Author: C. Michele Dorsey

 Yes, I am one of those blasted morning people. I confess I wake up at the ungodly hour of 5:00 a.m. or earlier, usually ready to leap out of bed and embrace a new day. Energy surges through me as my feet hit the floor. I just can’t wait to begin the day.            I know, you hate me, unless you are part of the “Morning Club.” We awaken cheerful even before coffee, optimistic, thrilled at the prospect of a new day. We whistle or hum waiting for the coffee to brew while watching to see what kind of sunrise will arrive. Will there be dramatic swirls of pink and purple that morph into golden yellow or will it be the dainty variety of pink and blue worthy of a newborn’s nursery?            We ponder what we have to do during the day ahead and wonder how much of it we will accomplish, confident that success lies ahead. And then we dig in. For me, that means I begin to write so I can tap into my natural clock. Ideas abound, words flow, as I click away on the keyboard. I have to be judicious and not allow distractions like social media tap into my energy and suck the creative wind out of me. Often that’s easier said than done.             But if I am disciplined, I will do a very quick check of email and social media to see if there are any infernos to douse. Little fires can wait. I don’t turn on the television but I do check the headlines of the Boston Globe and New York Times to see if I should be evacuating. If all is well, I begin to write, while the birds sing, school buses swallow children from corners, and commuters vacate the neighborhood. I enter a world that belongs only to me, where I am safe and in command.            By noon, I’m far less brilliant than I was just hours earlier. A dullness has set in, so I move on to other tasks that require less energy. I can edit what I’ve written, but only as a first sweep. I can turn to social media, where people are tolerant of insipidness. I pay bills, start dinner, and go for a walk.            By 4:00 p.m., I am the most uninteresting person on the block. By 6:00, I’ve pretty much lost the ability to converse, other than to throw epithets at the newscasters I’ve finally let into my living room. I become lost in the absurdities that surround me. Why can’t Mike shut up about his pillows? Do you have to have the shoulder length “beach waves” look and be under 35 to get a job as a female television reporter? Why would you take a prescription drug that has 37 side effects, including possible loss of vision or life?            Then I get really cranky, especially when I witness neighbors walking their dogs without poopy bags and consider starting a neighborhood patrol. I worry about the weather the next day, what that nut in Korea will do next, and if we have enough coffee for the morning. Nothing seems to go right. Everything has become bleak.            It’s time for me to go to bed, to recharge my depleted battery and let you night owls take care of the world. I’ve posted a few photos of what you’re missing.            Are you a night owl or an early bird? How’s it working for you?

 I come from a long line of list-makers. My mother had beautiful penmanship. She wrote lists each morning on the backs of used envelopes. Mostly they were grocery lists. She liked to do her “marketing” every day so she’d be sure to get out of the house.             My maternal grandmother also wrote lists every morning in small dainty writing. She would sip coffee and chew on toast at the breakfast table each morning cataloguing what she had to do or buy that day. Her “to do” lists were also most often scripted on the back of an envelope.             Both my mother and grandmother tossed their lists into the trash after they were completed. This is when I should have realized I was meant to be a writer, because when I began making lists, I couldn’t bear the thought of discarding them. Nor could I consider writing them on the backs of used envelopes. For one thing, I started making lists long before I began receiving mail.             I fell in love with notebooks at an early age, particularly spiral ones that I could open and close many times without damaging the binding. They were a perfect place for my own daily lists. Before long, I had dedicated a separate spiral notebook for my daily lists.                       At the beginning of the notebook I would enter a start date and when it was full, I would return to the first page to enter the end date. Every day had its own page dated at the top, sometimes with a notion about why that day was special. “March 14, XXXX HBD Uncle Buddy.”             I tried to prioritize what needed to be accomplished during the day. As I completed each task, I took my favorite pen de jour (that’s another topic for another day) and crossed off the item with delight and sometimes, relief. “Sit for bar exam” or later in life “colonoscopy prep” were crossed off with an added notation. “Whew!” “Yay!” Usually my list was filled with more mundane chores. Pay bills, email or call so-and-so, buy paper towels. When I didn’t complete a task, I would circle it and sometimes scold myself. “Bad girl.” Then the item would go on the next day’s list.             I saved all of these notebooks until a few years ago after viewing the mountain of spiral binders and wondering why. Why save notebooks with daily “to do” lists, especially when I also journal? I found a place to perch next to the piles and began perusing them. In short time, I realized these lists chronicled my life better than any journal I had filled. “Buy food for post-funeral party.” (You might have to be Irish to understand why it’s a party.) “Lose weight for wedding.” “Take daughter for G.I. test.” “Ballet recital.” “Finish taxes.” Many “to do’s” were personal, but most were the meat and potatoes of the daily life I have led. “Grocery shop.” “Prep for class.” “Yoga”               I tossed the notebooks and almost immediately regretted it. When my daughter asked about a family event, I could no longer play family historian and reach for the list that recorded it. I realized I should have chucked my journals, which are filled with my interpretation of what is contained in the list notebooks. But the notebooks are a form of history.             I’ve resumed the practice of keeping my “to do” lists, but now I am more conscious of what I write. I’ve decided that by writing what I want to do and what I need to do, elevates my commitment to what is important to me. I write each list with intention. Writing is always at the top of my list, but buying tissues and toilet paper also has its rightful place. And I’m planning a big bonfire for those journals.             How about you? Do you write lists? What do they tell you about your life? 

