 
**25 Years in the Rearview Mirror:**

52 Authors Look Back

Edited By: Stacy Juba

Smashwords Edition

Published by Thunder Horse Press

Copyright 2012 by Stacy Juba

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. All of the articles in this book have been published in this ebook with written permission from the authors. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the writers included in this collection.

Table of Contents

Introductions

Chapter One: School Days

Chapter Two: The Jobs That Shape Us

Chapter Three: Remembering the Romance

Chapter Four: The Ups and Downs of Family Life

Chapter Five: Hard Times

Chapter Six: The Writing Journey

Chapter Seven: Characters Have Pasts, Too

Chapter Eight: Further Back in Time

Appendix: Website Links

Twenty-Five Years Ago Today Excerpt

Foreword

**By**

Elaine Raco Chase

Writing a foreword to a book that looks back twenty-five years is an interesting challenge. I ran through all those quotations like "if we don't learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it," and "do our past experiences shape our future," and—well, you know them all!

And what did I come up with? Yes and no! Not much help, right? But the authors who have contributed to this delightful book will make you think, make you cheer, make you cry, make you take a harder look at your past to see if it helps with your present and make you re-shape your future.

I love the stories from school days (or should it have been 'daze'), jobs (gosh what haven't I done since I was 14!), romance (for me, just one and going on 44 years), family life (now with very funny grandchildren), hard times (do they ever go away?), writing journey (always something new—paper to ebooks), what my characters were doing (I'm letting them live again as I update) and going further back than twenty-five years.

1985—was my twenty-five years ago. Life was its usual turmoil. We had just moved from Daytona Beach, Florida to Houston, Texas. The kids were adapting, the dog was just staring at the armadillos and I was making new friends and writing. Writers can write anywhere!

My publisher called, all excited, as my book, _Special Delivery_ , a Dell Ecstasy Romance, had hit #1 on all the bestseller lists, and had outsold any other Dell book for that time. "We are sending you to the BEA—Bookseller's Expo—in San Francisco."

I was stunned. And excited. And needed to go shopping! Off I went to the mall, just a mere five miles away. Found some great bargains and headed back home. A mere five miles away.

It was Saturday, twelve noon, slightly overcast. I sat waiting for the light to turn green—unfortunately the guy, drinking the beers in a truck, in back of me—did not stop! Did not even slow down! Just slammed into the back of my small Toyota with his battered truck. Despite the fact I was wearing a seatbelt—he hit me so hard, my body slammed into the steering wheel and kept going through the windshield. That's the last thing I remember.

I woke from the coma twelve hours later, didn't know who I was, but insisted to the doctor that I was part of the TV show _Marcus Welby, MD_ (it hadn't been on in years.) Maybe it was all those tubes, maybe it was all the bandages, maybe it was the sudden realization that all my good underwear, (you know the warning Mom always made "wear your good underwear in case you're in an accident") was missing and in its place a lot of plaster, wrapped ribs, etc. brought me back to reality. Well, the reality that I was in the hospital, not moving and in a lot of pain.

Everything but my nose was broken or bruised or twisted. I had always wanted a more 'refined' nose but alas.... Oh, my jaw was broken—lots of wires there—along with stitches in my tongue. And my vision was not right—glasses of course were missing, but even after an extra pair was popped on my nose by my husband, I still couldn't see—well, actually I could see double everything.

As you probably guessed, I missed BEA and just about everything else for eighteen months. I shed glass for nearly two years from various parts of my body. The vision thing was permanent damage—but the NASA ophthalmologist was able to fix that with special lenses, similar to what the astronauts wear after ocular injuries from space flight trauma.

Flowers poured in and telephone calls. No emails back then. The biggest bouquet was from the phone company—honest. They called, concerned, my phone bill was only $12 that month, not its usual $400-plus—what happened?

My dentist was angry over the stitches in my tongue—did I want a 'fishtail' tongue? NO! So he redid the tongue/jaw—I was at my thinnest from liquid food (of course we all know that didn't last long.)

Time marches on and I was finally able to—march and start writing again. What did I learn: never wear your good underwear when you leave the house because, if there's an accident, they just cut it off you and throw it away! Follow the rules and you get better both mentally and physically much faster. Seek out more than one specialist with things like vision and brain trauma. Never get hypnotized if you have a head injury. Oh, and realize drunk drivers seldom get hurt or even get jail time when they wreak havoc to others.

The German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, got it right—"That which does not kill us makes us stronger." At this writing, former _American Idol_ winner Kelly Clarkson put it into song: _What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger_. No matter what the hardship—come back stronger, come back swinging!

Good advice—no matter whether you're looking at the past, the present or your future!

Elaine Raco Chase is the award-winning author of seventeen paperback novels with over 3 million books in print. She is published in 25 countries and 15 languages. As a romance writer, Elaine has won two sales awards for top romance novels of the year, Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Award for romantic suspense and the Affaire de Coeur Silver Pen Award for writing excellence. Her non-fiction debut Amateur Detectives—A Writer's Guide was nominated for the prestigious Agatha Christie Award.

Elaine was past President of Sisters in Crime International, a charter member of Romance Writers of America and a registered lecturer for Poets and Writers. She currently teaches a variety of writing courses.

Preface

Why Twenty-Five Years?

What were you doing twenty-five years ago? If you're too young to answer that question, then what do you think will stand out in your mind twenty-five years into the future? The answer might surprise you. It may reflect a significant event in your life, or it might turn out to be one small, simple moment that affected you more than you realized.

I originally began soliciting these essays for a series on my blog, inviting author colleagues to use the question "What were you doing twenty-five years ago?" as a writing prompt. However, I soon realized that these essays would be wasted on the Internet, and would wind up buried and long forgotten. I gave the matter some more thought. The essays deserved a more special home, and the idea of compiling an anthology was born. Upon editing the articles for this ebook, I discovered that each and every answer neatly fit into one of six categories: **School Days** ; **The Jobs That Shape Us** ; **Remembering the Romance** ; **The Ups and Downs of Family Life** ; **Hard Times** ; and since we're talking about authors, **The Writing Journey**. The writers were also offered the option of answering the question in the voice of a fictional character from one of their novels. Several authors chose to delve into a character's psyche and to get the creative juices flowing that way.

So, what's the big deal about twenty-five years ago? The idea of posing the above question to authors and ultimately collecting the essays in an anthology, was inspired by my published mystery/romantic suspense novel _Twenty-Five Years Ago Today_. In the book, newspaper editorial assistant Kris Langley stumbles across an intriguing cold case while researching her 25 Years Ago Today column on the microfilm. While investigating the murder of talented artist Diana Ferguson, Kris finds herself drawn into a web of Greek mythology, family secrets, deceit and danger.

I was compelled to write _Twenty-Five Years Ago Today_ because, like Kris Langley, I once worked as a newspaper editorial assistant myself. One of my responsibilities was—you guessed it—compiling the "25 Years Ago Today" column.

I don't know how many afternoons I once spent scouring the microfilm, combing old newspaper headlines for something to rehash in my "25 and 50 Years Ago Today" columns. As the newsroom obit writer and editorial assistant, my first job out of college, I must have slaved over that task 200 times.

My assignment was to compile short snippets recalling local newsworthy events. Eventually, I got promoted to reporter and passed the historical column to my replacement, but my time slaving over the microfilm left a deeper impression than I'd anticipated.

Over the next couple years, questions kept popping into my mind. What if an editorial assistant discovered an unsolved murder on the microfilm? What if she obsessed over it and conducted an investigation? What if she fell for the victim's nephew? All that speculation inspired my first adult novel _Twenty-Five Years Ago Today_.

While I was writing the novel, I pored over my published "25 Years Ago Today" clips, which triggered an idea to open each chapter with a similar news note. As I created these fictional historical snippets for the book, a wave of nostalgia for my editorial assistant days rolled over me.

I remembered how neat it was to read wire reports about U.S. presidents long gone and wars long over and how it once made me contemplative that the babies in those birth announcements twenty-five years ago were now out of college, and the newlyweds in those black and white society page photos fifty years ago were now grandparents in their seventies. I wondered what they were doing in the present and hoped that they were well.

I realized that time is fleeting. We should all enjoy the present moment. . .and snuggle up with a good book. I hope this one will entertain you as you enjoy some time-outs from your hectic day.

Publishing credits of the contributing writers include New York Times bestselling, USA Today bestselling and winners or nominees of major awards. Some of the authors have been published by traditional publishing houses, others are independently published, and as is becoming commonplace nowadays, many are a combination of both. I hope that you discover several new authors for your to-read list.

All of the essays in this book were written from **2010-2012.** They therefore roughly examine the period between **1984-1987** , however, the goal of this book isn't to commemorate the mid-to-late 1980s. Rather, it's to explore the timeless concept of looking back. Each individual views the past with a different perspective, and you'll see many perspectives on these pages.

First, I hope that this book will serve as a reminder not to sweat the small stuff. If you're stressed about something, put it to the twenty-five years test. Will you remember this aggravation twenty-five years from now? Is it really worth letting it ruin your week?

Another point I'd like to drive home is to carve out time in your schedule for your interests. Even if you're super-busy with the day-to-day grind, try to permit yourself time to do what you love. As you'll see in these pages, every author in this book has had a family, jobs and other responsibilities, yet they all made time to pursue their passion of writing. Some are now writing full-time, while others are juggling a day job, but every author is published and working on the next book.

What did you always love to do growing up? Act? Sing? Draw? Paint? Play video games? Work with wood? Chances are, if you loved to do that activity once, you would still love to do it today. It's never too late to reinvent yourself. Maybe this interest can be channeled into a career, or perhaps it's a hobby that will provide more stress relief than sitting down before the television or hanging out on social networking sites for yet another hour.

Finally, in her foreword, Elaine Raco Chase shared an amazing example of overcoming adversity. I invited Elaine to write the foreword as she is a dear friend, I'm a fan of her books and I'm astounded by all of her accomplishments. I did not know about the difficult time she faced twenty-five years ago. Thanks to her determination and positive attitude, she overcame the challenges and went on to much continued success.

Twenty-five years from now, you'll be looking back at the choices you made today. Why not do your best to make every day, every moment, count?

Stacy Juba, Editor of 25 Years in the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back

Chapter One: School Days

No matter what age we are, we all remember our school days. Elementary school, high school, college. Those years shaped our lives and helped us to grow into the people we are today. Books, television shows, music, fashion trends, extracurricular activities, friends and teachers all make a great impact on young lives, to the point that the memories can still come rushing back twenty-five years later. Here are some essays reflecting on those less complicated years.

Literary Friends

By Stacy Juba

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago, I was an introverted young girl approaching sixth grade. Suddenly, girls started "going out" with boys, bullies grew bigger and gym class got rougher. Even though I had dedicated teachers and a few good friends, school often felt uncomfortable to me.

One particularly bad day, my eyes filling, I scribbled all over my paper bag book covers, "I hate sixth grade."

My bedroom, filled with overflowing bookshelves, was my haven. Boy, how I wished I could go to school with spunky girl detective Trixie Belden, her friend Honey Wheeler and join their club the Bob-Whites of the Glen. They were such a tight-knit group, and while having fun together, they solved all sorts of cool cases like _The Mystery of the Emeralds_ , _The Mystery of the Phantom Grasshopper_ and _The Mystery at Mead's Mountain._

If I wasn't curled up on my bed reading Trixie Belden, it was Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, or the Bobbsey Twins. For lighter fare, I enjoyed Beverly Cleary's Ramona novels and Judy Blume's Fudge books. I found comfort and warm familiarity in these fictional worlds and collected so many novels, that one night, my shelf buckled. A hundred books collapsed onto the floor, the loud avalanche sending my parents racing into the room.

Today, my husband has resigned himself to the fact that novels will always be strewn across my dresser and will sometimes slide onto the carpet. I've been known to leave books on the counter, the dining room table and near the staircase, but I'm happy to report that I haven't worn out another shelf in twenty-five years.

Stacy Juba, the editor of 25 Years in the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back and an award-winning journalist, has authored books for adults, teens and children. She has written about high school hockey players, reality TV contestants targeted by a killer, teen psychics who control minds, teddy bears learning to raise the U.S. flag and lots more.

The Red Man

By Maria Savva

Written in 2010

In the mid-1980s, my friends and I would often congregate on a bench for lunch, outside our school. For a brief period of time, perhaps a few weeks, a young man used to walk past us every day. One of my friends pointed him out, and then we always looked out for him.

There was nothing particularly different about this man, as far as I remember, except that he always appeared a bit awkward as he walked past us unruly teens each day. He had red hair, and a flushed face (probably because we were always whispering or giggling when we saw him), so we quickly nicknamed him _The Red Man_.

I still laugh when I remember how silly we were, and I feel a bit sorry for the poor _Red Man_. I don't think we ever actually spoke with him; maybe we said "hello" when he walked past, or asked him inane questions that went unanswered. What I do remember was that one day, my friend decided to bring a camera so that we could play a prank on him, to make him think we thought he was famous and wanted a photo of him. We hid behind a car when we saw him approaching, then my friend jumped up and took a picture. He appeared startled.

My friend said she would pin it up on her bedroom wall, (I think she secretly fancied him.) I wonder whether my friend still has that photo, and I wonder what ever happened to _The Red Man_ ....

Maria Savva writes novels and short stories in multiple genres, including drama, mystery and paranormal. She takes her inspiration from everyday life and everyday people, with many of her stories having a true-to-life feel about them. Common themes in her writing include: relationships, love, regret, forgiveness, dreams, secrets and lies.

**Rocking** **in the '80s**

By Susan Helene Gottfried

Written in 2010

My life changed twenty-five years ago. Maybe it was twenty-five years ago today when it happened. Maybe it was yesterday, last month, last week. I don't know; it crept up on me. Not like Carl Sandburg's famous fog, on little cat's feet.

Nope, my life changed when I turned on the radio. When MTV invaded the homes in my suburban community and introduced my generation to the likes of Madonna, a-ha, Wham! and Duran Duran.

It was the music of the 1980s, as full of innocence and longing as today's music isn't. And I was at the perfectly ripe age—somewhere in my teens—to let it take hold and transform my previously miserable, frustrated, writer-in-training self into a young girl with hopes and dreams.

It was the glamour of the music that got me going. Jon Bon Jovi's duster jacket. The skinny women in the crop tops and hot pants and boots that caressed the curve of a calf. And while I never owned a duster jacket or wore hot pants—let alone looked good in them—I had a crop top. One. I bought it at the Hard Rock Cafe in Cancun, Mexico. I have a picture of myself backstage with Def Leppard's Rick Savage, wearing that top. Under a cropped jacket. Probably with boots that caressed the curve of my calf. I remember those boots, too. They were white and fringed and had the perfect kitten heel on them.

Yep, I ate up that '80s hair band image. It was who I thought I wanted to be. Twenty-five years ago today, a lot of people wanted to be those rockers up on that stage. Me, I wanted to be the woman standing in the wings, the woman at the label responsible for all this. I wanted to look out past the band and know I was the reason all those thousands of people had jammed themselves onto the floor and were reaching over each other's heads, every last one hoping for a hand-slap or a touch from the singer.

Now, twenty-five years later, part of that girl remains. I turned down a number of jobs that would have let me be that woman in the wings. I had another calling, a stronger one, and that was to write books. When I sit down to play with my fictional band, ShapeShifter, it's that girl I tap into. That teenager who found her place in the world thanks to '80s rock and roll.

It may have been twenty-five years ago today when it happened. Maybe it was yesterday, last month, last week. It doesn't matter. It gave me the gift of a lifetime and even though I've moved beyond '80s tunes, music remains the stabilizing force in my life. My comfort when things are rough. My inspiration. My passion.

Susan Helene Gottfried is an expert and author of Rock Fiction. A tone-deaf rocker-at-heart, Susan worked in various areas of the music business while earning two college degrees in creative writing. A true champion of books, she also works as a freelance editor and a book reviewer.

Seniors are Wimps

By Matthew Dicks

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago, I was a freshman in high school. That year was marked by the traditional hazing that took place by seniors against incoming freshmen, which culminated with the annual Freshman-Senior Get Acquainted Dance.

Refusing to wear the signs around my neck declaring that Seniors Rule and rejecting demands to clear the seniors' lunch tables, I instead stood at the door to the school and handed out flyers that read Seniors are Wimps and wore buttons identifying specific senior classmen as being weak, cowardly and inferior. In retrospect, it would've been easier to go along with the hazing, but being a naturally defiant individual and a nonconformist, I refused to submit to these inane traditions and made my life exceedingly difficult.

For months, I was beaten repeatedly, and on one occasion, was sent to the hospital in an ambulance. I was locked inside equipment closets, handcuffed to the bumper of a bus and had fire extinguishers shot at me. I was eventually suspended from school for "inciting riot upon myself." This one-day suspension, specifically timed by the administration for my own protection, kept me from attending the Freshman-Senior dance.

Matthew Dicks is the author of Something Missing, Unexpectedly, Milo and Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend. When not hunched over a computer screen, he fills his days as an elementary school teacher, a wedding DJ, a heathen minister and a life coach. He is married with two children.

Prom Night

By A.W. Hartoin

Written in 2012

Twenty-five years ago, I was going to Prom. My mom took me to Sacs Fifth Avenue to buy my dream dress, a fishtailed, black lace number that made me look like I was starring in a low-budget vampire movie. I've never been that pale before or since, and it was all downhill from there. My hair stylist made my hair so huge, I had to go home and deflate it. Considering it was the 1980s, that's saying something.

