“Men occasionally stumble over the truth, but most of them pick themselves up and hurry off as if nothing ever happened.”
– Winston Churchill
And check out my awesome shit on Pinterest, please.
PS: Just a reminder that I’m doing a promotional giveaway on Smashwords until Sunday, March 17. I’m giving away free downloads of LEAST WANTED. Just use the coupon code KY37W at checkout.
Click this link to read the first nine chapters of the novel.
I ascended steep stairs with Elva McKutcheon huffing ahead of me. The wallpaper was a faded rose print, but the place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and grease—hardly roses.
Elva opened the door and swept an arm, as if to say “Behold.” I entered. The room was neat, furnished with utility in mind: a single bed, an old chest of drawers, a dresser with a microwave, hot plate and TV on it, a dorm-size fridge, and a small suitcase, open on the floor. I peered in. A jumble of men’s underwear and socks. All the comforts of home.
In the bathroom, I found a clean sink, razor, miniature can of shaving cream and a bar of soap. I checked the cabinet. Half a bottle of Aqua Velva.
I started pulling out chest drawers, one at a time. Cooper hadn’t bothered to unpack. In the third drawer, I found a file. I picked it up and rifled through it: copies of invoices from ITN Consulting. Interesting. Also, an envelope. Inside was a small, unmarked key. I wondered what it might open.
I tried the next drawer down. Empty. Elva shifted back and forth as she watched me. I felt her eyes follow my every move.
“Look,” she said. “I know you said you wasn’t a cop, but what’s this about?”
“What do you care? You’ve been paid.”
“Yeah, well, it’s still my house. Lemme see some ID.”
I smiled at her sudden interest in my identity and pulled out my courthouse badge. “There. Feel better?”
“Maryland State Bar Association,” she read aloud. “You’re a lawyer.”
“No flies on you.”
She scowled. She couldn’t take it quite as well as she could dish it out. “You representing his ex-wife, right? The one he was bitching about owing child support to?”
“No.”
“Sure you are,” she said. “Else why’d you be going through his things? You’re looking for money, right?”
I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d have been happy to find money, though I doubted Cooper would keep it in such an unsecured place. Clearly, the House of McKutcheon offered something less than Fort Knox protection. A bank book or account statements would have been helpful. Not for the reasons Elva had in mind, but to show that Cooper was an embezzler. Assuming I could link them to the fake vendor account.
“You said you last saw Cooper two days ago?” I asked.
“Two or three days. He’d been in and out anyway.”
“Does he ever sleep over?”
“Don’t ask me. If he does, he’s quiet as a mouse. I never hear the faucet run or the toilet flush. Bed’s always made. By the time I’m up, he’s gone. He’ll pick up his mail, spend time in his room now and then. I can hear him when he’s here, making phone calls and stuff. But I think he’s been steering clear o’ here, ever since I told him about the big blond cop.”
I turned to the dresser. One drawer held an appointment book. I flipped to the current month and started checking dates. The notation “10 p.m. No. 17” was written in pencil for the day before yesterday. Otherwise, the past two weeks were blank.
I kept up my search, Elva breathing heavily behind me, but found nothing of consequence.
“Ms. McKutcheon, I’m going to copy these,” I said, holding up the file and address book, “and return them later today.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Lawyer Lady. But ’tween you and me, your client is wasting her money.”
“How’s that?”
Elva snorted and looked at me as if I were a few cans short of a six-pack. “Let’s face it. A guy livin’ in a place like this obviously got no money. So how you ’spect him to pay any child support?”
“I don’t,” I said, hefting the file. Her face screwed up in a quizzical look, to which I said, “Thanks for your help. I’ll see myself out.”
She followed me to the top of the steps. “Blood from a turnip, Miss Lawyer,” she called down. “You can’t get it.”
*****
The white guy who’d come to see Cooper wasn’t a cop. A cop would have flashed a badge and identified himself. Maybe he was a private eye, hired by Cooper’s ex to find him and serve him papers for back child support. Or Cooper could have quit Kozmik to impoverish himself—an attempt to avoid his support obligations and a bad move that would earn no sympathy from a judge. Perhaps Cooper had rented this dump as a mail drop instead of a box to throw people off his trail. Pretending to live there, while hiding somewhere else. But hiding from whom? His ex-wife? Someone at Kozmik? And why would he hide? If I could figure out who he was hiding from, maybe the why would follow.