 Steve appreciated art, but was never a collector, certainly not an art connoisseur. But when he looked online at items listed for the silent auction at the Annual 31st Gifft Hill School Auction on St. John where we spend winters, he was captivated and rushed to show me.            The portrait of who we guessed was a young adolescent West Indian girl was small yet compelling. Her eyes were turned to her right where she stared with pursed lips and slightly flared nares. She held her head high. I saw vigilance in her gaze. I wanted to protect her. The painting was titled, “Seeing Clearly.”            Steve returned to the portrait several times before the auction, which was to benefit a private school on St. John we had witnessed during the past thirty years grow from tiny seeds to a full campus for children of all ages on island.    The school and its students are as generous to the community as the community is to it. A real love story about children, community, learning, and a tiny island.            The painting was the work of Kimberly Boulon, who donated it and several other larger paintings. “Kim” is an impressive artist whose own love for St. John can be seen in the strokes and light in her work. All of the proceeds, not just a percentage, which is fairly common practice, from Kim’s works were to go to Gifft Hill School. More love.            We arrived at the auction, greeting the Digiacomos, who had generously included us at their table with other island friends. Steve and I rushed to the Silent Auction and found “Seeing Clearly,” who was more captivating in person. Those eyes. What was she looking at? What had she seen? Why was she so alert? What had happened in her young life?            We made a small bid and tried to leave “Seeing Clearly” behind, but we could not abandon her. We were both drawn to this picture, which had now touched us like no other piece of art. We began our own vigil, stalking with our eyes the few other bidders who seemed to want what we were now calling, “our girl.” In a last minute stealth maneuver, I dashed from the dinner table where we were now seated and returned to the silent auction room. I concealed myself behind a nearby pillar and when the last main competitor finished her final offer, I darted to the painting and upped the bid by twenty-five dollars just before the announcement that the silent auction had ended.            At home in our tiny cottage, we giggled about where we should hang our new fine “aht,” inserting our Boston accents into the silliness, the magic of the night. After several attempts, we found a spot for our girl, where she could be seen easily. I can’t ever remember a painting drawing my eyes to it so often before. We were clearly smitten with the addition to our family.            When it came time to return home to Cape Cod, we agonized. Should we leave her behind where life was familiar? Or did we bring her home with us to spend the summer on the Cape? How would she fare on the flight? Would she be okay alone while we were gone?            Steve decided she belonged on St. John and could watch over our home until we returned in November, a plan that made sense to me. Until an unthinkable category five hurricane named Irma terrorized our island, only to be followed closely by another category five hurricane called Maria, Coral Bay, our island village, had felt the brunt of the storms.            Once we were assured neighbors and friends were safe, we wondered how was our girl? Why had we left her behind? In the weeks that followed, we learned the island had been splintered and looked as if a bomb had exploded. Shock, sadness, and a little self-pity set in. Why when we had just figured out how to spend the final chapter of our lives had this happened? And why, oh why, did we leave our girl behind?            An email string connected me to Kathy, a neighbor, who had moved into the cottage above us after we had left for the summer. She offered to have her husband, who had stayed on island through it all, check our cottage. I told her there was only one thing we really cared about and that was our girl and that Kathy was the best neighbor I had never met. I had been having nightmares about St. John in which “Seeing Clearly” was floating upside down in a few feet of filthy water. When the photo of her sitting on our table looking in decent shape arrived by email, I choked up. When I learned Mike Lachance was coming up to see his wife, Kathy, in New Hampshire for a week and was bringing our girl with him, I cried. When we met Kathy and Mike last week, Steve and I felt like we were being reunited with family. Because we were. St. John is affectionately known as “Love City.” An island where a community of people have chosen to live together in isolation and harmony where differences are embraced and where “One Love” is more than a song. Where “Love Thy Neighbor” is a practice, not a slogan. Where generosity is inherent. The Gifft Hill School, where we first found our girl, opened its doors to all island children just days after the storm when it was evident the public schools were damaged. A real circle of love.Love. That’s the thing about St. John that is difficult to convey in words. But maybe you can in a painting. Has a piece of art ever touched your life and become a part of your story?     

