Monday, December 29, 2014

Yoga Mysteries, Imperfect Sleuths, and Book Launches!

Reader and yoga teacher Rene de los Santos patiently waiting for A Killer Retreat

I never wanted to be a writer, but then again I never wanted to be a yoga teacher. I always thought yoga was for woo woo Gumby wannabes who got their jollies contorting themselves into pretzel-like positions. The whole idea of it flummoxed me.

Then I got into a car accident.

Seven years later, I was still in significant chronic pain every day, and I couldn’t turn my head more than an inch or two. None of my doctors gave much hope for my recovery. At one point, I told my friends that if I thought it would help, I’d travel to Africa and dance naked around a witch doctor’s fire.  I’d have done anything to escape the pain. Even yoga.

I stumbled into my first yoga class out of desperation. I hate to admit it, but I left feeling significantly worse than when I arrived. I told my husband when I got home that the word yoga obviously meant “much pain.”

But I kept going, for months. You see, the balm I’d hoped to find for my body was actually easing my soul. I was calmer, happier, more balanced. When that yoga teacher left town for a month, I tried several other classes and stumbled upon a style that would soon become my yoga home—Viniyoga. For the first time ever, I left class with a body that felt as great as my mind.

Viniyoga is breath centered, adaptive, and therapeutic. It worked like magic on my neck and upper back. Within a few months, I was off the prescription pain meds and I could turn my head again. Shortly thereafter, I decided to quit my corporate job and make my living sharing these ancient teachings with others.

My yoga teacher-protagonist Kate teaches this same style of yoga. Kate’s wounds are more psychological than physical, and she’s far from the perfect yogi, but the practice serves her nonetheless. Yoga’s philosophy gives her compass that guides her life. True, she’s often a few degrees off north, but she’s learning. Someday she might even find the healing and peace that she offers to others.
Rutledge won't come out until his human reads him A Killer Retreat
Whether or not you ever decide to try yoga, I hope you’ll give my series a shot. The Downward Dog Mysteries, like most cozies, are lighthearted, often funny, gore is off-screen, and sex is behind closed doors.

Even if the only pose you’ll ever practice is Corpse Pose—and that after one too many margaritas—the series has something to offer. Love, growth, mystery, and hope, not to mention some laugh-out-loud moments, especially those with Kate’s German shepherd, Bella.  The first book, Murder Strikes a Pose, is available now.  The second, A Killer Retreat, launches January 8. Rumor has it you can pre-order A Killer Retreat for your electronic devices and have it on New Year’s Day.  The perfect way to start 2015.

Yoga, dogs, and murder. What could be more fun?

Tracy Weber

          A Killer Retreat

About Tracy:

My writing is an expression of the things I love best: yoga, dogs, and murder mysteries. I'm a certified yoga teacher and the founder of Whole Life Yoga, an award-winning yoga studio in Seattle, WA. I enjoy sharing my passion for yoga and animals in any form possible.  My husband and I live with our challenging yet amazing German shepherd Tasha and our bonito flake-loving cat Maggie. When I’m not writing, I spend my time teaching yoga, walking Tasha, and sipping Blackthorn cider at my favorite local ale house.

For more information, visit me online at and

Monday, December 8, 2014

Winter Is Coming

by Shannon Baker
Here it comes again.
It’s my last one here in Nebraska. I say this with my fingers crossed. I haven’t often said “never” in my life, but when I have, it’s come back to bite me. For instance, I remember my first drive through the Nebraska Sandhills. I said, “This is awful country. I’d never live here.”
Less than three years later I moved to the Sandhills and lived there for twenty years. It might not have been the awful country I’d imagined, but it was a challenge to love.
When I escaped from there, I moved to Boulder, Colorado. An amazingly beautiful place. From there I bounced down to Flagstaff, AZ. That’s the gateway to the Grand Canyon and in the middle of mountains and a lodegpole pine forest. I said, “I’m never going to live anywhere not beautiful again.”
A little over a year ago, I ended up in southwest Nebraska. There is probably plenty to love around here but this is a temporary gig for me and I don’t feel like setting out to find the silver lining. Bad attitude, I know, but I’ve been through menopause and older women tell me you lose your capacity to accept BS with the collagen and everything else that disappears. I’m good with that.
There are lovely homes in this town, even a luxury neighborhood on a golf course. We don’t live there. We live in the ghetto, if a town of 6,000 can have a ghetto. Our house is nearly 100 years old and has as much insulation as a canvas wall tent. (Just how the hell did Indians make it through prairie winters in a teepee, anyway?) All I have to do is survive one more winter here and we’re heading south, all the way to Tucson, where silver linings abound.