In a better neighborhood, I found a cheesesteak and a Kinko’s, in that order. I copied Cooper’s entire calendar and the papers in the file, since answers might be buried anywhere in them. Another receipt for my taxes.
I toyed with the notion of having the key duplicated, but it was a plain key and I had no idea what it unlocked. What would be the point? I thought about keeping it and using it as leverage to get Cooper to talk to me. Tempting as that option was, it bordered on blackmail or behavior “unbecoming of an attorney.” I cursed my ethical diligence and replaced the key in the envelope.
I returned to Elva’s. She watched me put everything back where I’d found it. No sign of Cooper or anyone else since I’d seen her. I took a chance and left my card, offering yet another twenty for her discretion (to the extent it could be bought) and information on any new developments where Cooper was concerned.
With that, I headed back toward I-95 and home, hitting an ATM on the way. This had turned into an expensive trip.
At home, I fed Oscar, my 15-pound black-and-white feline companion, then decided to check my office voice mail. Maybe Fielding had thought of another important point, Marzetti had changed his mind about talking to me, or Elva had called with news worthy of all those twenties I paid her. The lone message was from William Jackson.
“Ms. McRae.” The words came out jagged and anguished. “Please call me as soon as possible. They’ve arrested Tina. They think . . . they think she killed her own mother. It’s crazy, but they do.” There was a long pause, but for his ragged breathing. “Please call me when you get this. She needs your help.”
Given that it’s the week before St. Patrick’s Day, I’ve decided I’m going to do a promotional giveaway on Smashwords until Sunday, March 17. I’m giving free copies of LEAST WANTED. Just use the coupon code KY37W at checkout.
Also, the winner of the teaser contest was Donna. Paul tried to play, but I had to disqualify him, of course. No players outside the U.S., remember? Sorry, but I can’t make exceptions for friends.
Anyway, Donna … as the one and only player, you win by default, anyhow. So, just please send me your address by email to debbi@debbimack.com, and I’ll send you your book.
Thank you! More to come …
Finally, here’s a quotation and song, since I love music and used to be a musician back in the day before I got dystonia.
“My ideas come not at my desk writing but in the midst of living.”
– Anais Nin
“I’m proud that I was able to start with nothing, plan it, and have it work as perfectly as it did… I sleep clearly every night.”
– Paul Tibbets, February 23, 1915 – November 1, 2007
Finally, I see from today’s teaser post that this post has been embedded. Thank you, Paul!
And what better way to finish this post than with this quotation and videos, eh?
“I’m the only person I know that’s lost a quarter of a billion dollars in one year…. It’s very character-building.”
– Steve Jobs, February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011
Now … I really have to step away from the computer or work on my review or phone my funny sister or just bang my head against the wall for kicks. Ha ha ha …
And to all my subscribers, I’m assuming I make sense to you and that worries me.j
While I’m at it, here are some interesting links I found around the Web in between reading like a madwoman, trying to peck out reviews, emails and the occasional tweet and just trying to live a normal life while being secretly tortured by a horrible movement disorder called dystonia.
Documentaries don’t come any bigger-hearted than this one! I guess.
Hey, remember Dan Shea? Good old helpful Steve Pryor “introduced” us, so to speak.
I’ll be so glad when I’m done with this book I have to review and trying to figure who’s real and who isn’t and just come up for air. Why me? WTF? Seriously.
I must admit, I breathed a sigh of relief when I disconnected from Facebook. Really!
PS: Did you know that someone on Twitter claims to be (and I quote): “Uterus whisperer. Life fixer. Love gardener. $1.50 matchmaker. Author of important stuff. A doctor, but not when Tweeting. Because this is my personal account.” Yes, really! Just click the link and see for yourself. Yikes! Wow!
And I so totally meant it when I said that I’d rather visit you than go to California. That’s saying a whole lot. Just ask my long-suffering husband, who’s been promising we’ll move there forever many years.
So … here are some more links, that demonstrate my horrible point, which I’ll post without comment. Just click on the links and you’ll understand. I hope.
I called Paul this morning, just to see if I could reach London. I managed to get through. It was so great to hear your voice, Paul. Well worth the 34 cents on my phone bill.
Well, I’ve got work to do … so I think you’re ready for these!
So … planning Operation Doofus and pulling it off are two different things, aren’t they? Especially when you’re falling to pieces secretly and people assume you’re lying, exaggerating, crazy, or being funny.
Me, at my law office, not knowing the really horrible cosmic jokes were coming.
