Fawn Frazer is author of the delightful children’s book, Tiny and His Big Adventure, which teaches kids that they need to be gentle with small animals, such as Chihuahuas. [Sciencey note: Apparently kids under three don’t actually realize that animals are living things rather than toys. My personal apologies to childhood pet Mousie.]
Fawn has read Chihuahua of the Baskervilles and is a fan, resulting in these pictures of one of her Chis, Merlin.
I can’t get enough of these pix, so please, Chihuahua owners, send me more. Buy Fawn’s book, while you’re at it.
I’m meeting with my sister-in-law’s book club this afternoon (yes, she is a champ). They all have read Chihuahua of the Baskervilles. I’ll sign copies, give out glow-in-the-dark Chihuahua soap, and answer questions, but is there anything else an author can do to really ring a book club’s chimes? Ooh, maybe I’ll print out sneak peak booklets of Portrait of Doreene Gray.
Has anyone out there had a really outstanding book-club experience, either as a reader or an author?
It occurred to me that I’ve never heard a mystery-writer joke, so I made this one up.
During a publishing conference, a mystery writer, a romance author, and a thriller writer get to talking and decide to have a drink together at the hotel bar.
The romance writer orders a Sex on the Beach.
The thriller writer asks for a Bloody Mary.
The bartender makes those drinks and then asks the mystery writer what she wants.
The mystery writer looks the bartender in the eye and says, “Muddle a slice each of lime, lemon and orange with one clove. Add a shot of British gin, a dash of French absinthe, and crushed ice. Shake well, and strain everything into a martini glass. Stab a cherry with a toothpick and plop that on top.”
The romance writer makes a face. “That doesn’t sound very tasty. What do you call it?”
I’ll tell you what,” the mystery writer says, smiling. “If either of you can guess the name of this cocktail before the bartender finishes making it, I’ll buy all your drinks tonight.”
“We can do this,” the thriller writer says confidently.
So they try to guess the name of the bizarre drink while watching the bartender make it.
“It has British gin and French absinthe,” the romance writer says. “I’d call it the International Lover.”
“Nope,” says the mystery writer.
“Think about how she described it,” the thriller writer says. “Crushed ice, a stabbed cherry… It’s probably something like Death in the Glass or Murder by Booze.”
“Wrong track entirely,” says the mystery writer. “Keep guessing.”
So they keep throwing out names until the drink is finished and the bartender drops in the stabbed cherry.
The thriller writer shakes his head. “I give up. What’s it called?” He turns to find that the mystery writer has vanished.
The romance writer looks at the bartender, “Hey, where’d she go?”
The bartender puts the weird cocktail on the bar. “I don’t know, but she finished both your drinks while you were guessing, and somebody owes me twenty-five bucks.”
Q&A with Bruce Wolk of the Denver Post. The paper version is awesome, cause not only is my photo at the top, but a different smaller one is at the top left of the section’s cover, as a teaser.
Couple of corrections:
Miramont Castle wasn’t built by volunteers, it was renovated by volunteers.
I had a skin-care business in a salon, but didn’t make my own products (he might have thought that because I gave him some glow-in-the-dark soaps that I did make).
There are no paranormal elements in the book (not actual ones).
I’m on page 92 of 346 in my first real pass through the first draft of P of DG. It’s been so long since I wrote this part, it’s almost like reading someone else’s work (which is what you want).
Favorite line today, from Michael: “Why would skeletons scatter gastropods across the carpet?”
Now forget you ever heard that.
Snipped from a webcam shot. Poor little goober. The things she puts up with.
My first video log, with a cameo by Musette La Plume.
Got a call from Bruce Wolk’s editor at the Denver Post. He is sending a photographer out tomorrow to take pix of me in my natural habitat (or as natural as I’m going to let them see it, i.e., minus dirty dishes and clumps of cat hair on the carpet). Was thinking of wearing a black sundress, then put on some clothes to wear today, looked in the mirror and thought, “That’s it.” So it’ll be gray jeans, gray spaghetti-strap top and orange and pink striped sports bra under it. C’est moi.
The article will come out on Sunday. I could not be more excited if I were hooked up to a car battery.