Aloha to all of you readers out there in cyberspace. How exciting to be back on the Fresh Fiction Blog and in such good company. This month I have plenty to celebrate. HOMECOMING, my first book for Steeple Hill, will go on sale today. Set in the 1870’s, it’s the story of a young woman who is “rescued” from the Comanche clan that abducted her as a child. She has no memory of her past when she is taken in by Hattie Ellenberg, a woman who has suffered at the hands of the Comanche herself. Joe Ellenberg is Hattie’s son. He’s a man who has lost his faith and his hope for the future—until this lovely young woman searching to know “Who am I? Where do I belong?” comes into his life. It’s a book I truly enjoyed writing, even though I began with a little trepidation. I’ve never written an inspirational before and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to achieve the goal I was going for: a page-turner filled with emotion, tension and characters readers would remember long after the last page was read. So, when I finished, I gave the book to two friends and fellow writers…

“She flowed into his arms and they stood silently for a moment: two middle-aged people, much encumbered by heavy winter outerwear and vintage emotional baggage, but, for the moment, in perfect harmony.” So, I get the invitation to blog on Fresh Fiction and I accept joyfully, especially since the kind folks here have named my recent release In a Dark Season “Pick of the Day” (5/25/08). I start checking out some past blogs and then I see the covers of featured books. Hmmm. Flowing hair, heaving bosoms, and more six-packs than a convenience store. Oh dear! This isn’t what I write – do they really want me? Mind you, I have nothing against tempestuous heroines and hunky heroes – I’ve drooled my way through a Judith Krantz title or two before this. But when I began to write in 2000 – at the age of fifty seven – I’d already spent about ten years, looking around for role models — older women who were aging in the way I hoped to. It seemed as if the media was crawling with gorgeous twenty-somethings and the occasional cute, feisty old lady and in real life there was a great middle ground of…

Eleventy quibillion years ago, when I was in fourth grade, I wanted to be a writer. I wrote terrible poems, which I think only got worse as I got older and the teenage years descended like locusts, leaving only WOE and ANGST. By college, I had brief bouts of sanity, whereupon I attempted architecture (ohmyGod, they do not tell you about the math), business (my first accounting teacher gave me the final exam in advance, with the answers, if I would swear to her I would never, ever, take another accounting class again), and then journalism (where I learned they had the picky little annoying habit of wanting reporters to not make crap up)(this was before Fox News). And in spite of a fine history of liking to eat and wanting a roof over my head, I still wanted to be a writer. If you asked a question, you would get a story instead of an answer. If I could sidetrack into a couple of tangents? You might as well park a while, because the stories? They would not stop. All the while, I wrote. Much of it was bad. I ran into a former high-school teacher, who’d also been…

When people ask me what I write, I tell them that I write ‘Southern women’s fiction’. To clarify, I usually follow that with the (hopefully) more clear ‘grit lit.’ Although that frequently elicits a grin or two, it rarely seems to explain what it is that I try and create on the pages of my novels. I stick with the adage to ‘write what I know’ and I know the South. My father’s family has lived in the South since before the American Revolution and both of my parents were born and raised in Mississippi–my father on the Gulf coast and my mother in the Delta. I have relatives still living there that most people from other parts of the country would need a translator to understand. But when I hear them speak, I simply feel as if I have found home. Yeah, sure, I’ve created more than my share of hunky Southern men who drawl and even use the word ‘darlin’. But writing Southern women’s fiction is so much more than the accent. It’s primarily a sense of place, and stocked with those inherently wacky yet familiarly beloved Southern characters (remember Aunt Pittypat?)–most of whom I’ve met or find…

It’s an odd way to make a living when you think about it. We write about things that would terrify and dismay people if they were real. Murder. Serial killers. Violence. And we do all this to entertain people. I think about this issue whenever a news show covers an intimate tragedy like the disappearance of Natalee Holloway in Aruba or Madeleine McCann in Portugal. Cable news shows play on our love of mystery and drama to boost ratings. The difference is that, unlike a novel, the crime is real. Our news programs treat these dramas as whodunits, to an extent that we often cheapen or even forget the actual tragedy. The question is: Are those of us who write mysteries any different? We invent our stories, but we strive to make the fear, crime, and drama real for the reader. The best writers make us gasp and cry, afraid to turn the page, but unable to put the book down. My only explanation is that mysteries make us confront difficult moral choices and decide for ourselves. Mysteries also give us something that the real world often cannot. Order. Resolution. Truth. The frustration in watching the news is in not…