While I was still practicing law, doing freelance work and writing fiction, I used to write in my journal. It was a handwritten journal, so in order to share any of my stories, I’d have to type them out, because my handwriting is so crappy. Unfortunately, I’m typing this with my good hand and the pinky of my left hand — literally the only functional part of my hand, at the moment.
I’m sorry. Was I whiningtrotting my dirty neurological laundry outdisturbing you complaining too much? Well, as Steve Martin once said, excu-u-u-use me!
Now, I happened to be flipping through one of my journals recently, and I decided to tell you about one peculiar courtroom experience I had. I’ve included some set up information, but the point is that I was busy and I wasn’t gimpycrippledthe victim of a horrible cosmic joke was in relatively good health. Except I was sick on the days I wrote in the journal.
So, here’s the story.
Friday, 1/26/96
Quickly, before I go to bed, a few lines.
I can’t talk. I have a severe case of laryngitis.
I keep coughing, which can’t be helping anything.
I have no idea what’s going to happen on Tuesday morning, when my B&E client is supposed to go to court. I haven’t gotten him into a program. He’s already been sentenced to six months in Baltimore. So … now what?
The Howard County program sounds like a program of indefinite incarceration. I don’t know how I could push that and not be acting against his liberty interests.
I just don’t know.
I guess I really should go to bed.
Sunday 1/28/96
I’m watching the news. Jolin DuPont, the heir to the DuPont fortune, has been arrested for the murder of an Olympic swimmer. Scandal! Ooh, ahh!
I guess you could say it’s been a quiet weekend. I’ve been quiet, that’s for sure. My voice was out of service, and still is.
Tomorrow, we’ll see what happens. I have a hard time dealing with uncertainty. Well, I wanted more adventure, less monotony in my life. So, live with it!
I finished The Secrets of Harry Bright, then read B is Burglar and Poodle Springs, in the last three days. I’m starting A Farewell to Arms.
No writing to report. Shame on me.
It’s become obvious to me that it doesn’t matter how much free time I have – I will only write if I decide I want to. So – get to it!
I like to try to think of each day as a renewal. No new year’s resolutions for me. I have to kick myself in the ass every single day.
Maybe that’s what I’ve really learned from running my own office. Nothing happens until you decide it happens. That seems simple enough, but maybe I needed to prove it to myself.
Tomorrow, I will write – really.
I also need to write some letters. Like a letter to my sister to wish her a really belated happy birthday. When I drop the ball, I really drop it. Right off the face of the earth.
Tuesday 1/30/96
Another day, another weird courtroom experience. Today it was in District Court.
District Court in the morning is like the waiting room at the worst bus station in town. It’s not a pretty sight. They have a metal detector now, and there was a line this morning when I arrived at about 8:20 a.m. I was able to bypass the line with a flash of my pass. Yes, I am one with the body … one of them as it were.
The doors to the courthouse don’t open until 8:30, so I hung back and I hit the ladies room. By the time I got through there, the doors were open and the crowd had gravitated to the docket lists. Of course, there were my cases, right on top – “A” as in “A******”, leading the way with his five counts spelled out for the world to see.
I had raced to the courthouse to file a request for continuance yesterday. This was after a doctor’s appointment, scheduled for 1:10 p.m., which did not actually take place until after 2:30 p.m. Then, I had to stop to get my prescription filled (I didn’t wait), then to the office where I finally got Lara Weatherbee’s [the prosecutor’s] message that she couldn’t move to continue or whatever, but I could, so I dashed off a quick request and raced to the courthouse with 14 minutes to spare. I was told by the clerk that there was no guarantee it could be ruled upon, and I said I understood.
So that’s why I showed up. At least the thing was in writing so I didn’t have to talk much.
I talked to Lara and she said she would call the case, though she didn’t exactly say what would happen then. So I didn’t exactly get up right away when she called it and she looked around with a confused look when I didn’t pop right up. At that point, I realized it was time for me to go up there and I did and started to croak a few words, at which point Lara jumped in and said that due to my illness, she had no problem with the case being continued. She did this a couple of times, which I thought was very obliging.
It was interesting, though. Judge Sadler kept flipping through the request, as if something were missing, and I kept thinking, “What? What’s wrong?” and finally he asked, “Is the Defendant here?” Lara spoke up again and said something about the defendant being incarcerated and asking the bailiff was he in the back and the bailiff shook her head with that indifferent expression that bailiffs always seem to have. And Sadler turned to me and asked where he was and I croaked “Baltimore City,” at which point Sadler said he’d continue the case and issue a writ. He then excused me and said, almost in passing, “Get well.”
