Okay, I'm officially too irritated to stay here any longer.  It was bad enough that every time I came here to blog I was infested with pop-up windows my blocker won't block, but now talking advertisements have started chatting at me, and I can't find any way to shut them up. 

So I'm moving!  My new blog site is:  http://sammicarter.blogspot.com/

Hope you'll come and visit me there!

For the past few days, I've been trying to figure out where my love of mysteries first began. Yeah, I know.  Too much time on my hands. Except that's not entirely true. I don't have nearly enough time for everything I need to do, I'm just really good at procrastinating.  But I digress. . .

I can't remember how old I was when I read my first Nancy Drew mystery, but I know I was younger than 11.  Much younger.  I was still living in Montana then, and my mother signed my sister and I up for some Nancy Drew book club, which meant that two Nancy Drew mysteries were delivered to our front door every month (or something like that.)  I remember sharing the books with my sister, but I don't remember how we decided who read what, and when.  I'm guessing when I say that she read the books first and then passed them on to me, but it seems like a logical guess since she was three years older and, naturally, bossy. 

At some point, my mother decided to sell off my Nancy Drew books (without even mentioning her evil plan to me) so she could buy the Hardy Boys series for my brother (who doesn't read and so never did appreciate the depth of my personal sacrifice.) I wish I could report that I'm so emotionally healthy that the loss of my beloved Nancy Drew books was merely a blip on the radar screen of my childhood, but I can't. I'm still miffed, but I feel a little better because my mother (perhaps recognizing the need to make serious amends) gave me the entire set of story books that she used to read to me from when I was very young.  My favorite story of all time, TOM TIT TOT, is in those books, and I clearly remember the delicious shivers that raced up my spine when I listened to that story.

I wasn't much older when my grandmother gave me a Readers Digest condensed version of Victoria Holt's MISTRESS OF MELLYN to read during a family camping trip. I might have been 12 or 13, but I might have been 10 or 11. What I do remember is sitting in the shade for days, enjoying those familiar delicious shivers as I read.

After working through every Victoria Holt and Phyllis A. Whitney gothic I could get my hands on, I discovered Agatha Christie, and spent the next few years reading British mysteries, almost exclusively. In my head, a mystery wasn't a mystery unless it was a cozy set in a small English village.

I can't remember when I finally began accepting Settings Other Than British and Mysteries Other Than Cozy into the fold, but at some point variety became the key to my reading experience. I read everything and everyone, but rarely do I read two books by the same author, or two books from the same genre or subgenre in a row.

But that's just how things stand now. My reading habits will probably change again one of these days.  Seems that the only thing that doesn't change is the fact that things are always changing  

I'm home from Atlanta, glad to be back in my own bed and eating home-cooked food again.  Actually, I've been home since Sunday evening, but I'm just beginning to catch up with myself and the hundreds of e-mails that piled up while I was away.  The trip was a good one.  Saw friends I only see once a year, made new friends, and bought a couple of T-shirts and coffee mugs (always a sign of success when I travel.)   Picked up somewhere around 45 new books, all but 2 of them free. Since my large suitcase was already teetering on the edge of the airline's weight limit, that meant I had to ship a box home to myself. 

I hate reporting that the police found little Destiny Norton's body in the basement of a neighbor's house while I was away. My heart breaks for her parents. 

On a not-so-heavy note, my dog Angel was hit by a police car while I was away.  Luckily, she came through with a bruised leg and sore paw, but nothing was broken.  How she even survived the impact is a mystery. The police car was going about 35 mph and hit her hard enough to spin her around in the street.  She lay there for a minute while my daughter freaked out, then got up and limped off.  Val finally found her on the front porch, waiting to be let inside. 

I hate that she was hurt, but since she's okay I'm hoping that maybe this will teach her that it's not a good idea to sneak past a person as they're coming inside at midnight and race off through the neighborhood in search of Grand Adventure -- especially when the escapee is covered head-to-toe in black fur!!!! 

I'm just sayin' . . .