Next, my date, David, was late. Phenomenally late. He went to a family reunion and flew back on the day of Prom, so, of course, the plane broke down. David finally arrived, driving the only vehicle in the Midwest that didn't have air-conditioning. It was unseasonably hot and I had to choose between sweating through my dress and messing up my still enormous hair with the windows rolled down. We sweated. A girl has to have her priorities.

We went to a Japanese restaurant, and since we missed our group, we got seated with a bunch of inebriated adults. They kept trying to buy David shots of sake. Maybe they were hoping to get him drunk, so he wouldn't notice his date was a gothic nightmare.

We made it to Prom four hours late. The court had already been announced. We missed pictures, not that I wanted them being half-melted. We danced one dance and everyone left. David was exhausted, so we lasted fifteen minutes at an After-Prom party. I was home before midnight. I've never heard anyone apologize as much as David did that night. But I really didn't mind. I got to go to Prom with him. That was the most important thing. I could've done without the sweating, though.

A.W. Hartoin is the author of middle grade and young adult fiction. She can't remember a time when she didn't love reading. The first book she read over and over again was Harry and the Lady Next Door. He was such a bad dog. Anne of Green Gables was the first time she wanted to enter a world and stay there. A.W. lives in Colorado with her husband, children, two cats, one dog and six bad chickens.

Friend in Need

By Alina Adams

Written in 2012

Exactly twenty-five years ago, I graduated from high-school. While I wouldn't say high-school was the best time of my life (I'm actually pretty darn content with my professional and personal adult life), it was definitely the highlight of my academic existence up to that point. Having immigrated to the United States at the age of seven from the Soviet Union, I was thrust—non-English speaking and unacclimatized—into second grade, mid-year, no less. Where things did not go well. Even after I became proficient in the language, I was still enough of a cultural oddball to never quite fit into the small, private schools I attended through eighth grade.

In high-school, however, everything changed. Qualifying to attend the citywide, public high-school for the gifted meant going from a class of forty to a class of 800, from being around kids possessing different levels of interest in their schoolwork to ones who were obsessed with being at the top of the class. It meant an entire grade of nerdy, studious odd-balls. And it meant the odds of finding like-minded people going up astronomically.

In high-school, I finally made friends with people who were engrossed by the same things as I was. There was a whole bunch of us "A" English students, budding writers all. We read books and we discussed books and we wrote our own books.

My best friend and I even wrote our own novel, in the vein of our then favorite, blockbuster writer, Sidney Sheldon (we were seventeen years old. You can guess at the book's quality.) But, it was our passion, and we worked on it diligently all through our senior year.

We went to different colleges, but we kept in touch via marathon phone conversations, working on the book, among other things. I majored in Writing for Television. My friend, at the insistence of her parents, chose a more sensible field. But, we still clung to our dreams of completing and publishing our book together.

Eventually, I took over the bulk of the writing, but she continued to read it and proof it and offer ideas. It was still ours, and it was still going to happen, we were sure of it.

The proposal complete, I armed myself with that mandatory tool of aspiring authors everywhere, _The Writer's Market_ , and proceeded to send our baby out to those New York City publishers who'd produced our favorite novels. The book got repeatedly rejected.

But, a funny thing happened along the way. Editors who didn't think this particular manuscript was "right for them at this time" saw something promising in my prose, and asked me to submit other works. I did. This led to the publication of two Regency romances with Avon and a pair of contemporaries for Avon and Dell.

But, all along, I kept working and re-working that original story. Because I loved it and believed in it. And because it was something my best friend and I were doing together.

And then, in November of 1998, I introduced my best friend to my fiancé. The three of us had lunch together. Everything seemed to go well.

She never called me again.

For close to a year, I called her, I e-mailed her, I tried to figure out what the hell was going on. After I got no response following the birth announcement for my son, I'd finally had it (surging hormones can be very helpful on occasion) and barraged her with consecutive e-mails (we're talking maybe sixty in the space of an hour, with the message in the header and thus unavoidable) until she finally deigned to respond.

And tell me she just didn't think I was worth being friends with anymore.

That's it. No explanation, no follow-up, nothing.

After close to fifteen years, I wasn't worth being friends with anymore.

At the time, I didn't know that this was a thing. That it was so common, Dr. Irene S. Levene had written an entire book about it, _Best Friends Forever: Surviving a Break Up With Your Best Friend_. That it happens to practically everyone at least once in their lifetime and that meeting a friend's significant other was one of the most common precursors.

All I knew was that I was completely shattered. And still am, to a degree.

Five years ago, was our twentieth high-school reunion. The organizing committee put up a social media website on Ning (remember Ning?). I contacted my ex-best friend via her profile on it. She ignored me completely.

Which brings me to today, and why she's been on my mind more than usual lately.

The book that we first started as high-schoolers (re-written many times since then, don't worry), has finally been published.

But, not in a traditional way. _Counterpoint: An Interactive Family Saga (Volume One)_ is a novel wherein I start the story...and my readers finish it. (A technique I developed while working for Procter & Gamble Productions and producing a reader-driven weekly serial for them.)

At the end _of Counterpoint: An Interactive Family Saga_ , is a link to a message board and Facebook page where readers can tell me what they want to happen next. Volume Two will incorporate their suggestions. And so will Volume Three. And so on.

When I initially launched this project, I thought it was simply a natural progression from the work I'd been doing, writing my romance novels, as well as a series of figure skating mysteries for Berkley Prime Crime, combined with the interactive serials for Procter & Gamble.

But, composing this essay made me realize that maybe I made _Counterpoint: An Interactive Family Saga_ , a team effort because, even after all these years, I can't face the idea of writing it alone....

Alina Adams is the New York Times' best-selling author of soap opera tie-ins, figure skating mysteries and romances including When a Man Loves a Woman and Annie's Wild Ride. Her latest project is Counterpoint: An Interactive Family Saga, which she writes based on input from readers.

A Life-Changing Decision

By CJ Lyons

Written in 2010

Most of the characters I write about are in their late teens, so they wouldn't remember what they were doing twenty-five years ago, but I do.

Twenty-five years ago, I was making the most important decision of my life.

Now, I've made plenty of tough decisions since them—many of them truly life and death decisions. But this was the one that would lead me to the place where I could handle holding someone else's life in my hands.

You see, I was never meant to go to college—none of my siblings did and my parents weren't especially supportive or encouraging. But I was a good student and earned three scholarships that paid my way, so I left home at seventeen to follow my dream of becoming a theatre major, imagining that I'd someday be working on Broadway or maybe as a theatrical or motion picture director.

Then, one day, a biology prof invited a few of us to witness an autopsy on a homeless person. Suddenly my life of theatrical melodrama was replaced by the real-life drama of a real-life person.

I changed my major, took the MCATs and applied to medical school. Then came the waiting...not one of my strong suits.

Impatient to start my new life and needing to earn money to put myself through medical school, I graduated from college early to work. So that spring there were no distractions from my waiting, just mindless drudgery earning a paycheck alternating with anxiously pacing until the mailman arrived.

Because of my financial situation, I had to turn down two prestigious but frightfully expensive schools—but that was okay, because they weren't my first choice anyway. I thought if I got into them, I was a sure-in with my chosen school.

I got in...kinda. I was on the waiting list.

Unless some kids turned them down, I wasn't going to med school after all. What to do? I could go back to the theatre as a lot of my friends were working now and would give me a job, but my heart wasn't in it anymore. So I decided to join the Peace Corps—satisfying both my need for excitement and adventure as well as my desire to help people, make a difference (a theme you might have noticed in my books, LOL!)

Joining the Peace Corps isn't as easy as it sounds. Just like applying to med school, it's a rigorous process with no guarantees.

Which translates to more waiting...but then one day I received not one but TWO envelopes in the mail. The big, thick kind that means paperwork inside.

One from the Peace Corps. One from the University of Florida College of Medicine.

They both wanted me. I wanted both of them. So I had to decide...and that's what I was doing twenty-five years ago.

As a pediatric ER doctor, New York Times and USA Today Bestseller, CJ Lyons has lived the life she writes about in her cutting edge Thrillers with Heart. CJ has been called a "master within the genre" (Pittsburgh Magazine) and her work has been praised as "breathtakingly fast-paced" and "riveting" (Publishers Weekly) with "characters with beating hearts and three dimensions." (Newsday)

Oldest Campus Editor Looks Back

by Sharon Love Cook

Written in 2010

Like many women at midlife, I went back to college, joining the ranks of "non-traditional" students. Each day brought new challenges, such as tackling algebra and staying awake at 8 a.m. Fitting into the college scene was awkward. The student lounge was full of kids half my age, the music blasting from speakers. It was like junior high, sitting at a table alone, waiting for someone to say "hi." Between classes, I sought refuge in my car.

After weeks of this, I decided to stretch my boundaries. Additionally, the cold weather had arrived; I was tired of shivering in the parking lot. Thus I submitted a story about the need for an "adult learning center" to the campus newspaper. This was twenty-five years ago. Adult Student Services (ASS)(!) and other nontrad. programs had yet to arrive.

When my story appeared in print, I submitted another and another. Over time I got to know the newspaper staff. Seeing a need, I offered to do cartooning and to help with the typing. Before long, as a regular at the campus newspaper, I was appointed Arts Editor. My name was engraved on a plastic plaque. I had arrived. No more huddling in my car between classes, like a misfit. Now I had a title, a place to go and responsibilities to occupy me.

Moreover, as an editor, I decided who got to appear in the newspaper. Needless to say, I never rejected myself. In fact, I'd sometimes be so taken with a piece I'd written, I would scribble "Excellent!" across the top. Unfortunately, this practice spoiled me for future rejections. Yet during the years I was in charge, my work always found a home.

In any event, I couldn't ignore the fact that fellow staff members were the ages of my children. Although we had lunch together in the cafeteria, I was not, alas, invited to Florida for spring break. Ditto the prom. When someone pointed out I was the "oldest editor in the newspaper's history," I chuckled and plotted how to get even. At one point a student came into the newspaper office and thrust a sheaf of handwritten pages at me. He'd done a study on ways to revamp campus safety, he claimed. When I suggested that his ideas wouldn't endear us to that department, he looked around and said, "Let me speak to the editor." I introduced myself, took his manuscript and promised to consider it. Then I filed it away.

It's probably still there.

Sharon Love Cook is the author of the mystery, A Nose for Hanky Panky by Mainly Murder Press. Her website features the amazing Cape Ann seagulls.

Chapter Two: The Jobs That Shape Us

Although it's hard to pinpoint how many jobs the average person has in a lifetime, the most widely cited number is seven. The authors in this chapter have certainly held a wide variety of positions in addition to writer, including teacher, locomotive engineer, psychologist and singing telegram, to name a few. If you've ever wanted a sneak peek into another career field, then read these fun anecdotes.

Lieutenant Pink Shoes

By Laura DiSilverio

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago, I was a brand-new second lieutenant in the United States Air Force, fresh out of intelligence training, headed to my first assignment at the Defense Intelligence Agency in Washington, D.C.

When I got my commission, I knew little about what being an intelligence officer entailed, but I thought it sounded sexy—high tech, James Bondish, glamorous. Being part of a DC-area headquarters agency was more about staff work—paper-pushing—than anything else. The excitement in my life came from clubbing with my best friend, a Navy officer, and playing competitive racquetball. I practically lived out of my Nissan Sentra, with uniforms, gym clothes and party gear heaped on the passenger seat.

To beat the D.C. traffic, I came to work BCOD—before the crack of dawn. I arrived one morning and slipped on what I thought were my black uniform pumps, pulled from the mobile closet that was my passenger seat. Half-way to my building, I glanced down and was horrified to see that I had donned pink shoes. Aagh!

I spun around, planning to dash back to my car and change my shoes before anyone noticed, and found myself facing a Marine brigadier general, the crustiest of military officers. I saluted smartly and kept going. He turned to the aide beside him and said, "Was that lieutenant wearing pink shoes?"

"Affirmative, General," the aide replied.

"Thought so."

I congratulated myself on having survived this encounter until I arrived in my office and found the aide, a buddy of one of my co-workers, had regaled my officemates with the story. I was ever after known as "Lieutenant Pink Shoes."

Laura DiSilverio, a former military intelligence officer, has written more than a dozen mystery novels for major publishers. Her books have appeared on many "Best Of" lists. She teaches for MWA's Mystery University and at conferences and seminars nation-wide, and her articles have appeared in The Writer and Writer's Digest.

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Training the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers

By Gwen Mayo

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago today, I was a locomotive engineer, then a new job for a female. The railroads lost a lawsuit and were forced to recruit women. Understandably, the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers was not welcoming. I spent days with sullen crews, endured practical jokes and received insults. There were exceptions, but most engineers thought women should only be passengers.

I didn't write twenty-five years ago. Hotel rooms and moving trains were my life. It was one of danger: rock slides, hobos, broken rails, tornados and hazardous shipments. I suffered through hot August days, when temperatures inside the cab exceeded a hundred degrees. In winter, ice and snow caused derailments and frozen brake lines. The worst part was the railroad crossings where drivers raced the train and died. The braking distance of a twenty-thousand ton train is two miles. There are few sections of track in West Virginia where an engineer can see that distance.

The dangers of the job got the best of me, but my life is richer for the years spent snaking through ancient mountains. Someday, I would like to revisit West Virginia, spend my nights falling asleep to the sound of the New River and the distant rumble of the trains.

I miss the feel of an engine powerful enough to light a town coming alive in the palm of my hand. The rhythmic rocking of the locomotive, and the sound of steel wheels crushing sand on ribbon-rail, will always be a part of me.

Gwen Mayo grew up in Kentucky, but has been transplanted to Florida. She writes weird stories that range in length from micro-fiction to novels, and a column about Tarpon Springs, Florida on Examiner.com. Her novel, Circle of Dishonor, is available at online bookstores.

The Biggest Job Shift Ever

By Ann Littlewood

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago, I was figuring out how to assemble an office wardrobe from scratch, how to walk in high heels and what an invoice was. I'd quit my zoo keeper job after twelve years and embarked on a career as a technical writer. I would claim the title of Biggest Job Shift Ever, except that a New Zealand relative evolved from itinerant sheep-shearer living in a horse-drawn wagon to senior policy analyst for the government.

But I'm runner-up.

For twelve years, I'd gone to work in rubber boots and brown coveralls and come home physically exhausted. Now I went to work in a skirt and those painful heels and came home, uh, still exhausted. Only now it was from stress instead of scrubbing. A bachelor's degree and a friend got me this technical writing gig, but I was to revise the manual for the company's accounting software, and I hadn't a clue. Fortunately, just as at the zoo, co-workers stepped up and mentored the newbie.

This job and my old job had almost no overlap in upside and downside. One was indoors, the other often outdoors. One paid better, the other had tiger cubs and monkeys. One, you got carpal tunnel syndrome from typing all day long, the other—well, carpal tunnel from cutting fruit and fish for hours.

Technical writing became a great career. But I missed the zoo world, missed the animals and the issues and the people. That's why I write zoo mysteries—to go back, at least in my head.

Ann Littlewood created Finley Zoo, where zoo keeper Iris Oakley uses her animal knowledge to investigate murder. These "zoo-dunnits" are grounded in Ann's twelve-year career as an animal keeper at Oregon Zoo. She lives in Portland, Oregon, with a husband and a hairy little dog. She's active in tree-hugger organizations.

Long Live Rock

By Loni Emmert

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago today, I was a newbie in the music industry working at the fabulous Island Records on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, California. Many hats were placed upon my head as our office was busy and small, but I tried to wear each and every hat to the best of my ability. Each task I was called upon to perform provided vast and varied learning opportunities for which I am forever indebted.

My favorite duties were working backstage at concerts for our artists including U2 and Robert Palmer (RIP) because it is truly hard to beat the excitement of the vibrant backstage vibe: the artists, radio personnel, promotion staff, roadies, concert hall staff, security, all of them brought an energy that was palpable in the crowded hallways and green rooms.

Massive venues packed to the rafters with bodies swaying to the head-throbbing-level music, it was then that you found how many people were involved in bringing music to the masses. In all of my time backstage, it never failed to amaze me how gracious and friendly our artists could remain under such pressure to perform. The moment they took the stage they transformed from regular people to extraordinary entertainers, as if smacked in the face by pixie dust.

The parties afterward were a celebration of another successful night on tour, then into the bus with a wave goodbye and we'd await their next visit to our town. I knew I was lucky to work in Hollywood, at a major entertainment company, but anytime that I forgot that fact I'd go to a live show and watch as happiness swept over the crowd when their favorite singer took the stage and remember again why I chose this business.

Artist relations was therefore my favorite "hat" and I wore it as often as I could. The interaction with musical artists never disappointed. In fact, it was often a great learning experience. Artists love to share their history, experiences and anecdotes. Also great for learning (and where I started) was in radio promotion. It's a different machine now so I appreciate the time I had learning about how songs really got on the radio. But those are stories for a different time!

Even as a novice I understood the enormity of having the opportunity to meet and work closely with so many incredibly talented musicians: better to be anxious because you have to take a call from Bono than because someone in the drive-thru wants a burger!

Although I have spent many years in music publishing in the last twenty-five years, I have been back at a record company (of which Island Records is a part) and I've remained inside the music industry since that wonderful summer in 1984 when the dream of working at a real record company came true for a young dreamer that was willing to do any menial task asked of her just to be around music.