At that time, I gave a hoarse thanks and skulked out of the courtroom.
*****
Now do you see why every time someone asks, “Gee, why would you quit law to be a writer?” I find it hilarious? And now do you understand why I’d be so happy to quit doing it and just write?
And, yeah, this is a true story. Here’s the journal I scanned into my computer and saved as a PDF file. Good luck reading my crappy handwriting!
Sorry about the lousy contrast, but you understand, right? And I had to scan one page twice, because I accidentally folded a corner under, because I can barely handle anything with one hand and a pinkie. Yeah, I know. Boo hoo!
So … how do you like this website? I just got off the phone after talking for an hour with the web designers about my rebranding, and they suggested I look at that site. I think it looks pretty cool.
And what a lucky great writer this guy must be to get a blurb from Stephen Leather! Awesome!
I even managed to finish 3 more chapters of my latest novel. I offered to send all 18 pages of them to my writers group, because only 2 people had sent stuff to read and I apologized and explained how busy I was between rebranding, writing posts, writing my novel, reading emails, answering them, preparing to publish all the freaking books I need to publish … whenever … and reading the 2 books I must finish and review by the end of this month for Mystery Scene Magazine. Plus the problem with my gamey (sp?) hand.
And I got 2 responses saying, oh, I’m too busy. And one that actually sort of lecturedadmonished told me it wasn’t ideal to send things at the last minute. So, I did not fire back an email saying, “Hey, I said I’m sorry about sending this at the last minute, didn’t I?” Wasn’t that nice of me?
Would you like an example of how social media is completely fucking with our perception of reality? Well, here’s one. I found this article on LinkedIn this morning. My, how inspirational. But if you take a careful look at it, you’ll see this isn’t much more than a story constructed around a set of links to other sources on the Web. Namely this one and this one, in particular. Oh, and be sure and check out the awesome author’s bio. She’s amazing, believe me.
“As soon as people see my face on a movie screen, they knew two things: first, I’m not going to get the girl, and second, I’ll get a cheap funeral before the picture is over.”
– Lee Marvin February 19, 1924 – August 29, 1987
UPDATE: I’ll keep this short and sweet, because I need to read another book and peck out two reviews, along with all the other shit I’m supposed to do, as a blue collar writer trying to meet my obligations.
I may stop Facebooking for a while. I’m not sure, but it would only be temporary. I really need to get this work done, and I have a very real deadline and limitations.
By the next day, Duvall had run the background checks and found nothing suspicious. Since the records could be out of date, he said he’d recheck them periodically. He found addresses for Darrell Cooper in Philadelphia and Vince Marzetti in Frederick, a historic Maryland town 50 miles north of Washington, D.C. He found no record of ITN Consultants. What a surprise.
Again, I tried to reach Tina Jackson and was sent to her voice mail. I left a third message and, uncharacteristically, my cell number. Leave a client my cell number? They must be wearing parkas in Hell.
My next call was to Tina’s guidance counselor at Silver Hill Intermediate School. “Good morning, Frank Powell speaking.” He had the velvet voice of a deejay.
“Mr. Powell, this is Sam McRae. I’m an attorney representing Tina Jackson, one of your students. I understand you’re her guidance counselor.”
“I am. What can I do for you, Ms. McRae?”
“Well, for starters, you can call me Sam. Tina’s run into a bit of legal trouble. I’m hoping to get some background information about her academics, her home life, and her disciplinary record, among other things. I want to confirm a few things she told me.” And, maybe, find out what she didn’t.
“All right, Sam. I’ll need to run by admin to pick up the disciplinary records, but that’s not a problem. Call me Frank, by the way. I assume you have a signed release from one of her parents?”
“Yes, I do.” Shanae had signed the release the last time she was in my office. The only time. Before she was bludgeoned to death. “Would it be convenient for us to meet sometime today, Frank?”
“I have some meetings this morning, but my afternoon’s open, if you want to drop by.” His deejay voice made the invitation sound like an ad for a tire sale.
“I’ll be there around 1:30 or so.”
*****
I stopped home for a quick sandwich before heading to the school in Suitland, an inside-the-Beltway D.C. suburb that had seen better days—long before my time. Near the District line, P.G. County is mostly black, mostly poor, and mostly avoided by those who don’t fit that mold. The housing ran to old brick structures squeezed onto tiny lots with scrubby lawns and mid-rise apartment buildings—brick boxes whose windows provided joyless views of cracked macadam lots filled with hoopties of every description, from beat-up compacts to classic pimpmobiles.