I'm leaving early in the morning for Atlanta and will be gone for the next 10 days.  I don't plan to pay for internet access in my room, so I probably won't be checking in until I get back. 

Happy reading, everyone!

What's bugging me today?  The media. That's not unusual. I can get riled up listening to the teasers aired by my local news stations throughout the evening (picture a gigantic inferno blazing and a voice saying, "Find out why 300 people had to be evacuated from this apartment building.")  During any tragedy, when the actual news is running a little slow, the reporters start speculating.  Before you know it, Reporter A's speculation is being reported as fact by Reporter B, and there's not an ounce of fact in any of it.  Drives me crazy. 

And that's what's got me annoyed today. 

There's a little girl missing in my town.  A five-year-old who wandered outside after an argument with her mother, who is pregnant and ordered to be on bed rest.  Her name is Destiny Norton.  Like most cities in the world these days, we know a thing or two about searching for missing people. We're home to Elizabeth Smart and Lori Hacking, to name just two people who've made headlines in recent years. 

The first two days, news reports told people to stay away. They already had too many volunteers, reporters said; they didn't need more.  Today, I woke up to news reporters speculating that the reason there weren't enough volunteers searching today was that the Norton family falls in a lower socio-economic class. 

I'm sorry.  Did you forget that you told us all to stay away less than 48 hours ago? 

I don't think the family's socio-economic class has a thing to do with a low number of volunteers showing up to search today. It's possible that the 100-plus-degree temperatures were a factor, but I don't even think that was the reason.  Unfortunately, people are going to believe that the Norton's socio-economic status put people off because some news reporter, who forgot that he told people to stay away, speculated about it on air.

Okay, so the guy's covering this story and probably hasn't had a lot of sleep in the past four days.  I'll try to cut him some slack.  But wouldn't it be nice if, just once, what we heard reported on the news and in the newspaper contained just the facts and not someone's interpretation and speculation? 

Meanwhile, if you have a prayer or good thought to spare for the Norton family, I'm sure they would appreciate it. 

This week people on DorothyL are talking about whether or not they finish the books they start reading. I'm always running behind on reading posts on that list, so I'm always reluctant to post something, just in case the discussion has already moved on by the time I come up with a clever, pithy response.  And sometimes I just don't have anything to say -- at least not anything I want to say in public   But this topic got me thinking about my own reading habits. 

When I was younger, I finished every book I started, no matter what.  But that didn't last very long at all.  By the time I was a teenager, I was tossing books aside -- usually when the writing was simple and what I thought of as "obvious."  I prefer subtle, I guess. If the author bashes me over the head with something, insulting my intelligence with the assumption that I won't remember this subtle clue unless she focuses on it hard enough to make me remember, I'm usually outta there.

I started writing when I was very young. I can remember being in elementary school and knowing that I wanted to write mystery novels some day.  By the time I was 19, I was married and pregnant, and tapping out stories on a portable typewriter my family gave me for Christmas. Another 19 years later, I started writing seriously.

When I was 38, I made the commitment to write every day, rain or shine, in sickness or in health. That's when I started paying attention to the craft instead of writing from the seat of my pants. That's when I became dangerous as a reader.

Once I started learning my craft, I became a nasty, picky reader and that most dangerous of creatures: someone who knows a little bit about something and thinks they know it all.  Nobody escaped.  I read to critique, and believe me, I found plenty to curl my lip at.  The trouble with that was that I soon lost my love of reading, and since I've loved to read even longer than I've longed to write, the day I realized that I no longer enjoyed reading was one of the saddest days of my life.

I made a concentrated effort from that day on to read as a reader instead of a critic, and most of the time I succeed.  But there are books I can't finish, no matter how hard I try. Sometimes the writing makes me twitch. Sometimes it's the subject matter (though I'll admit that doesn't happen often.)  Usually when I can't finish a book it's because I still don't like the genre, even if AuthorX is one of the best, or because the writing is just so juvenile and obvious I can't overlook it, or because the plot simply doesn't interest me, or, in a few cases, because I find the protagonist either so unlikeable or so deadly dull, there's no point in reading because I just don't care what happens to him.