Loni Emmert has worked for thirty years in the music industry, writing magazine articles and mystery fiction. Among her work is the futuristic Isadora DayStar, cozies Button Hollow Chronicles #1: The Leaf Peeper Murders and Lights! Camera! Murder! She also writes futuristic thrillers.

The Cost of Doing Business

By Stephen D. Rogers

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago I was writing, but then when wasn't I?

Twenty-five years ago, I was working at a direct mail company, standing at a burster-decollator eight-to-sixteen hours a day, scribbling story ideas on scrap paper while waiting for enough sheets to come out of the machine and collect for me to jog.

("To jog" means to hold a stack of loose papers on a vibrating board until the sheets line up. This is done so that the sheets don't jam the inserters, the machines that are the next stop on the junk-mail assembly line.)

Not only did this job allow me to stockpile hundreds of creative ideas, it taught me two key concepts that were applicable to writing. First, the job taught me that submissions were a numbers game.

Second, the job taught me that rejections weren't personal. According to management, the companies that produced and paid for these mailings were thrilled with a three-percent return.

The other ninety-seven percent that never replied? That was just the cost of doing business.

Stephen D. Rogers is the co-author of A Miscellany of Murder and the author of Shot to Death, Three-Minute Mysteries and hundreds of shorter pieces. His website includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

Life as a Singing Telegram

By Monica M. Brinkman

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago began my life as a singing telegram. Go ahead...laugh. I'll be chuckling right alongside you. Believe me, I didn't wake up one morning and declare to the world, "My chosen profession is to sing silly songs to unsuspecting people." Nor, did I ever think I would dress up in a tuxedo and sequined top hat, monkey with cymbals hanging from my neck and walk around in public.

Fact was, I didn't really know what a singing telegram consisted of. Sure, I'd seen those old black and white movies where some young man, dressed in a white shirt, black pants and a ridiculous looking round cap, shows up at the main character's hotel room, takes out a harmonica, blows into it producing some off-key shrill music and then sings _Happy Birthday_.

That was my extent of any knowledge of singing telegram performers. They'd always been heckled and were supposed to be a comical part of the movie. I sure thought them funny, and weird.

After seeing an advertisement in the _San Jose Daily News_ that read..."Auditioning singers to perform at business functions, birthday parties and special occasions. Great pay, fun company," I thought my bubble had burst! Here was my chance to finally make it as a professional vocalist.

So, off I went to the audition wearing my best jeans and silk, paisley top. I stood at the side of the room waiting my turn to audition, listening to a young, thin, short, black-haired man sing _America, the Beautiful_. He had a pure, powerful tenor voice. I didn't think I had a chance, and he could dance like Fred Astaire; not my strong point.

The dreaded call came. My name rang out as a buffed, blonde, blue-eyed man motioned me to begin. I don't even remember what I sang, but he must have liked it because he hired me 'on the spot;' didn't even ask me if I could dance.

Thus began my three-year stint as a singing telegram. I performed in my tuxedo and top hat, of course with monkey at my side, along with being a Mae West take-off. (Funny thing was, I had to use toilet paper to "enhance the cleavage.") No one ever questioned it. And we can't forget the Dancing Valentine Heart, Mrs. Santa Claus or having a belly dancer accompany me.

Looking back at the experience, I wouldn't change a thing. It taught me many lessons. Lessons about people such as, the quiet 'Controller or Accountant' type is the most fun, never embarrassed and always willing to play along, thoroughly enjoying and participating in the show. While the macho, buffed, slick CEO type would get embarrassed immediately and try to run away.

Most of all, I learned about myself. I was able to handle any situation, however painful or pleasurable, with poise, honesty, grace and dignity. What a lark! It is a time I will never forget.

Author Monica M Brinkman believes the world needs less greed and more humanitarianism. Her novel, The Turn of the Karmic Wheel, embraces these beliefs. Monica is a member of the Missouri Writers Guild, hosts the It Matters Radio Show and is a columnist for A Touch of Karma on Authorsinfo.com.

The Pipe Bomb

By Ken Weene

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years, a lifetime ago. We were living on Long Island, just close enough to Manhattan to enjoy and just far enough away to feel suburban. My wife was a painter, our son was in high school and I was making a living as a not-very-garden variety shrink.

I worked with kids and with a lot of teenagers. My approach was active; we did stuff, fun stuff. We went to off-off-Broadway plays, we had meals in way-out ethnic restaurants, we went camping and whitewater rafting. We played paintball. We, means not the family but those kids and, if I could get them to, their families. It was all about building trust and attachment so that when I talked about the important stuff, those kids would figure I knew what life was about and I wanted them to be happy. Some of them are still in my life, keeping in touch, from time to time using me as a sounding board and advisor.

One girl, I'll call her Maryanne, hasn't kept in touch, which is too bad since I really liked her. She was also the source of one of the weird things I remember from my life as a psychologist. One day she showed up at my office with a pipe bomb. A kid at school had slipped it into her pocketbook just before the assistant principal had grabbed him for something. Maryanne didn't know what to do with it, so she brought it to her favorite shrink.

I locked it in a steel file cabinet and waited two days to call the police; I wasn't going to tell them who had given it to me, and I didn't want them knowing on what day that person came to my office—just a little precautionary paranoia.

When I had some free time—I knew there would be questions—I called the precinct. Two uniforms show up. Meanwhile, I've moved the bomb downstairs and outside. We had a well-insulated box we used for mail. In a previous life, it had been for milk deliveries, which meant it was well-made. I tell the cops where it is. They decide to call the bomb squad, which makes sense. Then these two bozo cops stand in my garden playing catch—with the pipe bomb.

My wife is making gasping sounds and herding our dogs into a room far from the potential blast. I go out and suggest to these guys that playing catch with a bomb that had been made by some kid might not be the smartest activity. I refrained from saying it might be their last; they figured that out themselves and put the bomb back.

Two hours later, when the bomb guys had taken it away, I get a call from the newspaper. They want to do a story. Last thing I want. "Pipe Bomb Found at Local Psychologist's Office," just the thing to bring in new clients.

"Can't you just ignore it?" I asked.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"If it explodes or not. Tomorrow morning they'll take it to the range. If it explodes, it's news. If not, the hell with it."

"How will I know?"

"Read the paper the next day. If it blows you're on page three."

I guess I should add I was on page three. Maryanne saw the article and asked how I had kept her out of it.

"Thanks," she said. "By the way, that boy says he likes me. Do you think I should go on a date?"

Now the question some people have asked me: "How did being a shrink affect your writing?"

The answer: It helped me to appreciate the absurdity of human behavior, the wonderful illogic of life. There is a part of us that pushes us into the danger zones, that urges us to play catch with the explosive and to date the irrational. That skirting with danger can lead to growth and disaster. It can certainly make for good writing.

Having trained as a psychologist and pastoral counselor, Ken Weene moved from the Northeast to Arizona and began writing novels, poetry and short stories in his sixties.

School for Sleuths

By Carole Shmurak

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago, my family and I were living in an eighteenth century house on the campus of a New England girls' school—the school on which I based my Wintonbury Academy for Girls in _Deadmistress_. I was teaching chemistry and biology, much as my detective Susan Lombardi did earlier in her career.

I had just discovered Sara Paretsky and Sue Grafton, who were revolutionizing the image of the woman detective. After years of reading about Lord Peter and Spenser, and occasionally Miss Pym or Miss Marple, I was fascinated, as were millions of others, with the new female sleuths. Soon other dynamic female characters started to appear in detective fiction, and I vowed to write one of my own—someday.

The school had recently hired a new headmistress, who was British. And in 1985, as a bunch of us were griping about her in the faculty lounge, one of my colleagues joked that her British accent led us all to "award her ten extra IQ points."

I laughed, but I realized it was true. Hmmm, perhaps I could cultivate a British accent, so people would think I was smarter too? But what if her accent was also put on? What did we really know about her? And thus was born the character of Sabena Laslow, the headmistress in _Deadmistress_ —a person who is not what she seems to be.

Although _Deadmistress_ was published in 2004, its origins go back to that day, twenty-five years ago.

Carole Shmurak is the author of the Susan Lombardi mystery series, including Deadmistress (named a Notable Book of 2004 by Writers Notes Magazine), Death by Committee, Death at Hilliard High and Most Likely to Murder. As Carroll Thomas, she co-authored Ring Out Wild Bells, nominated for the Agatha in 2001.

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Driven Bats

By Sarah E. Glenn

Written in 2011

Twenty-five years ago, I worked as an NCIC operator and Reports Desk staff for the Lexington-Fayette County Police Department. During that time, I saw true-life tragedies and stories that would have given me a promising career as a stand-up comedienne. I also discovered something that really scares police.

Bats.

Our building was old and began its life as a department store. The city decided to make some improvements on the lower floors, and several ceiling tiles in our area were left open. One evening, a bat swooped down on the Reports Desk.

One moment, I had a counter full of officers needing help. The next...no one. They even slammed the door behind them, leaving me and my co-worker with the bat.

You know that old wives' tale about bats in your hair? I think it sprang up because they buzz people. They zoom close, then veer off. We crouched at our desks, ducking as our little friend caromed off the supports.

I thought about calling to the back (911), but what good would that have done? I'd had police in the room moments ago!

One lone officer, stationed with us to take reports over the phone, was busy with a caller when the bat started buzzing him. He excused himself, put the phone on hold and grabbed his nightstick.

WHACK! Bat knocked out of the air. STOMP! Dead bat.

He turned to us. "I need to file a Use of Deadly Force report. . . ."

Sarah E. Glenn writes mystery and horror stories, often with a sidecar of funny. They have appeared in mystery and paranormal anthologies, including The ePocalypse and Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology. All This and Family, Too, her first novel, pits a vampire against a homeowners' association.

Can One Beer Change Your Life?

By Mike Bove

Written in 2012

Can a beer change your life? I suppose one-too-many has changed a lot, some in a bad way. Though, perhaps sometimes people have learned from the experience and bettered themselves.

I had one cool draft, a Miller High Life, about twenty-five years ago in a local establishment next to our small town's post office. The postmaster, who was an acquaintance, was having more than one. He was on lunch break. He was not our postmaster for much longer. His life was changed; I hope he learned from that.

So, he bought me a refill as we chatted. Okay, I had two that day. But over this one, he suggested I take the post office test. This interested me, since my father was a retired postman, and I knew the benefits of such a job.

I took the rural carrier test and was soon hired in another town. I delivered mail in that Cape Cod town for nine years, enjoying my new career and many new friends. One of those friends was considering swapping jobs with a carrier in Arizona, but declined the deal. I believe it was over a Miller High Life that he told me about it.

With our sons grown and gone, my wife and I had tossed around the idea of moving further south and escaping the New England winters. Arizona? Why not?

A year later, I was delivering mail in Sedona, Arizona 86336, and did so until I retired with twenty years of service. I retain a love for every town I have lived in, and am grateful to have had the opportunity to witness and be a part of their wonderful and diverse cultures.

I am now an old guy from New England writing stories and playing golf in Arizona, wondering where I would be if not for that one-beer-okay-two-maybe-three, with certain people long ago.

Mike Bove, a native Vermonter, lived on Cape Cod and retired in Arizona. He has been a teacher, coach and is still an avid reader and sportsman. He has been an actor and drama director for high school, college and community theater. He published the first Bruce DelReno Mystery in 2011.

Chapter Three: Remembering the Romance

Even if you've been married for many years, you can easily recall the life-changing moment when you met that special someone. It's also easy to remember the relationships that didn't stand the test of time, making you appreciate your future partner even more. Here is a glimpse into the romances of authors who ultimately found true love.

A Special Anniversary

By Steve Liskow

Written in 2010

During the summer of 1984, I drifted into community theater. By the end of that year, I had designed sound for three productions, acted in three and produced two—sometimes simultaneously.

For the second play, the director cast a lead actress we had never seen before, and she was terrific. Unfortunately, about the same time we figured out how good she was, our male lead broke his foot. Over the next week, all six actors I invited to replace him turned me down, so I took over the role myself, even though I was already producing and designing the music and sound effects.

Things got even crazier a week later. That amazing actress came to my apartment to help me learn the lines. Seconds after she sat down, my cat climbed into her lap and refused to move. We spent the next three hours speaking over a purr that could drown out a military drum corps. When Barbara finally left, Pepper cried for two hours.

By the time the show closed, Pepper didn't cry anymore because Barbara seldom left. By New Year's, we were inspecting apartments, weighing calendar dates and surveying reception halls.

We married on Bastille Day. The director was best man, another actor ushered and my daughter was the ring-bearer. Naturally, I picked the music.

Steve Liskow has published stories in several anthologies and Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. He often conducts writing workshops for either Sisters in Crime or Mystery Writers of America, and his novels include Cherry Bomb, The Whammer Jammers, Run Straight Down and Who Wrote The Book of Death?

California Magic

**By Mike Angley** ,

Written in 2010

In 1985, I neared the end of my first year of graduate studies at the U.S. Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, CA. I had fallen in love with a woman who was soon to be my wife. We dated in and around Monterey and Carmel, and I cannot say enough about how romantic that part of California is. I think the magic of the sea, surf and sand sealed our relationship because we've been together ever since.

I have one special vignette to relate. I lived on campus, and one morning as I walked to the Navy Exchange, I spotted a car with Medal of Honor license plates and a decal with four stars on the windshield. I knew General Jimmy Doolittle lived somewhere in nearby Carmel, and he was the only person fitting the criteria that was still alive. It may sound stalker-like, but I waited for him to return. Eventually, a frail old man approached the car.

I walked up to introduce myself. We spoke for several minutes, and I found him to be a gentle, affable man. Jimmy Doolittle pioneered carrier-based aviation, and the few moments this hero spent talking with me will remain with me forever.

Mike Angley is a thriller writer whose Child Finder trilogy has received multiple awards. He's a retired USAF Colonel and career Special Agent with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations (USAF equivalent of NCIS). Mike's 26-year career included numerous worldwide assignments performing criminal investigations and counterintelligence and counterterrorism operations.

Drummer and Dumber

By Cara Lopez Lee

Written in 2011

Twenty-five years ago, I fell in love with a rock-and-roll drummer nicknamed "The Dick." It might have saved me some trouble if someone had told me his moniker before he set down his sticks and grinned my way. Still, I like to think most musicians are decent. My editor has a heavy metal band. Why is it cool to have a musician publish my memoir, but ridiculous to date one? Do I seem defensive?

Maybe that's because my high school sweetheart was a rock singer. He dated all my friends. Not at the same time—I'll give him that.

I met the drummer when I was in college and his band played in the LA-area restaurant where I waited tables. This had to be love, because I was too smart to be a groupie. When he went home to Denver, we dated long distance. Then I found out he was cheating, with a married woman I'd seen a few times at his gigs. He'd introduced her as an "old family friend."

I didn't decide to follow him to Colorado until after I discovered the affair. I was sure he wouldn't be tempted to cheat with some skanky married groupie if his classy college girl was around.

The drummer and his father—a bookie—helped me drive two carloads of my stuff from LA to Denver. When we arrived, we stopped to drop his dad off at his car, which he'd left at a bar where the band often played. My VW bug had overheated during the climb over Vail Pass, and the hood was steaming when I stepped out into the parking lot.

So I was already in a bad mood when the other woman leapt out of nowhere, shouted, "Welcome to Colorado!" and hugged me.

I stiffened.

She held out a hand. "Let's be friends!"

I ignored the hand and said, "When I make friends it happens naturally, not because someone I barely know suggests, 'Let's be friends.'" In my fantasies, I just haul back and slug her.

Three nights later I went to one of the band's gigs, and she was there. She plied me with drinks and asked me to dance with her. When I couldn't take her fawning over me anymore, I walked out and drove to the drummer's house to wait. He didn't come home all night. I'm guessing her husband had stopped waiting up long ago.

I spent a summer trying to win back my drummer. But looking back, those two-timers deserved each other. I always admired the way he could handle so many drums at once. I just didn't realize it was a skill he applied elsewhere.

When I gave up, I asked my father if he would help me return to California. He said yes. That's when I decided to stay. Leaving LA wasn't just about "The Dick." The drummer gave me an excuse to run away from home. He gave this city girl the opportunity to fall in love with mountains.

I earned my journalism degree from CU Boulder, became a TV reporter in Alaska, and traveled the world. Chasing that drummer was the dumbest mistake I ever made, but I'd do it again. Stranding myself in Colorado forced me to learn independence.

I'm now married to a man who occasionally plays guitar. He's not in a band.

Cara Lopez Lee is author of the memoir They Only Eat Their Husbands (Ghost Road, 2010) and the novel Back in the Real World (Graham, 2011). She blogs at Girls Trek Too. Her stories have appeared in The Los Angeles Times and Denver Post. She's also an editor and coach.

Paving the Road to Conscious Living

By Lillian Brummet

Written in 2011

At sixteen, I had already been on my own for three years and was still shaken from the experiences in taking one of my stepfathers to court. I was living with a beautiful and daring boy (think Tom Cruise, but blonde)—my first love. We met in the park where my high school was located through a mutual friend. She saw the sparks and pushed us together, and together we stayed for three tumultuous years. I clung to his love like nothing else. Somebody Loved Me!

Then, one day, I just realized this wasn't a healthy relationship and that the only way to go about this new life was to be alone, with myself, for a while—that "while" ended up being a year. I began to see that there was a way to let go of the pain of my childhood, the shame and self-loathing from the abuse and neglect I experienced.

