Rushing (Away ) from Adrenaline

I have a position on adrenaline. I’m against it.

My husband Kerry, on the other hand, is a thrill junkie. He constantly pushes me to LEAP into adventure while I would rather look and look and look some more before finally deciding: “Nah. I don’t really want to leap.’’

This push and pull has played out for the 20 years of our marriage, often on vacation. All I want is a hammock. All he wants is for us to hurtle somewhere fast until the adrenaline is pumping so hard I’m sure I’m two heartbeats from death.

Now, I’m taking a stand for thrill-o-phobes everywhere. As the travel season approaches, I’m here to say you don’t have to “Just Try It.’’ Instead, heed my advice on the top 3 things the adrenaline adverse should never ever try:

** Zip-lining. “Imagine,’’ Kerry said, “flying on a cable through the tree-tops of an old-growth forest.’’ Now imagine me dangling from that same cable awaiting rescue, trussed up like a duck in the window of a Chinese butcher. It turned out the zipline folks didn’t really mean it when they told me I could quit if I didn’t like it before completing all the runs.

A staffer tried first – and failed – to get me back to the starting point by wrapping his legs around my body and inching us hand-over-hand along the cable like early Sylvester Stallone. Finally, they had to call for a truck and a tow rope to haul me backwards, against gravity, to where I could safely disconnect and descend.

** Whitewater rafting. In Florida, our rivers meander slowly, gently. Plop my bottom in an inner tube and I’ll happily float all day. But sharp rocks, churning water, violent rapids that send a six-man raft spinning? What was I thinking?

Normally, I repress adrenaline-related memories, but there’s photographic evidence of this one. A huge boulder looms. Water roils. My husband’s up front in the airborne raft, wide smile. I’m crouched in back next to the guide, mouth gaping in horror like that guy from “The Scream.’’

** Snow-skiing. As Kerry raced over Black Diamond trails, I ventured onto the Bunny Slope … and was immediately mowed down by one of my beginner-class mates, an 8-year-old with no fear. I sprained an ankle, and had to be carted off the hill. Which proved my point: A middle-aged woman has no business trying to learn to ski, especially if her sole snow experience was growing up eating Sno-Kones in Florida.

So there you have it, fellow quiet types. Travel adventures I’ve tried -- and hated. Check back next year for possible additions. Kerry’s dropping hints about hiking a glacier.

A Festival of Sleuths

Nice getting together with old friends and meeting new ones this week in Deerfield, Fla,. at the annual Mystery Writers of America convention known as Sleuthfest. Of course, there are always a few people you wish you WOULDN'T see at these things ... but for the most part, a genuinely nice, interesting bunch.
A little dark, though ...
Our Friday luncheon speaker was Dr. Doug Lyle, a terrific forensics expert. His expertise is death, and all the dastardly ways to accomplish same.
The first question from the audience: "If you're going to kill someone and dump the body into the water, how many holes would you have to poke with a knife in the lungs and the stomach to make sure the gases and what not of decompostion will have a place to escape?''
I thought I noticed the waiter looking around nervously. Suddenly, I wasn't quite so hungry for that key lime tart dessert.
A table-mate, who'd recently made a transition from writing children's books to mysteries, leaned over and said that's not the kind of query you'd get at a conference of children's authors ....

Jacket Photo Madness

My bedroom looked like clearance day at the What Was I Thinking House of Fashion.
“What’s taking so long?’’ asked my husband, accustomed to a no-frills spouse.
My glare sent him fleeing for the TV room.
I hadn’t put this much effort into my appearance since I was fifteen, sneaking out of the house to see Grand Funk Railroad.
Honestly, I’m not normally obsessed with the external. I think I’m stylin’ when I get out of my writer-at-home sweatpants and into slacks with a zipper.
Even so, preparing to take my jacket photo for my first book put me in a tizzy. Imagine having just one authorly image to present to the literary world. Or, at least to the portion of the world that purchases paperback mysteries.

As any woman of a certain age will tell you, the camera is no friend. And my publisher’s posing guidelines ban the favorite tricks of the fifty-something set. No arms or hands in the head-shot, they said -- meaning no propping my chin on my fists to tighten the ol' neck wattle. No animals, either. Probably to cut down on the number of mystery novelists cuddling pet cats under middle-aged chins.
I wasn't going to use a kitty. My mysteries are set in Florida’s cattle belt, so I wanted to peek over the back of a Brahman cow. Too bad I can't, since a heifer that size was bound to make me look slim.
My husband, Kerry, poked in his head again. “Why don’t you try a scarf,’’ he suggested helpfully.
“I can’t wear a scarf,’’ I said, my voice rising like Naomi Campbell in supermodel melt-down. “Every one will think I’m just using it to hide my neck!’’
Confiscating the sharp objects off my dresser, he backed out the door.
I used the privacy to work on my …. uhm, profile . . . by hefting up my bra straps. But there’s only so much give before the garment becomes a garrote. Since the publisher also bans mystery writer cliches like fedoras and collar-up trench coats, posing in a strangulation device would surely be frowned upon.
After all my crazed preparation, my news photographer friend had to reschedule our shoot. I have another week to decide who I want to be for this photo. Which isn't nearly enough time to lose 10 pounds, discover the real me, AND find the perfect scarf.

Warp Speed

Time doesn't just fly after you hit 50 . . . it zips, it zooms, it ROCKETS out of control.
I'm looking at the last day I posted anything here ... November 28. My blog-free month (plus 14 days) corresponds to the holidays, America's annual way-too-much-stress, way-too-little-time period of national distraction.
When I was a reporter at USA Today, I always knew getting calls returned, statistics gathered, stories written was next to impossible from Thanksgiving thru the first week of January.
Now I'm a mystery novelist, and not much has changed.
I did manage, however, to finish the rewrite on MAMA RIDES SHOTGUN by Jan. 4.
Yay for me!
On the other hand, my Christmas tree is still up, dead pine needles shroud the unwrapped presents underneath, and the punch bowl from my writers' group holiday gathering (Dec. 22) still sits on the courtyard table. It's clean, though, so I guess that's something.
Does anybody have a magic watch that can slow down time? Better yet, make it go backwards, so I can have a few do-overs?

A Writer's Favorite Words

The End.
Man, does it feel sweet to write those two simple words.
I just finished my second book in the Mace Bauer Mysteries series, Mama Rides Shotgun.
Of course "finishing" and "being finished'' are two different things.
It's about 15 pages too long. I think I forgot to put in a few clues. And I need to retrace the route of the Florida Cracker Trail horse ride so I don't have Mace and her mama trekking past Lorida before they get to Myakka.
But I give myself a pat on the back and permission to raise a glass (though not at the same time, or the wine will spill).
Here's to me, and my two favorite words:

__The End__