My favorite books are the ones that make me stretch, as a reader, as a human being, or as a writer. I love books written by someone who makes me wish I could write like that and books that open whole new worlds to me. I like books that offer a perspective on something I may not have considered before, and books that leave an imprint on my soul when I've finished. Sure, I read to be entertained, but entertainment alone isn't enough to earn a spot on my keeper shelf, or even to be logged onto the list of books I've read -- the one that exists only in my head because I never remember to actually write anything on an actual log. I may be picky, but I'm definitely not organized. 

There's been a lot of talk lately on internet listserves about murderless mysteries, and though I've been mostly lurking on all the lists I subscribe to, I'm curious to know what readers think. Does a mystery novel need a murder? Or will any puzzle that needs to be solved do? 

Personally, I lean toward the Murder-Is-A-Must side, but that's probably because most of the non-murderous mysteries I've read over the years haven't had enough at stake to keep me interested. Or maybe it's because what makes someone want to steal jewelry or pull an art heist doesn't interest me as much as what would make someone commit the ultimate crime of murder. There's only so much you can say about greed, I guess. Isn't that the usual motive? 

With murder, though, greed is just one possible motive. And it can be mixed so deliciously with so many other motives, it keeps things fresh.  As fresh as they can be when you're dealing with dead bodies in the library, that is.  Even when the murder is prompted by greed, it's often even about the money. Not really. With a jewelry heist, that's all there is. 

That's just my opinion, though, and I'm certainly no expert. Maybe there are wonderful non-murder mysteries out there that I haven't heard of.  I'm always eager to find a good book, so when you're weighing in on the question of murderless mysteries in general, if there's a murderless mystery you'd recommend, please share! 

It's been a month of weddings around my house.  My daughter got married two weeks ago, and my niece got married on Saturday. Her new husband, Stephen, is really a terrific guy. I mean, he called me his favorite aunt at the wedding! It's tough not to like someone with such impeccable taste. 

I've spent a lot of time thinking about families in recent weeks. About the families we're born into, and the families we create along the way.  I've thought about how much each person in a family brings to the table, and how each person changes the family dynamic a little, either with their presence or their absence.

Six months ago, our family was, by many standards, quite small. My parents had just three children and five grand-children, so even with the next generation adding to our numbers we don't exactly strain the seams on the house when we get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We're still small, but in the past six months, we've added two new spouses and a step-daughter, and we have two new babies coming to join the two great-grandchildren who are already here.  For a family the size of ours, that's a veritable population boom!

I guess one of these days, we might strain the seams of the house at the holidays, but I hope it doesn't happen too soon.  I like who we are now, and I like who we're becoming. 

and multiply by two.  Throw in two extra cats and a stray daughter, and that's why the nest that was supposed to be empty this week after Vanessa and Ian got married is suddenly more crowded than ever! 

Not that I'm complaining.  I love having Valerie back home for a few months while she transitions from one chapter in her life to another. I just wish that her dog, Sammi (no, not named for me, alas!) would teach Angel a few good habits instead of the other way around.  I'm very sad to say that Angel is a bad influence. A very bad influence. 

My new son-in-law and a couple friends came by one weekend to install a brand new 8-foot fence for me. We hoped that 8 feet of chain link would be enough to keep Angel under control.  They finished installing the fence, and before I could get home 30 minutes later, Angel had already managed to escape.  I wasn't sure how, so Valerie and I spent an afternoon lashing down every possible escape route.  Surely, we told ourselves when we finished, this would keep Angel in the yard. 

Long story short, it didn't work.  Yesterday, as I stood in the front yard and watched Angel sail over 8 feet of chain link, I figured out why. I've also decided to concede the fight.  There is no way to contain this dog. 

If she is a dog. 

Which I'm beginning to doubt . . .

I don't have the official wedding pics yet, but here are a few taken by my cousin Angie.  Thanks, Angie! 

Ian (the groom) and his brother Evan, waiting for the bride

Vanessa and her uncle Laszlo, walking down the aisle

Husband and Wife