I have heat. An ancient furnace that kicks on about the time I can see my breath, blasts me into the Death Valley zone, then pops off, leaving the air to hiss against the frigid walls. It’s like a family-sized hot flash and everyone can share in the fun. I peel off layers at the height of the heat wave before I can start sweating, then quickly add them back when the temperature plummets again.  
Last winter, I trudged to the library five days a week. This worked for me on multiple levels. It got me out of the house and among living people, made me stretch my legs and breath fresh air, imposed a work environment where I couldn’t leave until I completed my quota, and, the most important, the temperature remained steady. Chilly, but constant.
Back at home, my writing outfit consisted of long underwear, jeans, t-shirt, sweatshirt, fingerless gloves, down booties, and on the coldest days, my husband’s fleece pullover on top of it all. Most days I added a fleece cap, because, 80% of heat escapes through your head. (Did anyone else’s mother tell them that?)
I did a lot of cooking and baking, especially recipes on low heat that I could simmer all day. I even found a DIY heating system online that called for terra cotta flower pots and tea lights. I nearly burned the house down and have been banned from playing with matches ever since.

I’m bracing for it, clenching my teeth and pulling out the long underwear and wool socks. Here we go again. One last time. Winter is coming, and as with any George R. R. Martin work, there’s always a large and surprising death toll.

Our Midnight Inkers are scattered all over the map. The Minnesotans (Jessie Chandler and Jess Lourey) will call me a wimp. The Floridians (Deb Sharp) and Californians (Sue Ann Jaffarian) and Arizonans (Maegan Beaumont) have no clue what I’m talking about. The Coloradans (Linda Hull and Mark Stevens) will mock me since they spend winter with crisp white snow and bright sunshine. So what about the rest of you, tell us what you love and hate about winter.


Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Dying for the Past - The Roots of the Sequel Part I

  By Tj O’Connor, author of Dying to Know & Dying for the Past

Countdown—39 days to the launch of Dying for the Past, my first sequel to Oliver “Tuck” Tucker’s debut in Dying to Know. Tuck is back in Book 2 and he’s on a new case with the help of his beautiful and brilliant professor-wife, Angel, and Detective Bear Braddock, his always faithful, always-protective ex-partner. Or maybe I’m describing Hercule, his black Lab companion. Both I think.

Tuck has just started settling down into his new life as a dead detective after wrapping up his own murder and ending the killing spree of a serial killer. Things have been going well for him—all things being considered that is.  

Tuck finds that being dead is often bittersweet. He explains a little in Chapter 1 of Dying for the Past

Sometimes, being dead is not so bad. Like poofing in and out of places on a whim without bothering with doors and stairs. And you never have to pee or get the flu again—big pluses. Then there are times, though, when dead is depressing and sad. It’s the things you miss—the taste of good wine, the adrenaline-rush of chasing a suspect, or the feeling when you’re in the middle of the dance floor with the most beautiful woman in the room. Those moments hurt.

A woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and sparkling green eyes stood in the middle of the mansion’s ballroom. Her long, silky gown was icing poured hot over sultry curves. All eyes fixed on her when she embraced a tall, distinguished-looking older man before a dance. He wore a tux—okay, yeah, he was striking with gray hair and a strong, muscular build, brilliant, rich, blah, blah, blah. Big deal. The two could have been on a wedding cake, but instead were the center of attention at Angel’s big band-themed charity gala, and leading a turn around the floor to Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade.

When they took their first step, I turned away …

Then wham. Someone’s dead. Not just any someone, mind you, but a shifty rich guy with a carnation on his lapel and a beautiful, but angry young bride on his arm. The only things anyone knows about this mysterious philanthropist is that he has too much money, too beautiful a young wife, and one-too-many bullet holes in him.

Mr. Carnation hailed a passing waiter for a refill of champagne. After downing the glass in a single gulp, he lifted Angel’s hand for a melodramatic kiss.

His glass shattered and spasms jerked his body all the way to the floor. His right arm thrust out and pointed at the crowd; his left still held the broken glass stem. His body twitched a few more times and stilled …

… I’d seen death before—and murder, too often. Not just my own, but dozens.

This one was unmistakable. It wasn’t the way Mr. Carnation collapsed in a jerky, melodramatic spiral to the hardwood. It also wasn’t the way his dull, lifeless face caught the dance ball light either. It was much simpler.

      It was the blood pooling around his body and the bullet hole through his torso.

Someone murdered Mr. Carnation—shot him in front of two hundred witnesses. A killer jitterbugged in and gunned him down to Benny Goodman.”