I parked in the school lot. My purple ’67 Mustang, out of place with my peers’ gleaming Beemers and Porsches, blended well with the staff’s economy cars. Feeling a rush of solidarity with hard-working civil servants, I sauntered into the building.
A security guard escorted me to the main office, where I signed in and got a visitor’s pass. We wove through throngs of uniformed students. Loud voices and laughter echoed off the metal lockers.
At once, I felt conspicuous—a strange white woman in a suit, the lone white face in the crowd. I flashed back to my childhood in Bed-Stuy. At six years old on my first day at school, I was the only white kid in my class. It provided an excellent training ground for years of not fitting in.
I shook off the déjà vu, keeping my head high and moving with purpose and confidence, like I belonged there. The way I’d learned in Brooklyn.
The guidance department was a short walk down the hall. I entered a small waiting area, where two kids sat: one engrossed in a comic book, the other, staring into space, possibly slipping into a coma.
The door bearing Powell’s name was ajar. I rapped twice.
“Come in,” the smooth jazz voice said. I did as instructed. A chair squealed and a slim man with milk chocolate skin, warm brown eyes and a toothy smile rose to greet me. He looked to be in his mid-thirties.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Sam McRae?”
“Good guess.”
“It wasn’t hard. What can I do for you, Sam?”
He motioned for me to sit. I showed him my client’s release form—my former client, that is. The dead one. A quick wall survey revealed diplomas, a social worker’s certificate, and personal photos, including a few of the school’s sports teams.
“Let’s start with Tina Jackson’s disciplinary problems,” I said.
Powell sighed, leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Tina was always a bit withdrawn. Kept to herself when she first came here. Like a lot of kids with issues at home.”
I nodded and made a mental note to pursue that point further.
“Last year, the problems started. Lateness, talking back to teachers. Her grades slipped a little. What kind of legal trouble is she in?”
“Delinquency proceeding over a purse snatching. She accidentally knocked down the victim and injured her.”
Powell shook his head. “I’m more than a little concerned about Tina. She’s started hanging with a rough crowd.” He picked up a file and flipped through it. “She was involved in a fight on school grounds. She’s never been in that kind of trouble before.”
“She hasn’t been in any other fights?”
“According to the file, no. Not in the two years she’s been coming here.”
I nodded. This squared with what Tina had told me. So far, so good. “What happened? How did this fight start?”
Powell consulted the file. “It started between two girls, Lakeesha Robinson and Rochelle Watson. There had been friction between them. It finally erupted, I guess. You could say they’re competitors.”
“Over what? A boy?”
He hesitated. “This is going a bit beyond what’s on the record.”
“It could make a great deal of difference in helping Tina if I knew.”
Powell appeared to think about it. “Well, don’t quote me, but the word is, Lakeesha’s head of a girl gang called the Most Wanted Hotties. Rochelle formed her own gang called the Pussy Posse. Lakeesha probably sees Rochelle as a threat.”
“The Pussy Posse?”
He raised his hands. “I’m not making this up.”
I shook my head. What it lacked in subtlety, it made up for in alliteration. “How do you know this? About the gangs.”
“Mainly from the kids, though the security chief keeps an ear to the ground, too. Hell, some of the girls brag about what they’ve done. They’re smart enough to keep it outside school, for the most part. But you’d have to be an ostrich not to know a few of them are doing heavy shit outside these walls.” He gestured around with one hand.
A loud knock interrupted and a man poked his head in. I got a glimpse of a uniform under the light brown face.
“I’m busy, Greg,” Powell said.
“Sorry, man. Catch you later.” The door closed.
Powell smiled. “Even the janitor can be a source of information.”
“So this was a gang fight?”
“If I were a betting man, I’d lay money that’s why it started. Lakeesha felt threatened and decided to assert her dominance. Apparently, when Tina came to Rochelle’s defense, the girls began beating Lakeesha up in earnest. Tina was part of the melee, unfortunately.”
“And Tina’s in this gang? Rochelle’s gang, that is.”
“If she’s not in it, she may be trying to get in, based on what you told me.”
“So the purse snatching may have been a kind of initiation?”
Powell nodded. “It’s the kind of thing they might require for membership. A test to prove Tina’s toughness to the gang.”