  People always consider me an extrovert. I’m a lawyer and a teacher and am not afraid of public speaking. I have a tendency to “take charge,” whether that’s a good personality trait or not. Yet, when I took the famed Myers-Briggs test, the result was that I have an INFP personality, which would make me an introvert. According to one scholarly resource (the Internet), INFP’s are known to “dislike conflict, though be good at understanding other people’s feelings and be a successful mediator. INFPs tend to be perfectionists and are known to struggle working as a team, and thus recommended careers for INFPs are positions, which allow for autonomy, creativity, and where they can feel they are helping others or a greater cause. These careers include Psychologists, Members of the Clergy, Writers, Actors, Activists, Artists, Editors, Filmmakers, Designers, Journalists, Social Scientists, and Teachers.” (https://www.quora.com/What-are-some-insights-on-the-INFP-personality-type) I spent more than thirty years as a mediator and adjunct law professor. I have been a writer my entire life. Now I can see why I felt like a misfit as a lawyer.I asked my fellow Miss Demeanors, Do you consider yourself an introvert or an extrovert or some combination of the two? Have you taken test(s) to see where you fall on the charts? Do you think this affects your writing and/or your marketing skills as a writer? Their answers are as fascinating as they are.  Paula:   I can remember the first time I took the MB test. I was a young reporter who dreamed of being a novelist. I came up as ENFP/J, and ENFP was the journalist. INFP was the novelist. I was dismayed that the test said that I wasn’t “introverted” enough to be a novelist LOL Alexia:   Introvert, introvert, introvert. INTJ all the way, baby. I literally score off the charts on some scales of introversion (the kind where you have to plot your subscales on a graph). Living in my head and loving it. I actually see my stories in my head like movies so being an introvert definitely influences my writing.  Cate:  I think I am an extrovert who enjoys spending 8 hours a day chatting with the people in her own head and then writing down their stories on paper. I think being around people gives me energy but a good writing session gives me more energy. (An extroverted introvert, I guess?)I was in a rock band for years and sang on seedy stages in New York, which was a pretty extroverted thing to do. I enjoy performing. I talk a lot in public, but some of that is from nerves. As for marketing, I think my personality makes book events interesting. Though I have real trouble with being self aggrandizing. And since the product is my story, it can be difficult for me to talk about the praise it has gotten which would help me sell the book. I have to remind myself to mention such things.   Alison:   I generally come down right smack in the middle in whatever version of these tests I take. All but my very closest friends describe me as a clear extrovert. There is some truth in that: I’m interested in people, and I enjoy good conversation. Having said that, unlike a true extrovert, I need time alone. I prefer to go to museums and galleries on my own. I would never consider shopping for clothing with anyone. Ever. As to the second part of your question, I suspect having a “split personality” helps me better understand my characters. I think when I’m at my most quiet and introverted, I’m also at my most observant. When I’m feeling outgoing, I’m able to engage in conversation and draw others out, but then my perspective is more that of a participant than an observer.  Having yet to market my book, I can’t say how my personality will affect the process. I absolutely loved doing a reading of an early draft of the first chapter of Blood Atonement at a Mystery Writers of America event downtown. I guess that falls squarely in the “extrovert column.”  This question, Michele, will make me more mindful of the process as it unfolds. I’ll let you know next year!   Susan:   I am definitely an introvert in that I feel most comfortable alone, and yet life has a way of propelling introverts outward. So I’ve learned to give speeches and chat with strangers and teach classes and so forth. I think I come across as a friendly person (which I am), but there’s always a moment when I need to just go into a corner and catch my breath. Part of why I like social media so much is that it allows me to connect with a lot of people, but at a little bit of distance. Maybe social media is the ultimate introvert coping mechanism.   Robin:   I’ve taken the Myers Briggs test multiple times because I’ve had employers who viewed the test & sharing results as a good team building exercise. The results changed the second time I took it, based on my mood. From then on, I consciously adjusted my answers to suit my career goals and the way I wanted to be perceived. Guess that’s what happens when you take the same test and have the same resulting conversation 5 or 6 times 🙂 I used to think of myself as introverted until I said that out loud and my friends laughed. Hard. Evidently, people see me as outgoing although I don’t always feel that way. When I’m writing, I may be alone in my office or I might be on a crowded commuter train. Regardless, my attention is turned inward and I love it. But the book is just the beginning. The rest requires people – agents, editors, participating in conferences and industry peer groups to help me learn and grow, helping others learn and grow, jumping on opportunities to promote myself and create a following. There are a whole of lot human interactions involved with building a career. I’m enjoying every bit of it which probably means I’m more of an extrovert than I realized.    Tracee:   I used to think that being an introvert or extrovert was about being shy/not shy, led me to say I was an introvert. Actually I’m a shy extrovert, which can be tricky because I like seeing people but am uncomfortable meeting new ones (I’ve had to learn to ignore this and put on a brave face). I like to spend time alone but need to avoid too much isolation by going out into the world. I wouldn’t do well in an isolation chamber for months on end. A few days… maybe even a few weeks, though, would be fine! I can actually have an extrovert re-charge all by myself as long as I’m not isolated. For example, going alone to a museum or movie, but being in the company of others restores me. Perhaps the true mark of an extrovert is that I don’t mind shifting situations or surprises and have always been good at ‘going with the flow’. I have taken the tests (for work) but admit to not paying much attention to the results other than to think they weren’t surprising (and like Robin I realized that I could shift the results if I wanted. This likely happens even subconsciously at some point if you are taking a test for work).  End result? I think that introvert/extrovert this does impact both writing and marketing of books. I like going out and talking about my books at stores. As importantly I’m fine with ‘whatever’ happens at the event, good, since these things are out of our control. At the same time, while writing I lean a bit toward pantzer – willing to step outside the bounds of total control –  but I love writing because it allows me to work alone and with near total control. I think most of us shift slightly between categories and over time perhaps shift greatly.   