In Dying for the Past, Tuck realizes pretty quickly that it’s all about just that—the past. For Tuck, his past started to haunt him (pardon the pun) after his murder. You see, being dead also comes with some perks—spirited perks, like touching crime scene objects that show him a few snippets of their meaning (though often veiled) and being able to move about without the delays of traffic or bad weather. He can pop in and out of places at a whim. He just has to know where he wants to be. No, he has no after-life intuition or clairvoyance—it always comes down to plain old detective work. Now, he has to figure out how to use his new-found talents and a couple unusual characters to solve the case.
“Across the room, standing alongside the dance floor, was an uninvited guest. He was a stout, striking man in a black pinstripe, double-breasted suit. He wore shiny, buffed wingtips and a gray felt fedora. The only thing missing was a big cigar hanging out of his mouth and a violin case. Then, he swept his hand across his jacket and revealed a heavy semi-automatic in a shoulder holster. Did someone invite Al Capone?

He looked at me and winked. Winked …

… Voices hushed as eyes fell on the dead man.

Not me, though, I watched the crowd, looking for the killer and any telltale sign of the smoking gun.

But what I saw, or didn’t see, unnerved me more.

The gangster in the black pinstripes was gone … vanished—poof. He arrived just in time for a killing and left before the body hit the floor. No sign of his spats and black tie remained. He didn’t leave his fedora or heater behind either. He was as dead and gone as Mr. Carnation.

The question was, however, would he stay that way?”

In Dying for the Past, Tuck begins to learn some of his own family secrets. First, after witnessing the murder of Stephanous Grecco in front of his wife and a hundred people at the Vincent House—no one saw anything—Tuck finds himself searching for the killer and wondering what it all has to do with his own family tree. What does he find along the way?
      ·       Vincent Calaprese—the spirit of a 1939 mobster boss with his hooks into Tuck’s family tree.
      ·       Sassy—the eye-candy delight always on Vincent’s arm and always after Tuck’s eye.
      ·       Doc Gilley’s secret just within arm’s reach. Can Tuck get the truth out of him?
      ·       Someone stalking Angel, but what does it have to do with Steve and Bonnie Grecco—the new rich elite in Winchester? And what does AndrĂ© Cartier, Angel’s only family and mentor, have to do with all of it?
      ·       Why are the FBI, US Attorney’s Office, and a television ghost-hunter all converging on the Vincent House?
      ·       Also, why is Poor Nic Bartalotta—retired New York mob boss extraordinaire—connected to the Russian Mob and missing federal snitches?
      ·       Above all, who will find The Book—Old Vincent’s gangster journal holding the secrets to a bundle in loot and the names and evidence on the who’s who of Washington D.C.’s World War II spies, mobsters, and corrupt-elite. You’d be surprised how many are still around these days.

The answers come from the past and the victims are Dying for the Past.

Stay tuned to this channel—same InkSpot Time, same InkSpot channel. Next month, I’ll disclose some of the past behind Dying for the Past. Like …
      ·       What’s the backstory to Vincent Calaprese and his pre-World War II escapades?
      ·       What’s the story behind Tuck, Doc, and his wayward ancestors?
      ·       Why am I so connected to the past myself? What skeletons and secrets do I have hidden deep away?

If you can guess any of these answers, drop me a line here or email me at

Be looking for Dying for the Past out on your bookshelves January 8, 2015!

Tj O’Connor lives in Virginia with his wife and three Labs. Dying to Know is the fourth of his eight novels and is currently available in bookstores and online. Dying for the Past, the first of two sequels, will be released in January 2015—available now for pre-orders. Tj is an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism and investigations. Learn about his world at and Facebook at

Monday, December 1, 2014

Holiday Season Writing

--by Linda O. Johnston

Happy December, everyone!  This is the first day of the last month of the year.  We're now ensconced in the year-end holiday season.  It starts somewhat with Halloween, followed by Thanksgiving, then followed by other holidays which include Hanukkah and Christmas--and pretty much ends by New Year's. 

Those of us who are full-time writers may not be as affected by the holiday season as those who also have day jobs.  That's not entirely the case, though.  I kind of have a regimen of getting other stuff out of the way in the morning, then writing in the afternoon.  It's not engraved in stone, which is a good thing since, when I need to factor in cooking and family and additional plans, that schedule can be modified--as long as I convince my mind that's the case.

Plus, I belong to a number of organizations, most related to writing, that throw holiday parties, and I attend as many as I can, including my local Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America chapters, as well as chapters of Romance Writers of America.  I'm additionally a member of the alumni association for the company where I used to be an in-house attorney, Union Oil Company of California, and I wouldn't want to miss its holiday party.

Oh, and I can't forget my ongoing promotion of my published works such as my first Superstition Mystery LOST UNDER A LADDER.  That remains time-consuming, but it has slowed down somewhat since its October release.

Despite the holidays and shopping and other events, deadlines remain the same.  That's fine with me.  I just have to do some strategizing, as I do other times of the year as well when faced with additional kinds of plans including travels.  I also need to keep in mind that my dogs will continue to break my train of thought by giving me orders, but that happens all year round.

So... enjoy your holiday season and everything it brings to you, even interruptions to your creativity if you happen to be a writer.

Happy holidays, and happy writing and reading, to all of you!