I took a moment to absorb it. I understood why Tina hadn’t seen fit to share details of the initiation rite. But the prosecutor would learn about it, if she didn’t already know. The information wasn’t helpful to Tina’s case, but the gang connection explained Tina’s behavior. I wasn’t wild about the explanation, but there it was.
“You’d mentioned earlier that Tina’s had problems at home.”
“I know her mother’s been through drug rehab and anger management. Tina lived with dad, while mom got her act together. Not an ideal arrangement, from what I hear, but one of convenience. Dad gave her a roof over her head and no discipline to speak of. Now, she’s bounced back into mom’s care and, from what Tina tells me about the hours Shanae Jackson works, ‘care’ is a bit of a misnomer. Tina’s practically raising herself.”
Powell clucked his tongue and shook his head. “It’s sad, seeing Tina get into trouble like this. She’s a bright kid who deserves better. You know that girl has an IQ of 135? When she started here, her grades weren’t great, but they were good. They’ve been slipping ever since. It doesn’t help that she gets no support at home.”
“It gets worse,” I said. “Tina’s mother was recently murdered.”
“No.” His eyes registered shock. “My God. I hadn’t heard that.”
“I heard only yesterday,” I said. Even news like that took a while to travel, it seemed. I handed him a card. “Thanks for your time.”
“No problem.” He gave me his in return. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else, Sam.”
“Thanks, Frank.” I shook my head. “Pussy Posse. Provocative name.”
“They’re at a provocative age,” he said. “So many of our kids are sexually active by the time they hit twelve—even younger. A lot of them are having sex parties by that age, believe it or not. Many of them think nothing of slipping into a restroom or a closet to have oral sex.”
“When I was in middle school, kids were either smoking or selling pot in the restrooms. Times have changed.”
“Indeed they have,” he said.
I got up. “Oh, one more thing.” I felt like Columbo. “Do you know if Tina’s here today?”
“I don’t, but you could check with her home room teacher, Alice Fortune. Room 180.”
“Thanks again.”
He nodded and smiled. I made a mental note to keep Frank Powell in mind as a future source of other information Tina might conveniently forget.
*****
That’s right! Another Monday, another chapter. I would also like to publicly apologize to Pamela for what I said in this post. I keep forgetting that I’m not a typical female, and I never considered wearing shoes like these, even before I had dystonia. Honest!
Oh, the horror! :-O
I usually wear slip-on shoes now, because my hand is so crappy, it’s gotten to the point where my husband has to tie my sneakers, unless I have lots of extra time and energy to spare doing so. A few years ago, when I was slightly less gimpy, I wrote a poem about tying my shoelaces. See?
And since I feel sorry for poor little Pluto, too, I think it’s most appropriate to include the quotation and video from Nik Nak’s Old Peculiar!
“I’ve always liked Saturn. But I also have some sympathy for Pluto because I heard it’s been downgraded from a planet, and I think it should remain a planet. Once you’ve given something planetary status it’s kind of mean to take it away.”
– Jared Leto
I can’t thank you guys enough! Including the photographer.
UPDATE: I realized while I was eating dinner that I have no idea what a “typical female” is. In fact, I don’t think there is such a thing. I think that was probably part of the reason I may have misjudged Pamela’s blog so … much like a doofus would.
Anyway, I hope that clears things up. Right. Please just feel free to keep ignoring me talk amongst yourselves!
Hi there! In the event you actually read this, I’m Debbi Mack, a “hardboiled mystery author; blue collar writer; happy fool; recovering attorney; stroke survivor with dystonia; loves film, books, music, travel and cats.” I also happen to be a New York Times bestselling author, but I choose not to go around bragging about it on Twitter.
At the moment, I’m in the middle of redesigning my website, so things are a bit messy, but I’m slowly getting organized.
First, I’d like to thank you for posting this on Facebook:
Avoid telling yourself you haven’t written that book you so want to write because you are such a perfectionist. No you’re not. You’re not writing. Nothing is perfect, but nothing is more imperfect than that which does not exist. You are giving yourself an excuse not to do what you claim you want to do. Take a crack at it. Or stop boring us with your great intentions.
I can’t thank you enough times for writing that, Joe! May I call you Joe?
In gratitude, I’d like to write a short play, since I’m leaning toward doing more screenwriting and playwriting. My father was a failed playwright, actually. Sad story. I won’t bore you with the details.
The working title is “Irma Jones: Super Gimp”.
Irma Jones: Super Gimp
Irma: Hey, Jonah, I need to get to work on my website. I’ve been so busy saving the world ever since the aliens attacked Russia, I’ve had a tough time getting around to it.
