six.” He pulled her back on beat, and she tried not to think how red-faced she must be. Or about how much he must despise her.

She’d never find out how it felt to waltz with Rig.

Just Park Me With a Drink, Please

by Sophie

DANCE

You know the husband parking lot at any formal occasion, where the lurkers at the back of the room clutch their drinks and desperately try to avoid having to dance? That's where I belong. And in the event that I am forced to dance, I'm very like these poor guys, lurching and bobbing uncomfortably, miserably even, with all the natural grace of a rhino.

I'm not sure how I ended up this way. I don't think I'm a particularly stiff or formal person. I'm not afraid to let my hair down and have fun. But sometime after a show of early promise - I did just fine during the square dance unit in fifth grade gym class, and I almost fainted with delight the first time I slow danced when my girl scout troop visited the now defunct Kemper Military Academy for a "social" - any natural inclination withered on the vine.

It's true that I am not graceful. I'm accident prone and often bump into things. When my boyfriend and I attended step classes in the late eighties (remember those?) I often fell off the step or grapevined in the wrong direction, while he was the teacher's pet. This same boyfriend had dated a dancer and was accomplished enough that he was in high demand at weddings; I was happy for him to whirl everyone from the bridesmaids to the groom's mother to the bride herself around the floor, while I drank wine and ate cake.

One thing you'll never catch characters doing in my book is dancing, at least so far. I don't know how to write that scene. I don't know how to communicate the joy that so many people obviously take from letting music bypass their conscious mind and go straight to the body.

There is one exception. I danced with my children. When they were small, I picked them up and waltzed them around the kitchen, singing (I never had a problem with that) and dipping and spinning. Those were wonderful moments - private moments. My babies were not old enough to know that their mother had two left feet, and I suppose that gave me a sort of freedom that is now lost.

Luckily, I did not pass down my dancelessness to my kids

One of the Pens give wonderful parties where everyone ends up dancing in the living room. I love these parties, as an observer, a wallflower. High heels are kicked to the corners of the room, furniture is pushed back, people ebb and flow into each others orbits - there is laughter and flirtation and I'm envious, I suppose, but nowhere near bold enough to join in.

I won't rule out the possibility that someday the moment might come - exactly the right song, partner, whim - and I might try again. But for now, it's the sidelines for me.

World Autism Awareness Day

--Adrienne Miller

Disability is a rough word. It can make us feel uncomfortable, uneasy. It can make us want to look away, close our ears, pretend, even momentarily, it doesn’t exist. All of these reactions are understandable. I see them almost every day when I’m out in the world with my son, Jack. 

Meeting people with disabilities, including autism, can force us to confront some of our deepest fears--the fear that there but for the grace of god go I, the fear that it could happen to someone you love, the fear that we are helpless against the whims of nature. 

But like most fears, this is one that if you confront it head on, you can emerge on the other side. 

We are not helpless. I am big believer in advocacy and awareness, but I realize that knowledge alone is not enough. Action has a way of shining light into the dark corners of our fears like nothing else. 

There are great organizations out there can help us take action and help people with disabilities like autism reach heir potential. Here are three of my favorites.

1. The Special Olympics has a special place in my heart. Their oath of “Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.” is something we would all do well keep in our lives. Athletes grow pride in their own abilities and athleticism. There are several ways to help out the Special Olympics chapter in your area, from financial support to volunteering your time. 

2. Help a child with autism in your area reach his potential. Go to DonorsChoose.org and click on projects. Search by your hometown and the keyword “autism”. Then give.

3. This one is as easy as making a cup of coffee. Aspire Coffeeworks is a Chicago coffee company (but they ship anywhere) that employs people with developmental disabilities. The proceeds from the sale of their coffee go right back into Aspire’s programs for adults and children. You were going to buy coffee anyway, right? And better to buy it from an organization with a heart and soul instead of a giant corporate behemoth, right? Right.

Behind Every Good Writer Stands a Dog (who wants to go out)…

By Lecia Cornwall

Ah, pets—Does anyone understand writer’s angst better than a cat? Who makes a better muse than a dog?

I share my life with four cats and a chocolate Labrador retriever. Many of the lessons I’ve learned about being a successful writer come from watching my pets.

Frank, my alpha cat, teaches the lessons of devotion and independence. He’s informed, knows everything, yet maintains a dignified distance from underlings. He’s involved with every aspect of life in his domain, from disciplining dogs and subordinates, and checking visitors at the door, to keeping watch over anyone who uses the bathroom. Frank is the one by my side when I write, as encouraging and enigmatic as any writer’s muse.

Kipper, my chocolate Labrador retriever, represents the pure joy and possibility in every single day. Just a ball, that’s all he needs, like an idea he can play with, make into something new, something he can catch, fetch, dig or chew. Even half an idea—or half a ball— has endless potential. Our long afternoon walks are when I do most of my thinking and plotting and work out story problems. It’s incredible how much can be done away from the computer, and paper, and cell phones. Kipper enjoys each and every ‘aha’ moment I find, and takes delight in his own.

Ted was a feral kitten, brought home as a foster cat for a cat adoption group in Ottawa. He’s big, and well, homely. No one wanted him but me, so he stayed. Ted is beautiful on the inside. He loves classical music, and poetry. He’s diabetic, and getting old, but he greets every day with determined routine, enjoying the perfect order of his life. A writer needs a routine like that to stay on track, and Ted reminds me my characters have to have hidden depths and inner beauty.

Like every good romance writer, Alphonse is a dichotomy. He’s the sweetest-natured cat I’ve ever known in the house. Outside, he is the neighborhood serial killer, specializing in voles. Every now and then he surprises me with a gift, either live or dead, laying it at my feet with feline pride glowing in his eyes (My muse does the same thing, sometimes bringing me her ideas like dim-sum offerings, sometimes giving me a dead vole.) Aren’t writers a lot like Alphonse? A multitude of personalities course through our brains. We think up the most diabolical ways to kill our villains, torment our heroes and heroines, and still create the kind of tender love scenes that make our readers purr with delight.

Now what could Missy the Siamese represent, besides persistence of song, and the joy of a little pampering now and then? Siamese cats are never quiet. They tell endless stories (loudly) to anyone who’ll listen. She has a heated basket of her very own, lined with the finest fake fur, and she reclines in incredible comfort. She’s an odd duck among the other cats, like a writer amid engineers, or lawyers, or accountants. Missy reminds me that busy writers need someone to listen to our latest story ideas and a little pampering now and then—a glass of wine, a snuggly blanket and thou, perhaps? Oh, and a good book!

My pets might drive me crazy at times, interrupting the flow of creative thought with demands for attention, food, or constant in and out privileges, but I couldn’t live without their inspiration, companionship and the reminder that love isn’t just confined to the pages of our books. It’s in the way we live between the pages. Each day must have a balance of sleep, work, play, purring, barking and treats. There are days when we feel as if we’ve been locked out in the rain, and days when the sun shines on us, and we bask. There is catnip and Milk Bones to look forward to, and hairballs, too. There’s time to be silly, time to be affectionate, and time to be ruthless. In the end, if we’re lucky, inspired, dedicated, and pampered, it all works out, and the ideas flow when they’re supposed to, and the stories fall onto the page.

Thanks for the inspiration! When I’m done with this life as a writer, I think I’ll come back as a pet, and return the favor.

Lecia Cornwall is the author of Secrets of A Proper Countess, now available from Avon.