Self-help books became my life-blood. I read every free book I could find, from private or library shelves, trying to find a way out of the pain and confusion. Just when I began feeling a bit lonely for a relationship, Dave came into my life—he was the drummer for a house-band at night and a supervisor of a warehouse by day, while I was juggling school and work—so the first couple years of our dating was kind of like high-fiving at the door. (She laughs)

Today I have the honor of living a life that makes a difference—that helps accelerate this conscious living movement we are seeing grow and spread across the planet. The joy this brings me is indescribable, but when my feet hit the floor in the morning, I'm eager to head to my office.

Lillian Brummet has been professionally involved in the realm of writing since 1999. Her published books include: Trash Talk (Vol. 1 & 2), Towards Understanding and Purple Snowflake Marketing. She also hosts the Conscious Discussions Talk Radio show, and manages the Brummet's Conscious Blog.

Chapter Four: The Ups and Downs of Family Life

When you're going through pregnancy, tending to crying babies, or chauffeuring around school-age kids, it may seem like that exhausting time will last forever. As all parents know, it is a tremendous challenge to balance parenthood with a job, daily household responsibilities and pursuing a passion like writing books. Here is what our authors remember about those special, but tiring, years of their lives.

The Elephant in the Living Room

By Mary Anna Evans

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago today, I was very, very pregnant with my first child, who was born on Halloween 1985. I had spent the first 7.5 months of this pregnancy going about my business as if nothing was happening. I'd taught a full load of community college math and science in the spring semester. In the summer semester, I'd taught Calculus I at night...which meant that I taught two, four-hour classes a week.

Let me count the ways that this made me miserable. I was on my feet for four hours at a stretch, quite some feat for someone who started the pregnancy weighing a cool 108 and who eventually delivered an 8.5 pound baby. I'd never taught calculus before, so I had to prepare those four-hour classes. I wasn't the best student when I took calculus myself, so I only really understood the subject later, when I used it in classes like thermodynamics and chemical kinetics. This meant that I had to work all the homework problems before I assigned them, in case I didn't remember how. And I had to work all the example problems and record them in my notes in detail, so I wouldn't fall on my face in class. And then I had to grade those tests and homework assignments. I think I probably made about two bucks an hour that summer.

As icing on the cake, summer night Calculus I classes are generally populated by people who don't want to be there, largely business majors. I heard a lot of questions like, "How will we use this in real life?" I should have just said, "This is real life," and pushed on, but I was twenty-three and earnest, so I answered them honestly. Amazingly enough, this didn't make them want to be there any more.

As my due date approached, I started feeling strange, so I went to the doctor and learned that I was in danger of delivering the baby five weeks early. This prompted an order for bed-rest and I dropped out of a world where I was expected to pretend I wasn't pregnant and into a world where being pregnant was all there was. This is the world where I was living twenty-five years ago today.

In my novel _Strangers_ , my heroine Faye Longchamp is very, very pregnant. Coincidence? Well, I'm certain that I didn't do this on purpose. Karma? Maybe.

I'm not sure I've ever read a book written from the point-of-view of a woman who is entering her ninth month of pregnancy. As a mother of three, it was an interesting exercise to imagine how advanced pregnancy would affect the things that Faye must do for her archaeological work and, in the end, to save her own life. Her efforts to keep working as if nothing is happening aren't so different from my own long, hard slog through that summer school class. Except I wasn't outside in the Florida heat, digging up old stuff.

For a time, I intended for Faye to be in the earliest stages of pregnancy in _Strangers_. She might have even been unaware of it until the final scene, when she realized why she'd been feeling so weird and redoubled her efforts to save herself from the bad guy, because now she had to protect herself and her baby.

But it just didn't work. I tried to write it that way, but realized that the reader would be in on the secret as soon as I mentioned that Faye was feeling queasy or tired. Then Faye would be looking like an idiot for about 300 pages, while my readers were yelling, "Take a home pregnancy test, dummy!" I was rather proud of myself for making one of those home tests an important clue.

As I launched into a story about a woman on the verge of becoming a mother, I learned something very quickly. Being extremely pregnant is like having an elephant in the living room. You can't ignore it, and neither can anybody else. It affects your ability to do your job. It affects your ability to even move through a crowded room or up a flight of stairs. And even when I wrote scenes from other characters' points-of-view, well, they couldn't ignore it, either, and it affected their behavior toward Faye. Her husband Joe, in particular, is on the brink of a nervous breakdown, because he's so worried about her, and because she's so unwilling to cooperate with his efforts to protect her.

I decided to just go with it. The key to writing realistic characters is having them behave like real people, and real people do notice when someone in her thirty-fifth week of pregnancy waddles by. When I was in that condition the third time, a stranger once said within my earshot, "She looks like she's about to pop." Gee, thanks.

As a part of Faye's character arc, this pregnancy is very important. She admits as early as _Artifacts_ , six years before the events in _Strangers_ , that she wants a baby very much. In the meantime, we've watched her suffer some significant romantic travails, and her age is much on her mind. After writing six books about Faye, I found that I wanted her to have this baby almost as much as I would if she were a flesh-and-blood human woman who was suffering from the demands of her biological clock. I'm happy for her.

Last but not least, I think Joe is going to make a really cool father.

(And yes, I do know that they're not real.)

Mary Anna Evans is the author of the Faye Longchamp archaeological mysteries, the environmental thriller Wounded Earth, Jewel Box: Short Works by Mary Anna Evans and Your Novel, Day By Day: A Fiction Writer's Companion. Her work has received honors including the Mississippi Author Award, the Benjamin Franklin Award and a writer's residency from The Studios of Key West.

Baby Steps

By Tracy Krauss

Written in, 2010

Twenty-five years ago today I was oh, so pregnant with my first child. She was due in about a month's time, and I couldn't wait for some relief! To be able to see my feet again—to breathe freely again—these were my desperate wishes as I hauled my forty pound overweight frame around. I had just finished my bachelor's degree in education and was working at a golf course clubhouse until 'baby' arrived, while busily clacking away in my spare time on the old typewriter I had borrowed from my mother.

These were the beginnings of my first novel, a very rough story I realize now, but nonetheless, something that I felt compelled to 'get out' and onto the paper. I can't imagine now having to go through the agony of retyping every time a mistake was made or a revision was needed. I'm glad those good old days are gone forever. At the time, however, I was just glad to have a typewriter so that I didn't have to write it all freehand. My, how times have changed.

That first novel underwent many transformations so that in the end it was barely recognizable. (A very good thing in retrospect!)

_Play It Again_ took me sixteen years to write and subsequently sat on my computer for another seven or eight before I resurrected it again for submission. Even though it is not my first 'published' novel, it is still the first I completed. It will always hold a special place in my heart.

Tracy Krauss is a prolific author with several romantic suspense novels and stage plays in print. She is also an artist, director and teacher. She holds a B.Ed degree from the University of Saskatchewan and, after raising four children, now resides in British Columbia, Canada.

Finding the Right Balance

By Barbara Ross

Written in 2010

My daughter was born in 1984, so twenty-five years ago, I was a busy working executive with a husband, a house and two little kids. I thought of myself that way for a long time—so long in fact that when I wasn't anymore, it took me a little while to figure out who I was.

I used to say I had a perfectly balanced work and home life—too much of both. It's a common way of life for many families, so I won't belabor it. I'm sure you can imagine it on your own. Suffice to say, until my kids were old enough to get themselves up and off to school, I felt like I began every morning by being shot out of a cannon.

But here's the thing. People used to say to me, "You're so busy with the kids and the job, you should do something for yourself." That would really stump me, because as far as I was concerned, I was doing it all for myself. I loved my husband and kids and I loved my job. If I wasn't doing it for me, who the heck was I doing it for?

I did it the way so many parents do, by ruthless prioritizing. I knew I wanted my kids to grow up to be productive, happy citizens. I knew I wanted my company to grow and provide good value to its customers, good jobs for good people and a return for its shareholders. Everything else by necessity fell by the wayside.

At times it was overwhelming and crazy. Like the time I got up to go to an early morning meeting somewhere in Ohio and found I had packed one blue and one black shoe. But most of the time, it was pretty great.

In my first mystery novel, _The Death of an Ambitious Woman_ , it was important to me to show a woman who was a success in her career and had a happy home life, because we go through phases as a culture where people say this is impossible—and I knew from experience that it is not. It's true that you can't have "it all," whatever that is, but you can have a lot. _The Death of an Ambitious Woman_ isn't just about working mothers and the choices families make, but these themes provide important background and context for the puzzle and pursuit of the killer.

Now my kids are grown and I've retired from corporate life. I'm remaking myself as a mystery author, and there are times when life still feels pretty crazy—but once again, I wouldn't change it.

Barbara Ross's first novel is The Death of an Ambitious Woman. Her series of Maine Clambake Mysteries are published by Kensington. She is also a co-editor/co-publisher at Level Best Books, which produces an anthology of crime stories by New England authors every November.

Climbing the Mountain of Single Parenthood

By J. R. Lindermuth

Written in 2010

In 1984, I was a single parent, struggling with a mountain of debt and a way-too-big mortgage. I earned our daily bread as wire/business editor of a small-town daily newspaper and spent my evenings churning out articles and short stories while attempting to come up with a novel which would sell.

Raising children is tough enough when there are two parents. Need I say it becomes much more challenging when you're alone and have the burden of a demanding, stressful occupation and more financial obligations than you can handle? I found my solace in reading, writing and drawing. I must have done something right. My son and daughter grew up to be responsible, hard-working adults and good parents.

During this trying period, I sold a lot of articles to a variety of small magazines, but my efforts at fiction went nowhere. I experimented with novels in different genre—mysteries, horror, historical, mainstream. It was a learning process, but one in which I was often tempted to give up.

At one particularly low period, I had my biggest breakthrough magazine sale. _Ovation_ , the classical music magazine, purchased my article on Sibelius in America. That success sent me back to the typewriter. Gradually, I learned perseverance is the key to achieving any worthwhile goal.

Little did I realize then a character created for a short story (Sticks Hetrick) would become the protagonist for a series of mystery novels.

J. R. Lindermuth is a retired newspaper editor who writes mysteries and historical fiction. He lives in Pennsylvania and now serves as librarian of his county historical society, where he assists patrons with research and genealogy. In addition to his novels, his short stories and articles appear frequently in a variety of magazines.

The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same

By Donna Fletcher Crow

Written in 2010

"The more things change, the more they stay the same." I'm not sure who said it, but that is certainly the perspective I have gained from writing historical novels. Could so much have happened in the past twenty-five years? Could things really be so much the same?

Twenty-five years ago, our daughter was looking forward to kindergarten and her three big brothers were in school. And I was working on the first book in a series of historical novels. Today, our daughter's daughter is looking forward to kindergarten and her big brother is in school. And I have published the first book in a series of mystery novels with strong historical backgrounds.

A whole lifetime has transpired in that time, but the research trip I took to England that summer has been foundational to so much of it. I had actually written _Brandley's Search_ , the first of my Cambridge Collection, but it had all been done from research here in Boise, Idaho, 7,000 miles away from that green and pleasant land where my historical characters lived and walked. I needed to visit their homes, read their letters collected in libraries, walk the halls of their colleges. . . .

I was speaking at a writers' conference on the shores of Puget Sound in Washington when I received notice that the publisher who had contracted to publish my book had gone out of business. I was stunned. Months— years— of work. And now I would have to start all over looking for a publisher. I blurted it all out to the editor sitting next to me.

"Send it to us," she said.

"You don't do fiction." My reply has to be one of the all-time hard-sell lines.

"We've just started a line of historical fiction."

All these years, and thirty-five published books, later I look back on that moment as the real launch of my career.

Within three months, I had an advance and I was on my way to England, to get the details right. I took our daughter and our youngest son with me and we even met my editor there for part of the research.

And that was the beginning of more than my career. I took Elizabeth with me on many successive research trips and she became so at home in England that she chose to study there, worked there and married an Englishman. Whenever I would moan to friends about missing my daughter I would get a steely-eyed look and the inevitable question; "And who set her up for it?"

But it's all circular. Felicity, the heroine of my Monastery Murders series, is a young American woman who went to England to study, worked in London, and I suspect a few books down the road may marry her Englishman.

Donna Fletcher Crow is a multi-published author of novels of mystery, romance and British history. The award-winning Glastonbury, an Arthurian grail search epic, is her best-known work. Donna and her husband live in Boise, Idaho. They have four adult children and eleven grandchildren. She is an enthusiastic gardener.

A Busy Mom's Dream

By Deanna Jewel

Written in 2010

Thinking back twenty-five years ago is not something most of us do often. Back then, my daughters were about five and six years old and I'd been married for ten years. I was also a working mother, only taking a year off work when I had our second daughter.

Even with my schedule filled with Tee-ball in the summer and running them around to daycare and sitters, my mind created stories that, deep inside, I guess I knew I'd write one day. Of course, that isn't something you blurted out to anyone back then; they would have thought you were crazy to think YOU could become an author.

I've always been a positive-minded person and went after whatever it was I wanted and thought I could accomplish. My mother raised my brothers and me with the notion that there was nothing in this world we couldn't do if we set our mind to it. I raised my children the same way.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that you can't accomplish something you see yourself doing! I still live by that rule which is why I'm now writing as I always wanted to do. I love that I can transport a reader back in time to become a part of my stories, to feel as though they are right there in the setting with my characters! That is why I write. . .as well as to get the characters' story down; something they keep after me to do.

Deanna Jewel lives in the Pacific Northwest where she writes multi-genre romance that includes historical, contemporary and time travel.

Family Fun at the Dinner Table

By Maryann Miller

Written in 2012

In 1987, two seats at our dinner table were standing empty. Our oldest daughter had gotten married two years previously, and our oldest son was off to Marine boot camp. While it was nice, in some respects, to have two less mouths to feed—we had five children—we did miss some of the fun of seven people at a dinner table. Some days as I listened to the chatter about the kid at school who got in trouble, or the stray dog they found on the playground, or the kid who needed the catsup and clamored to be heard above the others, I wondered if there was a way to set all that to music and have a cute little jingle we could sing when conversation lagged. It might have even caught on, and we would have become rich selling copies to little old ladies who didn't want to face another quiet meal alone.

Then things would start flying around the table at a reckless pace, giving the illusion of a runaway Lazy Susan, and the countdown would begin. Once, I actually made it to six—before the salt was dropped into the salad and the first glass of milk toppled. A new record! I'd never made it past three before.

Even though there were times I considered installing one of those machines they have at bakeries so we could all take a number and wait our turn to speak, I miss those days. And twenty-five years ago, I missed those two who had contributed to the fun at the dinner table.

Maryann Miller is an award-winning author of books, screenplays and stage plays. Her books are: a woman's novel, Play It Again, Sam; Open Season, the first book in a mystery series; One Small Victory, suspense; a young adult novel, Friends Forever; and a short story collection, The Wisdom of Ages.

Chapter Five: Hard Times

We all go through difficult times that ultimately make us stronger, though we wish we didn't have to suffer through them. The following authors have written compelling accounts of such hardships, and even twenty-five years later, they can conjure up every vivid detail.

Finding the Right Direction

By Michele Drier

Written in 2012

Twenty-five years ago, after dinner, I'd put my dog in the car and drive. I'd leave my husband in his recliner watching sports and my daughter in her room, talking on the phone.

I'd drive and I'd cry, wondering how I'd ever made this terrible decision.

I was a single mom, living in Southern California, with a job I loved, friends, my own house and a daughter just going into high school. What I didn't have was a man in my life until a tall, dark stranger showed up at a conference.

He lived in a small town about 400 miles away, so we had a romantic courtship. We'd usually pick a coastal town to meet and time with him was as though I was on vacation. I forgot that vacations aren't real life; when he asked me to marry him, I said yes.

Now I was ruing that decision. We lived in the small town where he'd been born. With no family and no friends for support, with my daughter so unhappy she asked about becoming an emancipated minor, with no job and no money of my own, I was desperate.

I knew that I was the one who had to make a decision. I packed up our things and moved my daughter and me to a condo until she graduated from high school. After that, we'd head back to Southern California.

But life held a different path for us.

My daughter was accepted in a college in California's far north, and I took a temporary job at the local newspaper.

This became a twenty-year stint as a city editor and gave me background and stories to write _Edited for Death_ , the first in the Amy Hobbes series about a newspaper editor who always asks "Why?" and finds the true story behind the headlines.

Michele Drier, born in Santa Cruz, is a fifth generation Californian who has lived all over the state. During her journalism career as an editor at daily newspapers, she won awards for producing investigative series. Her mystery Edited for Death is called "Riveting and much recommended" by the Midwest Book Review. She also writes the Kandesky Vampire Chronicles.

The Scent of Lives Changed Forever

By Beth Kanell

Written in 2010

Summer 1984: I think of it as my last innocent summer, while the pieces of my life looked like ordinary photographs in a family album. Afghans crocheted by my mother covered the beds. Photos hung on the walls. Easy blessings came: The kids and I packed happily for two weeks of vacation in a rustic cottage on a mud-bottomed pond, so secluded that the frogs sang around the clock and crayfish squirmed fearlessly around our feet as we waded between lily pads.

In the evenings, we all read stories: picture books for the toddler, chapter books for the one going into first grade, a stack of novels by my own bed. Supper could be as simple as scrambled eggs, but mostly it was something grilled over a wood fire. And going home at last to our nearby house, ah, that too was languid and lovely and rich with love.