Jonah: Please, Irma! Can you stop trying to save the world? I’m suffering from mobile app burnout here.
Irma: I know, honey. It’s tough being married to the world’s most amazing gimp, who trots out regularly to save the world and do awesome things and is such hot shit that you wouldn’t believe she types her posts with the pinkie of one hand — honestly! — which is why I feel I need to don my cape and warn everyone about Facebook!
Jonah: Honey, can’t you just give it a rest. It’s not like you’re getting paid to do this.
Irma: Well … yes and no. I am trying to build a business. And if I’m going to become known for being a super gimp, I must prove myself somehow. And we live in the age of digital publishing, which means I must tell fictional stories online, which includes writing plays like these, right?
Jonah: Yeah, I guess. I just hope you know what you’re doing.
Irma: Don’t worry. This is all just a fictional conversation. This never actually took place. By the way, do you think that Stephen Leather thinks the author who posted this review is crazy or what?
Irma: Oh, no, honey. Check this out! Sometimes you can’t believe everything you read online. Oh, the irony! This is why you must be really careful about outsourcing to unbelievable places like this! Ha!
UPDATE: BTW, I happened to drop by Stephen Leather’s blog and leave a comment, which led to a short discussion, and you can read that here. I’ll let you decide why Amazon would pay a British author in American dollars.
And, of course, if you’ve read this book, you already know that this book is mentioned in it. Hmm …!
And from my local libraries, a new kind of blind date! Isn’t that awesome? I even know Aimee Zuccarini, because she’s reviewed my books before. How awesome is that?
I remember when I used to go to the library all the time. Well, I used to just jump into my car and drive anywhere any old time, without a second thought. No longer. Oh, well.
UPDATE 2: I just took the weirdest trip down memory lane on this blog. I happened to read this post about dystonia. Wow!
That was two and a half years ago. I was better able to write and walk at that time. And then I wrote the rantiest Fourth of July post ever! Ha ha ha …
BTW, I found this interesting item in Publishers Lunch!
In other agency news, Andrew Lownie Literary Agency in the UK has set up a digital publishing program under the name Thistle, the Bookseller reports. Like Curtis Brown UK, they are using Amazon’s White Glove program for agents (KDP plus some extra services. The agency’s David Haviland is overseeing the initiative, which is focused on titles for which ebook rights are not controlled by a publisher. The agency charges their usual commission, and is paying for some publicity and cover design costs.
This post is for my awesome soul mate, friend, and husband. Thank you for being you!
Aren’t we awesome?
I remember when we got married, after living in sin together. Ha ha ha … Like I gave a damn.
Here are some photos from our big wedding day at the Montgomery County Courthouse.
His dad is to the left, my brother is to the right.
Awww … (that’s my crazy mom in the beige (?) jacket)
My awesome brother, me, my soul mate, and my mom. Crazy!
The entire wedding party! Really!
My friend, Mary Jane Angelo, at EPA, told me that she thought she’d had the smallest wedding ever. But then I told her about mine.
Anyhow, it was all good, and Mary Jane was awesome. She said she’d work with us on this pesticide case, if she could be the “Head Bitch” and I was like, “Hey, fine with me! Be the Head Bitch. I couldn’t care less. Really!“
See, Mary Jane was just joking. Mary Jane loved adventures. She went to Costa Rica and helped save sea turtles with her husband. Then, when she came back, she told me about someone who got this horrible disease where worms buried themselves and laid eggs under your skin. And she met this guy at a restaurant, and he had to strap meat to his arm, so when the eggs hatched, the bugs would crawl out into the meat. And then she said the most the most unbelievable thing. She said she wished she’d been infected with these worms, which I can’t remember the name of for the life of me. I’ll really have to get in touch with Mary Jane. It’s been way too long, since we visited her in Florida, so many epiphanies years ago.
I’m sorry, I got distracted …
Anyhow, after the ceremony, we didn’t have the usual party. We just went to Sir Walter Raleigh Inn for lunch. Then, we went home, and my husband went bowling and I watched a movie. Probably.
So … we didn’t really plan our wedding. We just up and got married like that, without any planning to speak of. So we didn’t have to deal with sights like these! :-O
Well … we were in such a rush this morning, and I’ve been so busy pecking out my novel and trying to revise my blogroll, etc., etc. that I didn’t eat any of these as I usually do, each and every year! :-O
Oh, dear …
Here’s a song I hope will amuse you in order to make up for not being fully prepared.