Personally, I’m not a big fan of research, and after 10 years of university I’d hoped my research days were behind me. Not so! But at least when I’m writing fiction, I can choose topics that interest me. Firefighters, for example. I decided that the hero of HOT IN HERE (the 2nd book in my Awesome Foursome series, which is a kind of “Sex And The City” series set in Vancouver, BC), would be a firefighter. Now there, let me tell you, was one tough research assignment! Drinking tea in a Vancouver fire hall kitchen with a group of hot firefighters; visiting a firefighter training centre in Reno; having a couple of Queensland firefighters dress me up in full turnout regalia, then catch me when I promptly toppled over! Not all research is that much fun, unfortunately. Sometimes it’s a matter of a quick or lengthy internet search or reading a stack of library books. That’s great for getting the factual info. I’ll usually start there. Then, if possible, I’ll set up an interview or two. Hearing people’s experiences and insights adds so much flesh to those factual bones. Personal experience is the best thing, of course – it gives…

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet”. Ummm… okay, Shakespeare. That’s why Juliet fell in love with Romeo and not some guy named Fred. Yeah, somehow, I’m not buying the names are meaningless sales spiel. Why? Because names aren’t meaningless. They’re important. That’s why most parents spend the entire nine months trying to decide on one (I, on the other hand, was named after the toilet paper and one of my brothers was named after a box of tissues). They set expectations, invoking feelings and passions. For the rest of your life. I know this first hand. Who do you picture when you hear the name Kimber Chin (or, if you prefer, the Dr. Seuss version Kim Chin)? Perhaps Lucy Liu from Charles Angels and Kill Bill? Or Ziyi Zhang from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon? Or… I’ll stop naming gorgeous Asian actresses now before I get depressed. You see, that’s SO not me. Even the top Photoshop expert in the world (i.e. my hubby or so he thinks) can’t make me look like Lucy Liu. I had to marry to get that last name. My background is Irish, my two…

“My newest book, KILL-TV, is one of my “what if,” stream-of-consciousness moments parlayed into a plot. As a mere lass in my twenties I spent several years working in the radio and television industry where lessons abounded daily, minute-by-minute deadlines were de rigueur, and my video-to-script writing cost me all use and feeling in my verbs.Back in the day,” when I discovered the magic wrought by shoulder pads and their seemingly mysterious ability to make my waist appear smaller than it actually was, I came up with another mysterious point to ponder: What if I wrote a comical and suspenseful story that was based upon a combination of irritating characters I’d worked with in broadcasting and, lest there be any residual hostility on my part necessitating expensive counseling, I just plain killed ‘em off?” You know…cheap therapy. This began my year-long journey into the development of my most ambitious novel to date, KILL-TV, just by virtue of continuity, scene changes, and plotting gyrations. While some kind folks, to whom I am not related, have commented that I am mildly amusing, humor does tend to always find its way into anything I write. Having said that, maintaining a humorous tone, snappy…

Dieting can be hazardous to your health. Take exercise for example. A girl could get Plantar Fasciitis jogging across the mall to Cinnabon. She could sprain her wrist fighting with her husband over the last piece of chocolate. You’ve got to be careful. Okay, you’ve got to be serious, too, which is why this last year I finally brought in diet reinforcements: my girlfriends. Dieting is something a woman shouldn’t do alone. It’s too hard, too lonely, too discouraging. But with girlfriends along for support, you’ve got a fighting chance to win the fat wars. The power of female friendship is huge. At least that’s what I’m betting on. And that’s why I wrote my current book Bikini Season. I know I’m not the only one out there who struggles against the call of chocolate éclairs, potato chips, and banana cream pie. I’m hoping that after reading about my characters’ diet adventures women will get inspired to start their own diet clubs. I’ve offered plenty of great recipes in the book to help you on your way. And, speaking of helping, feel free to visit my website (http://www.sheilasplace.com/) and enter the diet tip contest. Let’s keep the girlfriend power going….

Happiness is boring,” and “Riding off into the sunset is not true,” insisted a Noted Author at a symposium I attended earlier this month on the proposition that happiness simply cannot make good literature. And as I resisted – just barely – the urge to pull Sense and Sensibility from my backpack, he lobbed up this comment about Austen unprompted: She is “done for” because we’ve entered “a divorce culture.” One can no longer rely on one’s mate. I flipped to the back of the journal in which I was taking notes: Pfhew, the photo of my husband of twenty years was still there. “At home later, I Googled “happy ending”: what I got was nothing about literature and everything about a massage that … well … people do seem to like. As I sat in that symposium, though, I had only my own favorite books to stack up against the Noted Author’s no-happy-endings admonishment. Among the classics, five of my eight favorites qualified, I decided, for happy ending status: Pierre and Natasha, Princess Marya and Nikolay, and even young Nikolinka all leave us with a sense of contentment and hope in War and Peace, as do Dorothea in Middlemarch…