Soon, autumn brought the scarlet and gold blaze of the Vermont mountains, followed by early snow and cozy evenings when the wood furnace steadied us, and I baked bread almost daily. I remember cocoa at bedtime, and a perfect Christmas.

Two nights later, the wood fire and the chimney conspired to set the house on fire. When I woke by habit at two in the morning to check on whether to add more wood, the living-room floor had caught, was flaming to the ceiling. The children, as smoke-stunned as I, escaped with me. At twenty-three below zero, the hike to the nearest neighbor took almost forever, as the flames behind us rose to the sky.

For days afterward, the cellar smoldered, as the mountain of maple logs stacked so neatly in the cellar collapsed into a deep bed of lingering coals. Our house burned down on the coldest night, at the end of 1984. I'll never forget the scent of that fire: the scent of lives changed forever.

For two weeks, we slept on the floor at a neighbor's. Friends talked about us on the radio and in churches. On the afternoon when we finally found a farmhouse to rent, for starting over, we came back to the neighbor's and could barely step into the kitchen: A truck had visited while we were away, unloading a mountain of clothing, kitchen gear, books, puzzles. . .the love of an entire community came to us this way, to help us start over.

It was twenty-five years ago. The past vanished in smoke and ash. And then we found the long sweet worth of life that remained, after the old life burned.

Every time Beth Kanell turns a page of New England history, she finds a controversy to weave into her novels. Her protagonists are adventurous young women discovering challenges to heart and mind. They climb mountains, battle darkness, solve mysteries, sort out suspense and assert their own strong choices.

Surviving the Killer Tsunami

By Cherish D'Angelo (also known as Cheryl Kaye Tardif)

Written in 2010

About twenty-five years ago, I was busy trying to outrun a "killer tsunami." But before I get to that, here's a bit of background. My life as Cherish D'Angelo hadn't started yet. Instead, as Cheryl Kaye, I had moved into an apartment with my boyfriend Marc, who was in the Canadian Armed Forces. I was the base hair salon owner in Masset, Queen Charlotte Islands, BC.

I first noticed Marc a year before that, when he brought a new Private (who'd just moved there) to my salon, Cheryl's Scissor Trix. Ironically, I ended up dating the other guy. Months later, I saw Marc at a Junior Ranks dance and ended up talking to him. After a few weeks, we started dating and a year later, we decided to move in together.

I remember making a lot of fancy dinners for Marc. That was back when I used to spend copious amounts of time researching recipes and preparing gourmet dinners and desserts. Oh, the things we do to impress a man! I don't quite cook like that anymore.

The tsunami (tidal wave) occurred one night about twenty-five years ago. I was making dinner for Marc and another new Private. I even remember the dessert I made. Huckleberry cream pie. I had no idea that before dinner was served we'd be fighting for our lives, desperate to escape a horrific natural disaster, the kind nightmares and made-for-television movies are made of. With my vivid imagination, that tsunami was going to be the end of civilization itself. (Thank you, Stephen King!)

It started with a phone call from my dad. He was a Master Warrant Officer on the base. He called to tell us that a tsunami was on its way to the island. Ever since I was a young child on that island, I'd grown up with stories about the "killer tsunami" that everyone expected would one day hit the coast of BC and cover the Queen Charlotte Islands and Vancouver Island, along with the earthquakes that threatened to break all the islands into little bitty pieces.

I'd already survived hundreds of earthquakes, but this tsunami was different. They were evacuating the town. Marc, his friend and I piled into our car and drove to the highest point, Garbage Hill of all names, along with most of the town and the neighboring Indian village. Traffic was a mess. We crawled up a hill that was really laughable. If the killer tsunami was on its way, we'd be swept away like ants. Marc, showing his usual quick thinking, grabbed the ribs and other food. The pie was left in the oven. It wasn't edible afterward.

We stood on Garbage Hill and waited. It seemed like we were there for hours and hours waiting for that wave to hit. And then it did. We didn't see it. We didn't feel it. Later, the alarm was called off and everyone headed down the hill and back to town. We found out the water had risen. Maybe an inch.

And this is how I survived the "killer tsunami" about twenty-five years ago.

Now I'm an author. Stephen King and tsunamis still give me nightmares. Then again, so do some of the novels I've written and plan to write. Who knows? Maybe one day Cheryl Kaye Tardif will write a suspense thriller about a killer tsunami terrorizing a small island town. If I add a beautiful heroine and a muscle-ripped hero, then Cherish D'Angelo could turn it into a romantic suspense. I won't tell you what they do with that huckleberry cream pie....

Cherish D'Angelo, aka international bestselling author Cheryl Kaye Tardif, is a Canadian author who mainly writes suspense, including Children of the Fog, Whale Song and The River. Many of her books are being translated into foreign languages. Cheryl also wrote How I Made Over $42,000 in 1 Month Selling My Kindle Ebooks.

Christa's Legacy

By Jaleta Clegg

Written in 2011

It was a cold January day, although the sun shone bright through the windows. I sat on the couch in my mom's living room, surrounded by silk flowers—red roses, white daisies and gardenias. My wedding was less than three weeks away. I twisted flowers with ribbons and florists' wire while I watched the shuttle launch prep on TV.

I've been a space junkie ever since I can remember. The night sky has always fascinated me. The stories, the science, but most of all, the travel. Science fiction was, and is, my genre of choice. I snuck out of bed at 4 a.m. to watch the first shuttle launch. I waited through the interminable countdown with baited breath until the clock hit zero, the engines ignited and the Columbia rose into space. I watched a shuttle launch live in 2006, a miracle considering I live in Utah and with eight kids, our budget was too tight to squeeze in a trip to Florida. Through the generosity of friends, my husband and I made it. The launch went off on schedule, picture perfect.

Back to the Challenger launch. This was not the shuttle's first launch. The media circus surrounding it came because of one astronaut: Christa McAuliffe, a school teacher slated to become the first teacher in space. All sorts of special lessons were scheduled to be broadcast from the shuttle to schools across America. School children everywhere watched the launch live, just like I watched from my seat on the couch.

The countdown reached zero, the engines ignited, the shuttle rose into the air on a column of smoke.

And then the unthinkable happened. The shuttle exploded. In an instant, Christa McAuliffe and her fellow astronauts were gone.

I stared in disbelief at the TV as the news people replayed the horrible scene. How could this have happened? A cold snap compromised the rubber in one small gasket. The first teacher in space was gone. A nation watched, horrified, as the events unfolded.

Twenty-five years later, Christa McAuliffe has touched my life in ways I could not even have imagined then. A local school teacher, who ran shuttle simulations in his sixth grade classroom, had a dream that blossomed into a full-blown center with starship simulators that take children on trips far into the galaxy and into a future full of danger and intrigue and aliens. I went ahead with my wedding, ending up with eight wonderful children and twenty-five years of memories of my own, good and bad. I graduated from BYU as a teacher in 1992. My teaching certificate sat in a drawer until 2002. Recovering from a bout of cancer left me feeling I needed to do more, give more.

I walked into the Christa McAuliffe Space Education Center on an April morning in 2002 and told Victor Williamson, the creator and director of the center, that I wanted to become a volunteer. He got a panicked look in his eye, looking to his staff as if to say, who is this crazy woman and why is she in my office? Fortunately, one of the staff knew me from my college days and vouched that I was not as crazy as I sounded. I volunteered that summer, working as a camp cook. I was offered a paid position that fall, as a teacher for the daily field trips. I am now the planetarium director, curriculum specialist, costumer, story consultant, office assistant and still camp cook. We touch the lives and imaginations of thousands of children each year at our center.

To borrow a quote from Christa McAuliffe, "I touch the future. I teach."

Her spirit lives on through her legacy from that fateful accident twenty-five years ago. She touched my life then and she still touches it today.

Jaleta Clegg loves to play with words. She writes science fiction adventure, silly horror and dabbles in just about every other genre.

Weathering the Storm

By Red Tash

Written in 2012

The snow is deep in Southern Indiana this morning, just as it was twenty-five years ago. It always snows in March, in Indiana. It'll be over sixty degrees later this week. Count on it.

Count on unpredictability. Count on change.

Twenty-five years ago, I was fourteen, and had just lost my father to a heart attack. It was sudden, devastating and it changed the course of my life forever. Left behind with a troubled and tumultuous mother, I soon found myself alternately in turn in a convent, a squad car, a car accident and running for our lives from an abusive step-father, in the aftermath of Dad's death. What had once been the routine and security of my everyday life was shot like a confetti cannon into a hurricane.

I learned to count on unpredictability. To count on change. I learned that nothing is permanent.

The death of one man doesn't make the news, usually, but community-wide tragedies do. Like the most recent event in my area: a string of F4/F5 tornados that swept through. Today, I see friends picking up the pieces of their lives in nearby Henryville, and I know they've got a long journey ahead of them. When all the debris from the tornado is long since cleared, when the homes and the school are rebuilt, the people of Henryville will still be parsing a "new normal."

There are those among the survivors who will put this behind them rapidly, and there are those who will look back twenty-five years from now, and say they lost everything. Don't kid yourself. They will accumulate new possessions, but they'll spend years trying to wrest control of lives that have been violently blown off-course.

It would not surprise me if twenty-five years later, a generation of writers from Henryville emerges. Where were you when? What happened? Where did you go? There are those among them who are discovering a gift, right this very second—and they won't realize it until years have passed.

I'm truly sorry for what they're going through, but I admit, someday I'll look forward to reading their stories.

There are worse things in life than surviving a tragedy. I've found that if you're focusing on the right direction, you can weather just about any storm. Count on that.

Count on change.

Count on story, and its healing power. I have found it is the only constant in a life filled with surprises.

Be strong, Henryville. We're counting on you.

Red Tash is a journalist-turned-novelist of dark fantasy for readers of all ages. Monsters, sci-fi, wizards, trolls, fairies and roller derby lightly sautéed in a Southern/Midwestern sauce hand-canned from her mama's recipes await you in her pantry of readerly delights. Y'all come, anytime.

Chapter Six: The Writing Journey

How nice it would be if a writer could type the magic words, 'The End,' and that would be the end of it. Alas, a first draft is never ready for publication. It takes a lot of hard work to build a writing career—writing, rewriting and rewriting yet again. Writers who wish to land a contract with a traditional publisher must also face heart-breaking rejections from agents and editors. On one hand, most writers are sensitive individuals. They have to be sensitive, or else their words would never capture the emotions of their readers. Yet, they must also be determined and tough to make it in the publishing business. Below, learn how these authors got their starts.

Unit-Lessons in Composition

By Stacy Juba

Written in 2010

While organizing my bookshelf, I stumbled across a special book that I hadn't picked up in years. It bears a quill pen designed onto a simple brown hard cover and the title _Writing: Unit-Lessons in Composition_. I bought this college textbook from a used bookstore when I was about eleven-years-old.

According to the handwritten names scrawled on the inside cover, it previously belonged to students named Tom and Donna. I remember marveling at the vivid excerpts that opened each chapter, compelling passages from works such as _The Pearl_ by John Steinbeck, _The Points of My Compass_ by E.B. White and _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee.

I'd read the accompanying lessons on the craft of writing, digesting tips about how to describe motion with visual details, use connotations effectively, arrange objects in a spatial order and use figurative language wisely.

Pretty heavy reading for an eleven-year-old girl, but I felt as if I'd been given a behind-the-scenes pass into the world of books and authors. As a child, I remember completing many exercises in the book. They had a great effect on my burgeoning writing style, leading me to craft passages like this one, from my short story _The Mysterious Relatives_ , written when I was in fifth grade:

Amanda Ford, a willowy strawberry blonde quite tall for the tender age of fourteen, watched as her good friend Lavinia Blake, having aroused her curiosity, placed a small square of creamy butter and a spoonful of raspberry jam atop a golden slice of toast. Lavinia wolfed down the snack hungrily and raised a clear crystal glass filled to the rim with thirst-quenching orange juice to her cherry red lips.

I think I must have been hungry when I wrote that paragraph, twenty-five years ago! I thought I was following the examples from the book, but alas, I may have missed the mark and gone a bit overboard. Here is a more recent paragraph, from my published novel _Dark Before Dawn_ :

This morning, the carousel horses were lifeless and carnival rides frozen. Gulls swooped down to vacant park benches, hunting for day-old remains of fried dough and pizza. Most everything shut down after Labor Day. Jeff had explained that the only places to stay open off-season were Mario's Pizza, the Center Sweet Shoppe and the Sand Castle Drugstore. Dawn gave an involuntary shudder as they drove past the beach. The gray tide pitched forward, swallowing the slick mirror of sand. She gazed down at her knuckles, fisted in her lap. Her mother and Jeff worshipped the ocean, but to her it was a mysterious monster foaming at the mouth.

That old secondhand textbook had taught me well, demonstrating through vivid examples how to hone in on a scene and describe all the little details that make it come alive. It was a lesson I never forgot. Here are a couple of assignments that I remember completing from the composition book:

1. Describe one of these topics: a football field during and after a game; a children's birthday party; the streets after a fall rain or winter snowfall.

2. Write a paragraph in which you describe the actions of two people, such as two girls silently combing their hair before the same mirror; or a boy and a girl approaching one another in an empty hallway.

Go ahead. Try one, and let the writer within you come out to play.

_Stacy Juba, the editor of 25 Years in the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back and an award-winning journalist, has authored books for adults, teens and children. She has written about high school hockey players, reality TV contestants targeted by a killer, teen psychics who control minds, teddy bears learning to raise the U.S. flag and lots more_.

Traveling Down the Writing Path

By Patricia Gulley

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago, I was giving up my writing career and returning to my travel company to take up earning a real living. I had taken three years off to write, write, write, on a portable, electric typewriter. Boy, did I own a supply of Wite-Out.

I wrote several science fiction short stories, sent them out to all kinds of publications, got back wonderful personal and detailed rejections, then decided to switch to romance and completed a novel. I'd only read a few, so the first thing I had to do was read a bunch.

Thank the stars for all the used and trade bookstores at the time. And there was actually a class at the local community college, where I met several enthusiasts and we formed a critique group. I was the only one that completed a whole book, so I sent it off to Silhouette (it actually had sex in it) and after six months, got a form rejection.

Undaunted, I sent it off to an agent. Within weeks, I got back another detailed rejection letter, (boy, were those the good old days) and I can't even remember the dear woman's name.

Soon after, it looked like hubby and I were going to split up. A decent and reliable wage became mandatory. I never gave up writing, but I didn't write as steadily as I did during those three years off until I retired.

Patricia Gulley is the author of the traditional mystery, Downsized To Death, at Wings ePress. She is a former travel agent and has experienced company downsizing. She has several short stories to her credit, including The Critique Group in Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology.

Sticking With It

By J.E. Seymour

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago, I was running a horse farm. The long hours didn't allow for much other than sleeping and eating along with the riding and teaching, but I started squeezing in time to write. I'd been secretly writing fiction for years, without showing it to anyone.

But that summer, twenty-five years ago, I showed one of my students a bit of a story I'd started, about an escaped prisoner hiding in a culvert under some railroad tracks. She loved it. I didn't show anybody else my work, until five years later when I started taking writing courses at college. One of my professors encouraged me, and I submitted my first piece of fiction and got my first rejection.

It was another five years before I began submitting crime fiction, getting more rejections. But about that time, I finally finished the story that started with the escapee in the culvert. It became a novel, _Stress Fractures_ , and I got an agent. She sent it out to publishers and got more rejections. The agent dropped me. I wrote another novel, with the same character. Got another agent. Finally sold my first short story to a webzine, although I didn't get paid for it. Dumped my second agent.

Wrote another novel, same character, _Lead Poisoning_. Sold more short stories, getting actual money for some. I rewrote _Stress Fractures_ and tried getting another agent. No luck. Went through the same process with _Frostbite_. Nothing. Still sending out short stories, I started working on the fourth and fifth in the series. I also garnered eighty rejections from agents on _Lead Poisoning_.

I decided to try small presses. I knew I didn't want to self-publish, but it didn't look like my dream of hitting the big time was working out, either. A small press looked like a good compromise. Mainly Murder Press picked _up Lead Poisoning_ and it came out twenty-five years after I first envisioned the character.

The moral of the story, if there is one, is that you have to stick with it if you want to be a writer. It's a slow process. It takes persistence and patience.

J.E. Seymour lives and writes in southern New Hampshire. Her short crime stories have appeared in anthologies, magazines and online. She also writes a series of crime novels, the first of which, Lead Poisoning, was released by Mainly Murder Press in 2010.

Detecting the Humor

By Marja McGraw

Written in 2012

Twenty-five years ago, I was living in Nevada and working for the state transportation department, and I was a divorced mother raising a stubborn, rebellious teenager. (Thankfully, my daughter grew into a lovely woman.) Since that time, my life has contained more twists and turns than a well-written mystery. I've figured out that most things happen for a reason, and one of my tasks is to try to discover what that reason is. It seems like I learn something new almost daily.

The thought of writing a book hadn't entered my head twenty-five years ago. I kept a journal, but eventually read it over and decided it was way too silly so I threw it away, keeping a couple of pages that marked important events in my life. Reading the entries made me realize what potential I had to become a Drama Queen, and that was a turning point. I needed to turn things around and make better choices. I also needed to use that Drama Queen trait to my advantage. It wasn't long after that when a friend talked me into writing and putting that potential to good use. My friend's reason for wanting me to write a book is a whole different story, but you can all count your blessings because I've since lost my first manuscript. Of all things, I used the title of that story in a book I have coming out in the near future.