But thank you, Denis Leary, for this tweet.
No players outside the U.S., remember? Sorry, but I can’t make exceptions for friends.
Thank You, Nathan Fillion! (Updated — Twice)
Posted in Acting, Amazing Sh*t, Authors, Awesome, Blogging, Blogs, Commentary, Digital Publishing, Dystonia/Movement Disorders, Fun Stuff, Humor, Internet, Journalism, just messed up, Life in Hell, Marketing, Moronic Thoughts, Movies, Music, Mystery Writers, People, Photography, Quotations, Random Ramblings, Social Media, Sports, Television, Travel, Video, Video Madness, Writers, Writing, WTF, tagged Author Platform, doctor who, dystonia, Mystery/Crime Fiction, Nathan Fillion, social media on February 24, 2013 |
The awesome Nathan Fillion
“It costs nothing to say something kind. Even less to shut up altogether.”
– Nathan Fillion
That is so true and so awesome. Thank you, Nathan Fillion. Again!
Now, here are a few things I’d like share as a kindness and just for fun. But I’m keeping it short and sweet, because I have dystonia .
How I got a six-figure Twitter following (and why it doesn’t matter) by Jane Friedman.
A definition of author platform by Jane Friedman.
Congrats to Lee Goldberg on having his short film Bumsicle picked as an official selection of this film festival!
Thank you, Paul Downie, for tweeting this awesome song!
Here’s a thought-provoking post from The Counter Argument.
And this
ironicquotation and song from Nik Nak’s Old Peculiar.“I’m proud that I was able to start with nothing, plan it, and have it work as perfectly as it did… I sleep clearly every night.”
– Paul Tibbets, February 23, 1915 – November 1, 2007
Happy birthday, Howard Jones!
Hope everyone’s having a groovy weekend!
Google the word “askew” and see what happens!
And look out for gimps. Ha!
Don’t let rejections get you down! Ha!
You won’t make me cry …
Got that?
However, Kobo is awesome!
And thank you Kyi May Kaung, for your
That was really awesome. I’ve previously blogged about Kyi here and here.
realendorsement on LinkedIn!Finally, Omar, “You best not miss.” Ha!
PS: Hey, Nathan! Remember when you picked up this lady?
Nathan!
I know that dude. That’s Wil Wheaton!
Think he could answer The Doctor Who Teaser for Real Fans, eh Paul? Hmm …!
My friend, Paul, and me in England! Dystonia be damned!
UPDATE: Go, Danica, go!
Nats play the Mets in Grapefruit League opener. Hurry up spring!
Where to watch the Oscars. I’ll probably just stay home and finish the book I’m reading in my toothpaste-stained pajamas
, so I can hopefully peck out a decent review this week.Sometimes I wish I
were completely stupidwould slip into a coma.Seeing is unbelieving.
Any
smart remarksthoughts, Gene?I even wrote a short play about me and my pajamas. Isn’t that awesome?
As Gene knows, I prefer to sit around my house, rather than drag my gimpy ass downtown to a treasure hunt. He probably didn’t realize I had dystonia when he made his smart remark, which is why I’m inclined to forgive and forget the whole thing.
Unless, of course, he never made it. Was that actually your comment? Please let me know!
UPDATE 2: On the other hand, Gene, there’s no need for you to respond. I think I already know.
Thank you, Sherry Nothingham!
Now … here are a couple of things good old Sherry tweeted before she vanished.
Women need to advance in the UK public life, according to some report.
RIP, Raymond Cusick, Dalek designer.
Finally, I see from today’s teaser post that this post has been embedded.
Thank you, Paul!
And what better way to finish this post than with this quotation and videos, eh?
“I’m the only person I know that’s lost a quarter of a billion dollars in one year…. It’s very character-building.”
– Steve Jobs, February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011
First, a Dalek montage …
Then, a tribute to the creator!
And thank you, Paul, for posting this photo of Wil Wheaton for me on your blog!
You’re a saint!
The awesome Wil Wheaton!
Yet Another Update:
Oh, look! Sherry’s back! But I’m not going to follow anyone who’s there one minute and gone the next. I mean, really?
Just saying.
My Final Update — Really!
There is an algorithm for everything, even bras! :-O
Now … I really have to step away from the computer or work on my review or phone my funny sister or just bang my head against the wall for kicks. Ha ha ha …
And to all my subscribers, I’m assuming I make sense to you and that worries me.j
To be continued …
Be seeing you.
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