The interview you have when you're not having an interview...

In case you are wondering, today is not the 5th December. I have actually known that all day. Why do I mention it now? Because I would normally do a Wednesday author interview today on the blog. My next one is scheduled for 5th December. It appears I cannot count and I skipped at week in the interview spreadsheet thingy. So I have no one line up to interview but myself. Thankfully I can talk underwater with a mouthful of marbles if necessary so I put these burning questions to myself.

What is your shoe size?
8
What is your weight?
Bugger off
Are you like your star sign?
If Scorpios are sweet nature people - sure




If you could eat your body weight in one thing what would it be?
Tim Tams
Can you be a lady and still write sex?
Sure – confident, dignified, smart women can do anything well.
Is there anything you will not write?
Sci-fi because I suck at it and twincest, incest – it’s disgusting.
It is your last day on Earth – do you drink a bottle of wine or think deep and meaningful thoughts about the afterlife?
Dumb question

Your house is on fire – which do you save - your ridiculously expensive shoes you can barely walk in, your framed university degree or the carton of ice-cream in your fridge?
The ice-cream as iridescent purple toe nail polish is always stylish and who knows where the Uni degree is.

You write a book a reviewer hates, loathes and despises and she tells the whole world – what do you do?
I say 'thanks for the review' – any publicity is good
You have the choice to go camping for the weekend or smack you hit continuously against a brick wall.
Brick wall – camping is just wrong
The love of your life demands you stop writing erotic romance novels. What do you do?
I say – ‘who are you again?’
If patience is a virtue, temper is –
A necessity
To err is human to forgive is –
Optional – depends on mood, circumstance and how much sucking up is employed
Favorite quote?
A warped barrel is a fool’s frustration – Maxwell Smart
Favorite movie?
The Big Easy for the lines -
-I’ve never had much luck with sex
-Chere you luck’s about to change
Any talents?
I can do the Vulcan hand salute and drink a bottle of champagne and still remain upright-ish.
Anything intensely personal you would like to share?
I cannot whistle

There can I crap on or what? Speaking of such - wise Anny has the blog serial on www.annycook.blogspot.com. She is also talking about building worlds. No, I don't think she is a megalomaniac. Speaking of such - Kelly is talking about male chauvinist pigs on www.kkirch.blogspot.com. Please...don't get me started...

Janice Bennett has an excellent book out called Cold Turkey. It's available at Cerridwen Press or you guessed it - click on the cover to buy - go on - you can never have too many books. I think Confucius said that or maybe he meant to.

Cold Turkey
Book #1 of the Events Unlimited series

When Annike McKinley returns to her Aunt Gerda’s home for Thanksgiving she finds the body of Clifford Brody, C.P.A., bleeding all over her aunt’s tax receipts. While Sheriff Owen Sarkisian and the crime team track mud through the house, the Service Club of Upper River Gulch Environs (the SCOURGEs) stick Annike with organizing the town’s Thanksgiving weekend activities. Racing around the county to make the preparations gives her the opportunity to investigate the murder on her own to clear the chief suspect—her beloved aunt. She is soon up to her neck in pancake breakfasts, pie-eating contests, community dinners—and a raffle prize that threatens to take over her life.

After ordering Annike to stop interfering, Sarkisian is forced to beg the aid of her accounting skills to help unravel the case. She keeps a tight rein on her growing enjoyment of his company, though, for as the widow of a former sheriff of the county she is determined not to get romantically involved with another law officer. Then one of the suspects is found dead, stripped to his boxers and socks in a vat of apricot brandy. Before the murderer is captured, both Annike and Sarkisian narrowly avoid adding to the body count.

The excerpt

The authorities. I had to call the sheriff. But I couldn’t bring myself to reach over the body for the phone. Instead, I sidled around to the other side of the desk. This gave me the added disadvantage of a clear view of the man’s face, with the open, staring eyes that no longer saw anything. His gray-flecked brown hair, I noted through a daze, remained impeccably styled. Clifford Brody, C.P.A., wouldn’t even be caught dead other than perfectly groomed.
Movement near the hardwood floor made me yelp. One of the cats, the calico Birgit, emboldened by my presence, slunk into the room. I shooed her out, then succumbed to a craven impulse and followed, closing the door firmly behind me. I’d call from another phone. Preferably one at the other end of the house.
I made it down the hall, through the living room, past the dining room door, and into the country kitchen redolent of herbs. Only a few steps from the royal blue wall phone my knees collapsed, dumping me onto one of the brightly painted wooden chairs set around the ancient pine table. I could use a stiff drink. Aunt Gerda would recommend strong tea, with something for nerves, like oat straw, in it. Call first, I ordered myself. Then I’d search out my aunt’s chocolate stash.
I hauled myself to the phone and punched in from memory the number for the Merit County sheriff’s office, then clutched the receiver, trying to order my mind. I couldn’t stammer out the incoherent gibberish that currently filled my head. Not if I wanted anyone to understand me. Dagmar, the gray and white tabby, wound herself around my ankles, and as the phone rang, I scooped the cat into my arm and cradled her there for comfort. Mine, not hers. She squirmed at the tightness of my hold, and I settled her more contentedly against my shoulder.
A bright, familiar woman’s voice answered with an encouraging, “Sheriff’s office.”
Deep breath. “This is Annike McKinley, at—”
“Annike? Hi, it’s Jennifer. Been a long time. You home for Thanksgiving?”
“Jennifer,” I repeated. The woman had been answering the phone twelve years ago, when I first met Tom McKinley, who already had been the county sheriff for five years. Who probably still would be if he hadn’t gotten in the way of that bullet during a drug bust seven years ago. Jennifer, who’d been at our wedding, and who’d accompanied the deputy sheriff when he’d come to break the news to me of Tom’s death.
“Are you going to stop by for a visit?” Jennifer’s voice sounded cheerfully over the line. “We’ve got a new guy here, just took over when Sheriff Guzman retired last month. Love to hear your opinion of him. He’s—”
“Jennifer,” I managed to break in. “We’ve got someone—I mean, we’ve got a body—”
“Don’t tell me, there’s a carcass in your kitchen. Someone murdered a turkey, right?”
“No, an accountant.” Except in the case of Clifford Brody, the point could be argued that he was both.
“An…” Jennifer broke off. “No, don’t tell me. Now, why,” she muttered, “would a turkey be called an accountant? No, don’t spoil it, let me guess the joke.”
“No joke. Listen, I’m serious. It’s Clifford Brody. He’s dead. And he’s here, in my aunt’s house.”
“Brody? God, Annike, are you serious? He’s dead? Really?” She exhaled in a ragged breath. “Who am I going to get to do my taxes this year?”

www.freewebs.com/amarindajones/
Go ahead: Live with abandon. Be outrageous at any age. What are you saving your best self for?