During that time, I noticed how much importance I was placing on humor. It didn't matter whether it was a television show, or a funny book, or a comment made by a friend or coworker. If it made me laugh, it was good. Humor is what kept me going, and what eventually led me to write murder mysteries that contain something to make the reader laugh, or at the very least, smile. If it kept me going, maybe it will help someone else, too.

As of this writing, I have five books published in the Sandi Webster Mysteries, and two in the Bogey Man Mysteries. Sandi Webster is a youngish female P.I. with a lot of lessons to learn, and the Bogey Man (Chris Cross) is an amateur investigator who happens to be a dead ringer for Humphrey Bogart.

Overall, I wouldn't change even one part of my past because it was a great classroom in which to learn about life and people. One of the many things that come to mind is to learn from past mistakes, and to rejoice in the good choices. Well, in reflecting back, I might change a couple of things, but not much.

Twenty-five years ago, the idea of writing books, knowing that people would read them, writing blogs, building a website and feeling like an honest-to-goodness mystery writer was the farthest thing from my mind. Just goes to show, you never know what lies around the next corner.

Marja McGraw writes two series, the Sandi Webster mysteries and the Bogey Man mysteries. She says that each of her mysteries contain a little humor, a little romance and A Little Murder! She resides in Arizona with her husband, where life is good.

Never Give Up

By Karen McCullough

Written in 2010

Twenty-five years ago today, in 1985, I was learning how to write a novel. In fact, I was just finishing up the second novel I'd ever written, a romantic suspense story titled _A Question of Fire_. I'd been writing short stories and nonfiction pieces for a while, but I'd only recently worked up the nerve to embark on writing my first novel. I did it, though, and I enjoyed it. But that first novel was a learning experience. Even I recognized that it had some. . .well, problems. Okay, to be perfectly honest. . .it sucked. It was really, seriously bad. That manuscript is now somewhere in a box in the attic with a sticky note on it saying, "Burn Me!"

I was pretty sure that I had a better idea how to do it with my second novel. It took me almost a year to write, and it was much better. Unfortunately 'much better' still meant I had a long way to go. I sent it out to editors and agents and collected a nice batch of rejections, although several of them did say encouraging things about my writing. A couple even said this was a "near miss" for them, but they didn't think they could market a romantic mystery at the time.

Encouraged by the nicer rejections, I kept writing more novels, and submitting them, and worked through the depression of rejection after rejection, until I finally got THE CALL a few years later. It wasn't for that second book. Or the third. The first book I sold was actually the sixth complete novel I had written. Persistence paid off.

Still, I knew I had a good story in _A Question of Fire_ , even though it had problems, so I rewrote. Then I rewrote it again. And again. After a couple more rewrites, the book actually sold and was published. Then, after too short a period on the shelves, it went out of print. I recently put it out in an electronic edition. More persistence paying off. In the immortal words of college basketball coach Jim Valvano: "Never give up. Don't ever give up."

Karen McCullough is the author of more than a dozen published novels in the mystery, romantic suspense and fantasy genres and has won numerous awards, including an Eppie Award for fantasy. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies and small press publications in the fantasy, science fiction and romance genres.

An Early Computer

By Velda Brotherton

Written in 2010

What I wasn't doing twenty-five years ago was e-mailing, talking on a cell phone or working on a computer. Not a real one, at any rate. A young writer friend had a computer. . .well, we called it that. It was a Kay Pro that, when all folded up, resembled a portable sewing machine. Open it had a small screen, about eight inches square and no hard drive. One large floppy contained the program, it went in one slot, the other was used to record her work. In addition, she had a Daisy Wheel printer that was slower than I could type. Paper was tractor fed.

My friend lived deeper in the Ozark forest than we did. Her kitchen was outdoors beneath the rest of the house and it had a dirt floor. She had electricity, but no running water. When she was writing, the Kay Pro was spread out on her bed. Every Saturday, we got together to help each other with our "first novels." She'd been to a writer's conference in New York and so was much more sophisticated in the world of writing than I. Though she and her husband had very little money, her family did have it, and they took care of her financial needs when it came to writing.

We, too, had come to Arkansas to get away from the rat race, but we had a modern home. I couldn't afford a computer, though. We were mesmerized by this new technology. I continued to bang away on my small portable typewriter, discarded pages piling up all around me. Then one dark night she ran off, leaving her husband and her computer behind. After a while, when it became obvious she wasn't going to return, he sold it to me. I was in heaven. I guess the Kay Pro made up for the loss of my only writer friend. No one ever heard from her again. If I were a mystery writer, I might have made something of that, considering her strange circumstances, but I never could get the clues planted and the red herring well-placed, so I tend to write in other genres.

I wrote three or four novels on that Kay Pro, using a program called Word Star using MS Dos. There were codes for everything because there was no mouse. For years, I thought any computer with a mouse was nothing but a toy. Learning those codes stands me in good stead today, for they can still be used and come in handy when editing and moving around through a manuscript.

I look back at those days with a certain fondness. No Internet, no Facebook, no online videos to distract us. Yet, I don't know what I'd do without them.

Velda Brotherton writes of romance in the Old West with an authenticity that makes her characters and stories ring true. A knowledge of the rich history of our country shines in both her fiction and nonfiction books. Tough heroines, strong heroes, villains to die for, come alive in her novels.

Choosing My Destiny

By Peggy Ehrhart

Written in 2011

When the call came, my mother-in-law grabbed the first thing she could find to write on: a paper bag. She was babysitting and she handed me the message when I got home from the market.

"The acquisitions editor called," it read in her careful script. "They want your book. Call him." And there was a number.

One of the happiest days of my life—and a huge relief. What if my ten years of work had been for nothing? But no—my first book had found a home. The acquisitions editor who'd called was from the University of Pennsylvania Press.

An odd home for a mystery novel, you might be thinking. But my first published book wasn't a mystery. It wasn't even fiction. It was a weighty tome called _The Judgment of the Trojan Prince Paris in Medieval Literature._

It dealt with the medieval retellings of the Judgment of Paris myth. Paris was the Trojan prince who stole Helen from her Greek husband Menelaus, thus launching the Trojan War. But his claim to Helen stemmed from an earlier episode. The goddesses Aphrodite, Athena and Hera requested that he judge their beauty, awarding a golden apple to the winner. Aphrodite bribed him with the gift of Helen, he gave her the apple, and when he claimed his prize, the angry Greeks attacked Troy. Homer tells the rest of the story in the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_.

That book was an unusual preamble to a career writing mysteries—but maybe not. The Judgment of Paris was so popular in the Middle Ages because it was interpreted as a story in which a young man chooses his destiny. Aphrodite stood for a life devoted to the senses, Athena for a life devoted to the mind and Hera for a life devoted to possessions.

Shortly after my Judgment of Paris book appeared in 1987, I too chose my destiny. Academia was great and I'll never be sorry I spent all those hours in the library. But it wasn't enough. In 1989, I bought an electric guitar and formed a blues and rock band, and shortly after that I started work on my first Maxx Maxwell blues mystery.

Peggy Ehrhart is a former English professor who writes mysteries and plays blues guitar. She is the author of the Maxx Maxwell mystery series, including Sweet Man Is Gone and Got No Friend Anyhow—in print from Five Star/Gale/Cengage and as an ebook. As a guitar player, she performs with the Still Standing Band.

The Tuesdays

By Bonnie Hearn Hill

Written in 2012

Those who can't really shouldn't teach. That's how I felt as I accepted the job that became The Tuesday Night Writers.

The real teacher had dropped out, and the adult school administrator asked me to fill in. I was a newspaper editor, magazine freelancer and author of a novel too flawed to be published. Yet, I felt an emotional tug and finally talked myself into accepting the job.

The first night, I was hit by panic so debilitating that I had to remove my shoes and walk to class barefoot in the rain.

"I always teach barefoot," I told my students. "Now tell me about you."

One man said that he had signed up only because he liked taking classes, and that writing was right after welding in the school catalog. A lie, I later learned, when a magazine bought his travel article in the first eight weeks. But then I was lying too, pretending I had a right to teach these people.

To my surprise, I was good at it. To my greater surprise, helping others—caring about their work—made me a better writer. Soon another student published an essay in a major women's magazine. Poetry followed. Short fiction. Some contest wins. Then, four years later, our group's first book, humorous nonfiction, for which the author, a hospital secretary, received a six-figure advance. The following year, I landed a top agent and a six-book deal for my novels.

By the time I stopped teaching, the group was 100-percent published. We're still in touch, and we have been there for each other through joy, sorrow and numerous book signings.

Lily Tomlin said, "We're all in this alone." We writers are all in this alone—together. Thank you, Tuesdays. You didn't just change my writing. You changed my life.

Bonnie Hearn Hill is the author of six international thrillers with MIRA Books and four young adult novels. With Christopher Allan Poe, she wrote DIGITAL INK: Writing Killer Fiction in the E-Book Age.

Cropdusting the Way to a Series

By R.P. Dahlke

Written in 2012

In 1987, I was a married mom with a day job and a pile of short stories languishing in a desk drawer. Every once in a while, I'd send one out to a magazine. In sour irony, I was told I had to be previously published in order to get a story published. And how was I going to be published without—well, you get my drift. I did, however, get cheerful responses from companies who offered how-to-write courses—for a fee.

So I decided to start a novel. It would be a mystery, because I was weaned on mysteries. It would have a romance in it, because who doesn't like a romance? And everyone said to write what you know, so I looked around my house, peeked in the fridge, pulled out a piece of pie and forgot about it for another day.

The next morning, I awoke with the biting smell of sulphur in my nose, and the thrumbing beat of huge Lycoming engines shuddering against the cool summer morning air.

Cropdusting! I'd completely put that part of my life out of my mind. I was raised on a ranch with a father who ran a cropdusting business in the central valley of California. I also ran it for two seasons, and it was hardest job I've ever had. I mean, what self-respecting macho pilot wants to take direction from a thirty-two year old cupcake? I learned to have two voices; one for my sweet children, and another for the pilots and ground crew.

My days started at three a.m. during the summer months, handing out maps and work orders to the pilots and mixing directions to the ground crew. When the planes were gone and the ground crew had followed in their trucks to the assigned locations, I would take a morning nap on the dusty couch. More often than not, naps were cut short by farmers twitching over the weather forecast, or chemical salesmen looking for "the boss."

By 1987, my son had his ticket as an aero-ag pilot, so here was my very own insider to an industry I was no longer a part of. We spent many happy times gossiping about the industry and he gave me story ideas and characters that would become an integral part of my Dead Red series, featuring a woman cropduster.

R.P. Dahlke writes mysteries with humor and family dynamics taken from her own life experiences. Reviewers call her books "refreshing" and "fun." She writes the Dead Red series, based on her years running her father's cropdusting business, and a romantic sailing series based on her time spent sailing a 47ft Hylas in Mexico.

Chapter Seven: Characters Have Pasts, Too

Have you ever wondered how authors make their story people come alive? It takes a lot of planning to create compelling, well-rounded characters who readers care about. Authors know their protagonists and secondary characters so well that they can even answer a crazy question like, "What was your character doing twenty-five years ago?" All of the essays in this chapter look back twenty-five years into the characters' pasts, providing a fascinating glimpse into what makes them tick in the novels they inhabit today.

Diana's Promise

By Stacy Juba

Written from the perspective of Diana Ferguson, the murder victim from the novel Twenty-Five Years Ago Today, on the last day of her life.

**T** ears filmed Diana Ferguson's eyes as she faced her father's grave. Flurries whirled in the overcast sky, dusting her curtain of dark hair, black wool coat and suede gloves. A thick layer of snow frosted the cemetery grounds, deserted except for her shivering, thin frame.

"I messed up, Daddy," she whispered. "I really messed up."

What would her father say if he knew what she'd done? Did he somehow know, wherever he was?

A sick feeling twisted in the pit of her stomach. Daddy, please don't be disappointed in me.

Diana stared at the engraved words on the granite headstone, _Joseph Ferguson, Devoted Husband and Father,_ until her vision blurred and she had to dab her eyes with her gloved fingertips.

Her father always forgave people for their mistakes. Even the time she'd spilled paint all over the brand new carpet, because she hadn't taken time to spread a drop cloth beneath the easel, he'd forgiven her.

This mistake was so much worse than that. So much worse.

Diana crouched and hugged her knees, needing to feel closer to her father, not caring about the wet snow dampening her jeans and seeping through the socks in her ankle-length boots.

"I'll fix this, Daddy," she murmured. "I promise."

She rested one hand against the gravestone, covering the word 'Father.'

"I promise," she said, louder, her voice stronger.

Diana straightened and brushed snow off her jeans. She glanced at her silver wristwatch. Sigh.

She wanted nothing more than to go home, retreat to her warm bedroom and paint one of her scenes from Greek mythology as she contemplated the best way to handle this nightmare.

But, they were expecting her at work. She'd go to the bar, and then. . . .

And then she'd end this. Once and for all.

"I wish I could give you a hug, Daddy," Diana said, a lump swelling in her throat.

With one last look back at her father's grave, she turned and trudged out of the cemetery.

Stacy Juba, the editor of 25 Years in the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back and an award-winning journalist, has authored books for adults, teens and children. She has written about high school hockey players, reality TV contestants targeted by a killer, teen psychics who control minds, teddy bears learning to raise the U.S. flag and lots more.

The Sandbox

By Darcia Helle

_Written from the point of view of Nick Donovan from Darcia's novel Miami Snow_.

Twenty-five years ago today, I was sitting in my backyard sandbox with Sara from next door. She was a year older and far more worldly than I. She had these long blonde ringlets that fascinated me. I'd yank them down and they'd spring right back up, sort of like the Slinky toys we played with.

Back then, I didn't know much about the difference between boys and girls. She didn't like to play with my Army men and I thought her Barbie dolls were stupid. But we both loved the sandbox. We'd spend hours together, building castles and roads for the Matchbox cars. I had no doubt that we would grow up and get married, because that's what boys and girls did.

One day, we kissed in that sandbox. She giggled and ran home. The next day, she decided to play with Jason, the eight-year-old down the street. I kept waiting for her in the sandbox, but she never came. The following week, I saw her riding bikes with Jason up and down the sidewalk. She'd gotten rid of her training wheels and was keeping up with him as they pedaled faster than lightning.

That was the moment I realized that I'd lost Sara to Jason. Bored with the sandbox, she'd traded up for the guy with the bike. If I'd paid better attention to that lesson, my adult years might have been spared a lot of grief.

Darcia Helle lives in a fictional world with a husband who is real. Their house is ruled by spoiled dogs, cats and the occasional dust bunny. Suspense, random blood splatter and mismatched socks consume Darcia's days. She writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative.

An Empty Nest

By Suzanne Young

Written from the perspective of Suzanne's protagonist, Edna Davies,

from her "Murder by . . ." series, including Murder by Yew, Murder by Proxy and Murder by Mishap.

Twenty-five years ago today, I was forty-three years old. I had been feeling melancholy all day which is unusual for me. I needed desperately to talk to my husband Albert. He always knows just the right thing to say to cheer me up, but this particular evening, he had called from the hospital to say one of his patients had gone into labor and he had a feeling it would be a very long night.

I tried reading, but nothing held my attention, so I finally had to acknowledge the reason for my funky state of mind—early onset Empty-Nest Syndrome. My oldest child, Matthew, had graduated from high school in May and Diane's thirteenth birthday was next week. Grant and Starling, my youngest, were only six and five, respectively, but they were growing up so fast, my head was spinning. My firstborn was leaving home for college in four days. Where had the time gone?

It was close to midnight when I finally went to bed. Unable to sleep, I picked up a book and began to read. The next thing I knew, Albert was gently pulling the book from my hands.

As he reached across me to turn off the bedside light he said, "We delivered twins tonight, Mother." Thinking how nice it was that all my children were out of the diaper stage, I immediately felt better.

Born and raised in New England, Suzanne Young has worked as a writer, an editor and a computer programmer/analyst since earning her degree in English from the University of Rhode Island. A long-time resident of Colorado, she retired from software development in 2010 to write fiction full time.

Misfortune's Daughter

By Mary Deal

Written from the perspective of Mary's character, Abigail (Abi) Fisher from her thriller Down to the Needle.

In the mid-1980s, my daughter Becky Ann was three-years-old and loved crayons. She could draw! So young and she was able to match colors, too. She stayed inside the lines of a picture, even chose which picture to color and passed on others. It was difficult keeping her in crayons and coloring books. Then one day I noticed her drawing household objects with regular lead pencils.

My husband, Preston, had been going through some serious personal problems. He wanted a boy. I kept telling him we could have another child. He would have his boy.

Against my husband's wishes, I took Becky Ann to a child psychologist. She told me that it seemed my daughter was gifted! I was both ecstatic and humbled at the same time. We set up a battery of tests. Preston wasn't impressed. He said if he had his boy, he'd train him to work. I can't pinpoint when Preston began to change. Mom always said he would turn me into misfortune's daughter.

Becky was abducted only two years later, after we confirmed she was truly gifted. I never got to see her grow up and watch her creative abilities develop; never got to hear her say, "I love you, Mommy."

Becky's abductor kept her in hiding and changed her face so I couldn't find her. A result of the life she was forced to live, she languished nine years on death row facing lethal injection for a crime she claimed she didn't do.

Mary Deal is an award-winning author of six thrillers, a short story collection and a writers' reference. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, associate and contributing editor of a magazine and a newspaper columnist. She is from California's Sacramento River Delta, has lived abroad and now resides in Hawaii.

The White Widow

By Norma Huss

An interview between author Norma Huss and Jo Durbin, the main character from Yesterday's Body.

"I received my first check from something I'd written," Jo said. "It came from 'the trues,' those magazines with stories like, 'I married my own grandfather.' A happy day, but eventually I ended up on the street where you first met me."

"How so?" I asked.

"All too simple. I rewrote a gruesome news story about a woman who got away with murder. The story came out as, 'How the White Widow Killed Her Husband.' All in first person, of course, with a byline of _The Widow, Mrs. White_ , writing from an undisclosed location. Then three years ago a former mail clerk published a 'tell-all' book, naming names. One of the chapters was, 'Jo Durbin, the White Widow killer hiding in plain sight.' The trial lasted eighteen months, all writers included were completely exonerated, but I still see the damn book in libraries."

"So how, exactly, did you end up on the street?"

"Lord love a duck! Try telling a bunch of bankers that they could trust me with their financial secrets after they found out about my previous short-term career. I had the degrees—journalism and business. I had the experience—twenty years in their employ. Didn't change one mind. Which is why I decided to write my own tell-all book, my life on the street as a bag lady. You should know the rest—you wrote it."

Norma Huss calls herself the Grandma Moses of Mystery. Yesterday's Body is the first of the Jo Durbin Mysteries. The first of the Cyd Denlinger Mysteries is Death of a Hot Chick. Her non-fiction title, A Knucklehead in 1920s Alaska, retells her father's teenage adventures.

The Policeman

By Vicki Delany

Written from the perspective of Vicki's character Eliza Winters, wife of Sergeant John Winters of the Trafalgar City Police, in the book Negative Image.

Twenty-five years ago, I went to a fashion industry party with my fiancé, the photographer Rudolph Steiner. As usual, there'd been lots of booze and lots of cocaine.

I had a meeting with my agent that afternoon. She told me I needed to be friendlier to the executive at the advertising agency. I didn't want to be friendly to any of them anymore, and I didn't want to keep taking the drugs that made it easier.

I had a fight with Rudy and went home. I found the lock on the front door smashed and called the police. The officer they sent was named John Winters. I showed him around the apartment, knowing he'd be impressed by the furniture, the art, the view. My ass. I turned to see that his head was down as he wrote in his notebook.

"Did you get all that?" I said.

"I think so." He finished writing and only then looked at me. "You should call an emergency locksmith, ma'am. I'll wait until someone comes, if you like."

I loved him, the handsome, passionate, dedicated, sexy policeman, who pushed all my erotic buttons and taught me that sex could be something more than the most boring part of a job interview. I loved him so much I stopped screwing for work. And, to my surprise, I kept getting work. I'd pretty much forgotten about that part of my life.

Today Rudy Steiner came to town.

Vicki Delany is one of Canada's most prolific and varied crime writers. Her work includes standalone novels of suspense, the Smith & Winters police procedural series set in the British Columbia Interior and the light-hearted Klondike Gold Rush Series. Vicki lives in Prince Edward County, Ontario.

Miranda's History

By Leslie Wheeler

Written from the perspective of Miranda Lewis, the protagonist of Leslie's living history mystery series.

Twenty-five years ago today, I thought I was happy. Not deliriously happy, but that was okay. I was glad to be off the emotional roller coaster I'd been on my first years of college when I had a stormy affair with a campus radical, who dumped me for another woman when I wouldn't drop out of school and devote myself to the revolution and him.

I rebounded straight into the arms of a man I'd known since grade school. Our parents were friends, and we lived in the same Southern California neighborhood. Simon was like an old shoe: familiar, comfortable, safe.

We married after graduation and moved to the East Coast, where Simon became an assistant professor at Harvard. He pursued our shared love of American history through teaching and publishing scholarly articles, while I did so by writing history textbooks for children. I lived vicariously through my work, and for a long time that was enough for me.

Little did I dream that twenty-five years later, the real world would catch up with me, and I'd get sucked into solving a series of murders. Or that, after my safe but passionless marriage ended, I'd plunge into another tempestuous love affair with a former activist and Native American, who couldn't be more different than me.

_An award-winning author of books about American history and biographies,_ _Leslie Wheeler now writes mystery and suspense novels and short stories. Her novels include Murder at Plimoth Plantation, Murder at Gettysburg and Murder at Spouters Point. Leslie also serves as a co-editor/co-publisher at Level Best Books, which publishes an anthology of crime stories by New England authors every November._

Meeting Sam Fullerton

By Ellis Vidler

Here is an interview between author Ellis Vidler and the police officer from The Peeper, Sam Fullerton, set twenty-five years ago....

February 1986. Ronald Reagan is president, Woody Allen's _Hannah and Her Sisters_ has just been released and Regina is capturing hearts with _Baby Love_. Halley's Comet is streaking across the sky like an omen. I hope it means good things are coming. I'm immersed in my first creative writing course since college. And a character named Sam Fullerton is taking shape in my head.

**EV** : _So you're a free agent, fresh out of the Marine Corps. What are your plans, Sam?_

**SF** : I don't know yet. I'm thinking about becoming a cop.

**EV** : _Why? I've read that law enforcement consists of long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Does that appeal to you?_

**SF** : No, ma'am, but I believe in the rule of law and defending people. Old fashioned maybe, but that's the way I see it. Someone has to stand up for the victims.

**EV** (closing eyes, hand to forehead): _Oh, dear. I see another knight in shining armor._

**SF** : What? Are you some kind of fortune teller?

**EV** (eyes still closed): _Uh-oh. The armor begins to tarnish, dark thoughts bend the knight. It is he who needs saving. . . ._

**SF** : Ma'am, are you all right?

**EV** : _Yes, don't worry. I have these moments when the future opens to me. Open yourself to people who care. Twenty-five years from now, you're going to need them._

Author and editor Ellis Vidler writes suspense with romance and makes occasional detours into Southern short stories. Her novels are available in ebook and print. Ellis lives in the beautiful Piedmont area of South Carolina.

The Gas Chamber

By Douglas Corleone

Written from the perspective of Doug's character Jake Harper from the book Night on Fire.

Twenty-five years ago today? Let's see. I was a young buck of forty-two. In my prime, if you could call it that. I was working as an attorney in Houston, Texas. Defending capital murder cases, which in Harris County meant holding clients' hands on their way to the gas chamber. Now they use lethal injection—more humane, or so they say.

Nowadays, prosecutors stand around the courthouse hallways, joking about the next inductees into the 'Silver Needle Society.' But back in 1986, my clients were getting the gas. Looking at my calendar, I see that I was indeed attending the execution of one of my clients twenty-five years ago today. A Mr. Samuel Lane.

I remember it now clear as day, poor ol' Sammy being strapped into that chair in an airtight room. Sitting there, twitching, as sixteen one-ounce pellets of cyanide were dropped in a pan of sulfuric acid at his feet.

Sammy thrashed a bit, his face turned purple. Took a good ten minutes for him to die.

I don't remember the facts of his case, of course. Don't remember the facts of many of my cases from back then. But I remember my clients. I remember them living and I remember them dying.

In those days, I used to have to drink myself to sleep at night. Still do, most nights.

_Douglas Corleone is the author of mystery and thriller novels including One Man's Paradise, which was nominated for the 2010 Shamus Award for Best First Novel and was the winner of the 2009 Minotaur Books / Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel Award_.

Storm Shadow Eyes

By Caitlyn Hunter

Written from the perspective of Marcus Tassel, a character from the book Storm Shadows.

Twenty-five years ago, she appeared in my visions for the second time. She'd materialized once before, but when she showed up again, I knew she would play a vital role in my destiny. Over the years, she would appear many more times. I never saw her face clearly and when I finally met her in real life, she was something of a surprise.

More than likely, I would've turned away from her if I hadn't recognized her eyes. I couldn't deny those eyes. Storm shadow gray, they burned in my memory, lit with happiness, ablaze with anger, or shadowed with despair, yet always glowing with the fire of her love for me.

Not only would she help break a curse I'd lived under for countless years, she'd go up against her greatest fear to protect me, and when I still turned away from her, she'd wage a fierce battle to show me what the Shamans meant when they spoke of "deepest love" in the curse. Most important of all, she would prove to me that even I, an immortal shape-shifter, could find eternal happiness.

Caitlyn Hunter is the author of four paranormal romances based on Cherokee legends. She's also written several contemporary short stories and novellas. Her latest book, Whistling Woman, is a fact-based historical fiction she co-wrote with her sister Christy Tillery French, under the pseudonym CC Tillery.

Chapter Eight: Further Back in Time

In this special bonus chapter, you can journey even further back in time than twenty-five years. Delve back in time fifty, seventy-five and a hundred years, read a strange but true ghost story and learn about a childhood social anxiety disorder that can still have effects in adulthood.

A Long Look Back

By Norma Huss

Written in 2010

Norma Huss did some research in her local Lancaster, PA newspapers and discovered these colorful tidbits.

**Fifty years ago** , in December 1960, the United States was building fallout shelters to protect their families from atomic disaster. On December 6th, one was dedicated in down-town Lancaster, PA. The shelter was designed to protect one family of six for two weeks. The 10 by 10 by 7 (the height) structure had eight-inch-thick masonry walls and was stocked with bunk beds, canned food, stove, radio, flashlight and games. (I do hope they included water, although that wasn't mentioned.)

Also that December, three days later, a truck loaded with Christmas trees missed a curve and plunged into the Susquehanna River. (The driver made it out of the submerged cab and survived.) In another three days, a surprise storm dumped twelve inches of snow that must have stayed around a while as the temperature dropped to 10 degrees.

**Seventy-five years ago** , residents of a nearby town were startled when four goats broke through a fence and raced through the streets. Residents scurried to the safety of their porches while the guests at the General Sutter Hotel wondered if wild mountain goats were common in the area. In other news that day, the Lancaster Liederkranz mourned the loss of Gaboot, a twenty-man beer stein known as the mightiest mug ever to cross the club's bar. A man lifted it to refresh the orchestra members, and kapow! The Gaboot fell to the floor and broke into pieces.

**One hundred years ago** , on December 6, 1910, eight inches of snow fell on Lancaster. Never fear...large snowplows and gangs of shovelers helped keep all the trolley lines operating. They must have done a good job because the next day, 450 children lined up for free shoes given by two local stores as a result of a fund-raising venture. However, there were only 150 pairs available, so a second benefit was scheduled for the 300 children turned away.

Oh yes, there was another incident two days later of extreme family discord. Residents in a tenement over Woolworth's store heard a woman screaming at her husband. After she'd turned the air blue, she pulled a stocky horsewhip from her dress and lashed him as he ran down the stairs and out into the street. (Hmmm. Never happen now. No horsewhip, no place to hide it in skin-tight jeans, and...that building is gone.)

Norma Huss calls herself the Grandma Moses of Mystery. Yesterday's Body is the first of the Jo Durbin Mysteries. The first of the Cyd Denlinger Mysteries is Death of a Hot Chick. Her non-fiction title, A Knucklehead in 1920s Alaska, retells her father's teenage adventures.

The Ghost of Mr. Stetson

By Darcia Helle

Written in 2011

Max Paddington, the main character in my novel _Into The Light_ , is a ghost. He refuses to cross over until he finds out who murdered him. Unfortunately for Max, he is somewhat ineffectual as a ghost. He's clumsy, can't figure out how to navigate the world in his spirit form, and only one person hears him. The journey is an odd one for Max and his unlikely partner, private detective Joe Cavelli.

Max's stubborn attachment goes a lot deeper than finding his killer. Of course, this is fiction—or maybe it's not. Can our spirits linger here in this world because of what we perceive as unfinished business? Can we haunt people? Help people?

Based on my own experiences, I'd have to say yes to those questions. I know, you now think I'm crazy. But hear me out. I grew up in a haunted house. What might sound even stranger is that I never found it odd to be living with a ghost. Our house was an old New England tenement. My mother, my brother and I lived on the first floor. My grandparents lived above us. The third floor was a full-sized attic. Two of the rooms were completely finished, with heat, wallpaper, nice windows, closets, etc. The central area of the attic had windows, a floor and heat, but the walls and ceiling remained open, unfinished. The house was the first built on the street named for its builder. The owner lived and died in that house.

While our ghost was a living person, he became quite ill. He eventually moved into the attic space, into one of the finished rooms. His nurse lived in the other finished room. We assume he did this in order to rent out the two floors below for income. He died up there, in one of those rooms. His body was removed but his spirit never left. Our ghost wasn't mean or, for me, scary. Not everyone in my family agreed on that last point. Our ghost was definitely mischievous. And this I loved about him.

My street was called Stetson Street and I called our ghost Mr. Stetson. He would often play practical jokes, move things around and occasionally something he didn't like—or maybe he liked a lot—disappeared. When I was very young, my mother had three plaques hanging on our kitchen wall: Hope, Charity and Faith. One day, one of those plaques disappeared. No trace of it was ever found. I don't remember which one, though I wish I did. That word must have been significant to Mr. Stetson.

My grandfather did carpentry work and always wore work boots. At night, he'd put his shoes on the base of the attic stairs. He'd get up in the morning to find them laced upside down and tied in a nice bow near the toe of the boot. Mr. Stetson enjoyed his pranks. At about the age of twelve, I began spending much of my time in the attic. My brother had one of the finished rooms, I had the other. We moved our stereos up there, arranged the rooms with old furniture and hung our music posters on the walls. I remember one day I was in the middle of hanging my posters and I ran out of tape. I ran downstairs for more. When I came back, one of my posters was upside down. Another was missing. I said, "Mr. Stetson, you don't like The Who? That's okay. I'll hang a different poster instead."

As I mentioned, I liked Mr. Stetson. I spoke to him all the time. My brother, however, wasn't as enamored with Mr. Stetson's presence.

One day, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I was in my grandmother's kitchen with her, baking donuts. My brother, who is two years older, came charging down the attic stairs. His face was pale, his eyes wide. He raced past us and downstairs into our apartment. He refused to talk about what he'd seen or heard. To this day, I don't know what happened up there. But my brother never returned to the attic.

I was not in the least bit deterred by my brother's fright. In fact, I was thrilled to have the attic to myself. One room became my second bedroom. The other room was my hangout, where I kept my stereo, my books and my notebooks for writing. I spent nearly every weekend up there, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone. I always felt Mr. Stetson's presence. Each day, I'd greet him with a hello or good morning. He'd occasionally remove a poster I'd hung or rearrange them to suit his mood. Little things would disappear or move from one room to the other. But he never scared me or my friends.

My mother remarried when I was fifteen. We moved to a new home of our own. My grandparents sold the house and moved down to Cape Cod. I was sad to leave Mr. Stetson. I often wonder what held him to our physical world, to that house. Was he that attached to his home or did something else hold him there? I hope that he was happy in his spirit state and that he was able to find whatever he was looking for.

On a side note, I found it interesting that, after we left, Mr. Stetson's house was never kept by one owner for very long. Every two or three years, I'd notice it up for sale once again. About twenty years passed before one owner seemed to settle in. Either Mr. Stetson finally approved or he'd moved on to his new spirit home.

Darcia Helle lives in a fictional world with a husband who is real. Their house is ruled by spoiled dogs, cats and the occasional dust bunny. Suspense, random blood splatter and mismatched socks consume Darcia's days. She writes because the characters trespassing through her mind leave her no alternative.

Finding My Voice

By Stacy Juba

Written in 2011

Recently, I spoke on an author panel during a crime writers conference and had a terrifying moment where my past confronted my present. As I was sitting up there at the table alongside the other authors, waiting for the moderator to introduce me, a momentary feeling of panic seized me.

What if my throat muscles froze and my voice wouldn't come out? It's a feeling I haven't had in awhile, but that was all too familiar.

When I was growing up, I was considered painfully "shy," though I strongly dislike that word as it implies meekness. I would talk freely at home with my parents or with my friends, but when in social settings such as school, parties or gatherings with extended family, I froze. As much as I wanted to speak, the words literally would not come out. If I needed help at school, I'd whisper to one of my friends, and he or she would tell the teacher for me.

Classmates would say hi to me at the grocery store, and even though I wanted to respond, I couldn't. My throat muscles just would not work, and too late, I'd raise my hand in a wave. I feared that the other kids considered me a snob or standoffish and they probably did, but I didn't know what I could do about it.

Recently, I learned that there is a name for this experience and that it's called Selective Mutism, which is defined as a disorder of childhood characterized by an inability to speak in certain settings, such as at school and in public places, despite speaking in other settings (for example, at home with family.) It's estimated that 1 in 1,000 children referred for mental health treatment has Selective Mutism; although several researchers have suggested that the true prevalence of SM in the general population is largely underestimated. There are even organizations that provide guidance and support with this disorder, including The Selective Mutism Group-Childhood Anxiety Network and the Selective Mutism Network.

When I was growing up though, my family and I had to deal with this issue on our own for the most part. My elementary school was concerned about my lack of speaking at first, until the psychologist observed me at my house and witnessed me talking and playing like any other child. I even said to my parents, "Why won't that man go home?" I was sent to summer school before kindergarten and was pulled out of class for a year to work with other kids in a small group, but after that, the school system said that my problem wasn't serious enough to warrant special services.

Although I was still considered "shy," I managed to get by in social settings, except for when I needed to do oral reports before the class, and then I'd agonize over it. My freshman year in college, I was forced to take a speech class and give three presentations. I'd worry myself sick the night before, and as I waited for my turn, my heart would pound, I'd sweat, and this clammy feeling would grip me.

After graduating, I became a newspaper reporter of all things, and needed to be aggressive, interview people and ask tough questions. Since I usually interviewed people one-on-one or in a small group, I was able to do this—and do it well. Initially, I dreaded approaching strangers for comments at town parades, municipal meetings and other events, but I got more used to it over time. Although I preferred feature stories, I did my share of hard news and investigative pieces as I wanted those bylines.

I came out of my shell for my job, but I was still introverted in social situations. You would never find me being the center of attention. I preferred drawing people's attention on paper—through my newspaper byline. Writing was just the way I communicated best. Deep down, though, I knew that what I really wanted was my name on book covers.

When I finally launched my book-publishing career, boy, did it come as a surprise when I learned that public speaking often goes hand-in-hand with being an author! I found myself speaking at libraries, bookstores, to book clubs and on conference panels. I discovered five things:

1. That even though I was nervous, my physical reactions were much less extreme than during my college speech class, perhaps because I loved talking about books and writing.

2. That I preferred panels or speaking with at least one author to being up there alone. I did well when speaking alone...it just made me more nervous.

3. That I was far more uneasy speaking before friends and relatives than to a room full of strangers.

4. That once the panel got going, I'd have fun and sometimes even be sorry when it was over.

5. That microphones were my best friend, as I didn't have to worry about projecting my voice, and that having notes made me more confident. Not that I would read the notes verbatim, but glancing down at them was reassuring.

During the above presentation at the crime writers conference, I was a little more anxious than usual because I knew several writers in the audience and it was also a large crowd. I was relieved when my voice worked after all, and I felt myself relax. At one point, a movement out of the corner of my eye distracted me and I stumbled over my words when trying to wrap up my comments. I haven't done that in awhile, and it threw me for a moment. I hate tripping over my words, though my always supportive husband assured me afterwards that this can make the speaker less intimidating and more likable to the audience.

I wish the presentation had gone perfectly, but I guess I've come a long way since those childhood days of my voice freezing up. I suspect there will be more presentations in my future, since I'm in the book business for the long haul. Now and then, I might get that irrational fear—what if my voice freezes? But, I've learned that even though there is a small piece of that girl with Selective Mutism still inside me, with every book that I write and publish, the author part of me becomes more confident and is now dominating my personality.

I might worry that my voice will freeze, but rationally, I know it won't. Not anymore. I've learned one important thing about myself since that psychologist came to my house and observed me when I was five—I'm a writer and I have something to say.

_Stacy Juba, the editor of 25 Years in the Rearview Mirror: 52 Authors Look Back and an award-winning journalist, has authored books for adults, teens and children. She has written about high school hockey players, reality TV contestants targeted by a killer, teen psychics who control minds, teddy bears learning to raise the U.S. flag and lots more_.

Appendix: Website Links

We hope you've enjoyed this collection! All of the authors who participated in this project would love to hear from readers via e-mail and social networks such as Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads. **You'll find their website links below**. You'll also find them on this web site:  http://stacyjuba.com/blog/25-years-in-the-rearview-mirror-52-authors-look-back/

We would also welcome you to join the **25 Years in the Rearview Mirror Reader Group** on Yahoo at <http://groups.yahoo.com/group/25YearsRearviewMirror/> where you can browse the Authors' Corner for downloadable freebies such as book excerpts, short stories, articles, social networking links, and book blurbs from the Rearview Mirror authors. This is not a discussion group and you won't receive emails, but you need to click the Join Group button in order for Yahoo to allow you access to the free materials in our Authors' Corner. We hope you'll stop by.

Foreword

Elaine Raco Chase: http://elaineracochase.com

**Chapter One** : **School Days**

Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com

Maria Savva: http://www.mariasavva.com

Susan Helene Gottfried: http://westofmars.com

Matthew Dicks: http://matthewdicks.com

A.W. Hartoin: <https://twitter.com/AWHartoin>

Alina Adams: http://www.AlinaAdamsMedia.com

CJ Lyons: http://www.cjlyons.net

Sharon Love Cook: http://www.sharonlovecook.com

Chapter Two: The Jobs That Shape Us

Laura DiSilverio: http://www.lauradisilverio.com

Gwen Mayo: http://www.gwenmayo.com

Ann Littlewood: http://zoomysteries.com

Loni Emmert: http://thewordmistresses.com

Stephen D. Rogers: http://www.StephenDRogers.com

Monica M. Brinkman: http://theturnofthekarmicwheel.blogspot.com

Kenneth Weene: http://www.authorkenweene.com

Carole Shmurak: http://www.carole-books.com

Sarah E. Glenn: http://www.sarahglenn.com

Mike Bove: <http://www.mikebove.net/index.html>

Chapter Three: Remembering the Romance

Steve Liskow: http://www.steveliskow.com

Mike Angley: http://www.mikeangley.com

Cara Lopez Lee: http://www.CaraLopezLee.com

Lillian Brummet: http://www.brummet.ca

Chapter Four: The Ups and Downs of Family Life

Mary Anna Evans:http://www.maryannaevans.com

Tracy Krauss: http://www.tracykrauss.com

Barbara Ross: http://www.barbaraannross.com

J. R. Lindermuth: http://jrlindermuth.com

Donna Fletcher Crow: http://www.DonnaFletcherCrow.com

Deanna Jewel: http://deannajewel.com

Maryann Miller: http://www.maryannwrites.com

Chapter Five: Hard Times

Michele Drier: http://www.micheledrier.com

Beth Kanell: http://bethkanell.blogspot.com

Cherish D'Angelo (Cheryl Kaye Tardif): http://www.cherylktardif.com

Jaleta Clegg: http://www.jaletac.com

Red Tash: http://RedTash.com

Chapter Six: The Writing Journey

Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com

Patricia Gulley: http://www.patgulley.com

J.E. Seymour: http://jeseymour.com

Marja McGraw: http://www.marjamcgraw.com

Karen McCullough: http://www.kmccullough.com

Velda Brotherton: http://www.veldabrotherton.com

Peggy Ehrhart: http://www.PeggyEhrhart.com

Bonnie Hearn Hill: http://www.digitalinkbooks.com

R.P. Dahlke: http://rpdahlke.com

Chapter Seven: Characters Have Pasts, Too

Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com

Darcia Helle: http://www.QuietFuryBooks.com

Suzanne Young: http://www.SuzanneYoungBooks.com

Mary Deal: http://www.writeanygenre.com

Norma Huss: http://www.normahuss.com

Vicki Delany: http://www.vickidelany.com

Leslie Wheeler: http://www.lesliewheeler.com.

Ellis Vidler: http://www.ellisvidler.com

Douglas Corleone: http://www.douglascorleone.com

Caitlyn Hunter: http://caitlynhunter.com

Chapter Eight: Further Back in Time

Norma Huss: http://www.normahuss.com

Darcia Helle: http://www.QuietFuryBooks.com

Stacy Juba: http://www.stacyjuba.com

Below is an excerpt from the mystery and romantic suspense novel

Twenty-Five Years Ago Today, the book that inspired this anthology.

Twenty-Five Years Ago Today Excerpt

**by Stacy Juba**

For twenty-five years, Diana Ferguson's killer has gotten away with murder. When rookie obit writer and newsroom editorial assistant Kris Langley investigates the cold case of the artistic young cocktail waitress who was obsessed with Greek and Roman mythology, not only does she fall in love with Diana's sexy nephew, but she must also fight to stay off the obituary page herself.

Kris Langley stared at the bright newsprint lit up on the microfilm reader. The top headline leaped off page one. "Missing Barmaid Murdered." She squinted over the story of Diana Ferguson, a young woman found bludgeoned to death in the woods. In little over a week, it would be the twenty-fifth anniversary. A quarter of a century ago, Diana must've dressed and driven out as always. An evening like any other. By the end of the night, she was dead, her life extinguished like the other victims on fate's hit list.

Most people had forgotten Diana by now. In the black and white yearbook photograph, she didn't smile. Straight dark hair curtained her serious oval face. Diana had her arms crossed on a table, slender fingers too delicate to protect her from a killer.

Kris flipped to a blank page in her notebook, scribbled "Diana Ferguson" and stopped writing. Resurrecting the tragedy in her "25 and 50 Years Ago Today" column would catch readers' attention, but it seemed inappropriate.

She jumped as Dex Wagner, the seventy-year-old editor-in-chief of the Fremont Daily News, slapped a rolled-up newspaper against someone's desk. "Jacqueline, why the hell didn't we have this theater group feature? The Fremont Community Players are in our own backyard."

Suppressing a grin, Kris swung around in her seat. She could use a distraction right about now. Dex waved the competition paper in the air, red circles and slashes marking half the page. In her three weeks as editorial assistant, Kris had enjoyed Dex's tantrums. So far, none had been directed at her.

Managing Editor Jacqueline McCormack tossed back her blonde ponytail, gathered in a tan fabric scrunchie. She owned a world class selection of ponytail holders that complemented her designer wardrobe. Kris couldn't help thinking of her as a thirty-five-year-old cheerleader. Corporate Barbie.

"We ran a story last week in our entertainment section," Jacqueline said. "They got the idea from us. Gosh, Dex, are you trying to blind me with that underlining?"

Dex paced to the oak bookshelves and back to Jacqueline's neat desk. His stomach bulged under a rumpled gray suit and his wrists hung out of jacket sleeves a couple inches too short. "I think we missed it."

"Trust me," Jacqueline said. "I put a headline on it myself. You do read beyond the front, don't you, Dex?"

Grumbling under his breath, Dex opened The Greater Remington Mirror, a large daily that covered the ten towns in their readership area and more. Kris saw another column ballooned in red marker.

He pressed his index finger against the lead paragraph, his penguin-patterned tie flapping as he stooped forward. "What about the stabbing of that Miles kid? We should be talking to his family and we haven't even contacted them. For Christ's sake, do I have to keep track of everything?"

"Relax, I'm working on that," Bruce Patrick, the police and court reporter, said from the doorway. He swaggered over and hopped onto the edge of Jacqueline's desk.

"I just got off the phone," he said. "The parents are basket cases, but the siblings said I could come by tonight. And it's an exclusive."

A 19-year-old college student had murdered his classmate, Scott Miles, in a fight that went too far. Kris had edited the obit, stomach queasy as she cut "beloved son and brother" out of the text. Dex insisted such phrases only belonged in paid death notices.

Unlike the Diana Ferguson case, there was no mystery to this homicide. Many young people had witnessed the brawl, which started over a girl. It had lingered in her memory, though, a teenage boy who went to a party and left dead in an ambulance. Another individual singled out by fate, never suspecting he had no future. He picked the wrong girl. For that, he died.

Kris shuddered despite the heat in the newsroom. The family members must feel like their world had spun out of control. She remembered the grieving process well: walking around as if in warm Jell-O, arms and legs heavy, head difficult to hold up, and crying until numbness froze the tears. Forgetting had disturbed her the most, slipping away into the calm relief of sleep, then jolting awake in cold horror.

Jacqueline's ponytail bounced in glee. "They'll talk?" She turned to Bruce. "Terrific. Have you assigned a photographer?"

Bruce rested his notebook on his thigh. "You bet. I didn't mention the photos, but once we're there, I'm sure they'll go along with it."

"Get two or three color shots for the front," Jacqueline said, a lilt in her voice.

Kris abandoned her quiet corner of the newsroom and strode over to the group. Bruce and Jacqueline had never suffered tragedy in their lives, or they wouldn't act so blasé.

No one noticed Kris's presence. She spoke quickly, before she lost her nerve. "I know you want a good story, but have a little sympathy. Sending a photographer unannounced would be taking advantage of these poor people."

Her co-workers regarded her with blank expressions.

"Why?" Bruce asked. "The kids are of age. It's not like we're exploiting pre-schoolers."

"If they're inviting a reporter into their home, they should realize we intend to play up the story," Jacqueline said.

"They'll be emotional," Kris said. "A photographer will make them feel worse. The least you could do is prepare them."

Jacqueline folded her arms, covering a horizontal row of gold buttons on her biscuit-colored blazer. "I'm sure they expect it, but Bruce was smart in setting it up this way. If they have doubts, they'll be more likely to say yes once our staff has had a chance to develop a rapport. If the pictures bother them, the family can always decline."

"They'll feel pressured," Kris said. "They have enough to deal with right now. You've got your exclusive. Why can't you just run photos of the boy who died?"

"Kris, this is our job, not yours." Coldness had replaced Jacqueline's lilt. "This paper tells it like it is. If you can't accept that, then maybe you shouldn't work in a newsroom."

"Maybe you should treat your sources like human beings."

"Why don't you stay out of things that don't concern you? As I recall, you have no news experience. I'm not even sure why you were hired in the first place." Jacqueline glared at Dex.

They all knew the answer to that. The previous editorial assistant had quit on Jacqueline's vacation. Dex grew impatient and placed a classified ad. Kris admitted she preferred the dreaded four-to-midnight shift, and he hired her on the spot. His judgment wasn't good enough for Jacqueline, who had reminded him of the three-month probation for all employees.

Dex's shaggy salt and pepper eyebrows curled downward. "Kris does fine. She's bright and talented. Give her a chance to learn." He glowered at Bruce. "Next time you're working on a hot story, check with me."

He stalked to his desk, leaving the others gaping after him. Her neck and shoulder muscles tense, Kris released a deep breath. She needed this job. Like it or not, she was stuck working with Barbie. "Sorry if I offended you, Jacqueline. I just wanted to give you another perspective."

Jacqueline ignored her and gestured to Bruce. "Come on, let's discuss tomorrow's budget."

He snapped to attention and followed her into the conference room. Jacqueline carried herself with the posture of a model, her back straight and an upward tilt to her chin. Jacqueline and her budget. Kris had once asked Dex if the paper was in okay shape, money-wise. She'd assumed Jacqueline was obsessed with the editorial department's finances. Dex just laughed and said, "That's news lingo for story line-up."

As others in the newsroom headed out, Kris drifted back to the microfilm machine and her research. Her editors demanded eight historical facts per issue. Dex told her to play up light local fluff as people liked seeing their names in print, while Jacqueline said to emphasize hard news. Kris found herself trying to please them both.

At first, she had enjoyed exploring the older editions. Fifty years ago, chunky blocks of type took up the front page. Most articles came over the wire and staff-written pieces had no bylines. Dex had explained how reporters worked for "the paper" in those days, not for the recognition. But now if Kris spent too much time on the machine, the scrolling of the film gave her motion sickness. The focus lever didn't work right, so she'd press her finger over the tape, holding it in place.

Frowning, Kris stared at the bold black headline splashed above the subhead "Body Found In Fremont State Woods." For the second time, she skimmed the article about Diana Ferguson.

**More Books From Stacy Juba** :

_Sink or Swim_ \- How do you change the channel when reality TV turns to murder? After starring on a hit game show set aboard a Tall Ship, personal trainer Cassidy Novak discovers that she has attracted a stalker. Can she trust Zach Gallagher, the gorgeous newspaper photographer assigned to follow her for a local series? As things heat up with the stalker and with Zach, soon Cassidy will need to call SOS for real. Adult mystery/romantic suspense.

_Young Ladies of Mystery Boxed Set_ \- Features Stacy's adult mystery/romantic suspense novels _Twenty-Five Years Ago Today_ and _Sink or Swim_ , and her young adult psychic thriller _Dark Before Dawn,_ in one bargain-priced download. Solve a cold case with aspiring reporter Kris Langley; discover the downside of fame with former reality show contestant Cassidy Novak; and meet teenage psychic Dawn Christian, who discovers that ESP spells D-A-N-G-E-R.

_Dark Before Dawn_ -When teen psychic Dawn Christian gets involved with a fortuneteller mentor and two girls who share her mysterious talents, she finally belongs after years of being a misfit. When she learns her new friends may be tied to freak "accidents" in town, Dawn has an important choice to make—continue developing the talent that makes her special or challenge the only people who have ever accepted her. Appropriate for adults or young adults.

_Face-Off_ \- Brad's twin brother T.J. has gotten himself out of the fancy prep school his father picked for him and into the public high school Brad attends. Now T.J. is a shining new star on the hockey team where Brad once held the spotlight. And he's testing his popularity with Brad's friends, eyeing Brad's girl and competing to be captain of the team. The whole school is rooting for a big double-strength win...not knowing that their twin hockey stars are heating up the ice for a winner takes all face-off. Recommended by the Hockey Hall of Fame Junior Education Program and originally published when Stacy was a teenager.

_The Flag Keeper_ \- Elizabeth may be a little bear, but she treats the American flag with big respect. After Dad leaves for a trip, Elizabeth pledges to raise the flag all by herself and follow all of the flag etiquette rules that her father has taught her. However, her dad never told her what to do if the flag gets dirty or the police show up. Teaches children about U.S. flag etiquette through an illustrated fiction story, flag facts, activity idea and discussion questions.

**Teddy Bear Town Children's E-Book Bundle -** Three complete picture books, featuring whimsical illustrations of teddy bears. Your children can learn about the U.S. flag code in the _The Flag Keeper,_ discover how a determined bear overcomes her fear of loud noises in _Victoria Rose and the Big Bad Noise_ , and watch young Jenny take the first steps toward independence in _Sticker Shoes._ For ages 3-8 _._ All in one bargain-priced download.

For more information, visit:

http://www.stacyjuba.com

One Stop Reading: Books for Adults, Teens and Children