     I hope you will understand why I am writing about Hurricane Irma two days in a row.  St. John in the U.S. Virgins Islands, an island I know and love, was smacked hard yesterday by a hurricane considered to be the most powerful in history. The calamity known as Irma didn’t spare other islands. The tiny nearby island of Barbuda barely exists in the aftermath. St. Martin and nearby sister island, St. Thomas, is suffering badly.            Photos of the damage in St. John are trickling in and not pretty. So far, there has been no report of serious injury or death. There are audible sighs of relief on Facebook as people report in on persons they have learned are safe.             But there is also a thundering silence. No word from anyone who lives in Coral Bay, where the cottage we spend winters in is located. Fish Bay, on the other side of St. John where I vacationed for decades and set my two mysteries, has yet to report in. With power out, trees and lines down, and roads impassable, this is understandable, yet torturing for those waiting to hear from loved ones.            The human response to a natural tragedy is both heartening and fascinating. The off-island rescuers are ready to hop on a plane, although none are flying into the Caribbean at the moment, and dig in. I’m assuming those on-island are too busy to post. The devoted are sharing prayers and inspiration. The fundraisers are creating websites. Others have launched lists where people can search for loved ones or report to them from the island.            Once again, I am struck by how indomitable and indestructible the human spirit is. I am reminded of Weebles, the roly-poly toys my children played with. “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down,” went the jingle. My definition of success has always been “getting up once more than you’re knocked down.”            I am moved by the love and generosity directed at St. John by those who have been captured by her beauty and spirit. I’m not naïve. I know there will be the inevitable ugliness and conflict that follows disaster when fatigue and discouragement set in.            But for today, I’m celebrating the spirit of the community of St. John, both on and off-island, and joining in the prayers for those we have yet to hear from.           

   Everyone knows the Caribbean and then Florida are bracing for the beast now known as Irma to hit. This Category five hurricane is arriving on the heels of Harvey demolishing Houston. Even acknowledging how the media hypes storms, no one is denying Irma is one of the largest storms ever with 185 mph winds. You don’t need to be a meteorologist when looking at the eye of the storm to predict massive destruction to property and to fear the toll on human lives.            Long before I began writing the Sabrina Salter series, I fell in love with an island. Lush with tree-covered hills, abundant with endless beaches, I happened onto St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands when I was on a cruise more than thirty years ago. Riding under a shady tree canopy over roads with perpendicular hills and switchbacks more terrifying than a rollercoaster, I arrived at Trunk Bay where the beach with warm silky turquoise water and talcum powder sand enchanted me. My husband and I vowed to return. Within six months, we did. Again and again, as often as three times a year over the next three decades. Now we spend half of the year on island.              My love affair with St. John began with the rush of a crush. My senses were overloaded. I was sure my eyes were deceiving me. There could be no shade of green or blue as vibrant the sea. The sensation of a soft tickle on my skin was a gift from the local Tradewinds. My ears were treated to the songs of birds and the whispers of wind through palm trees.            But like with any love affair, the sizzle was bound to fizzle. When I was no longer gushing at the dramatic beauty I’d found in St. John, although I still appreciated it, I became aware of more subtle treasures. The people of St. John are remarkable in spirit and generosity. Often considered a curious crew, St. John draws people who are strong individuals, many opinionated, most creative and many artistic. They are rugged, yet sensitive, and ferociously loyal. In St. John, if you’ve got a problem, you’ve got a friend.            I learned as much about myself as I did about my beloved island, two thirds of which is part of the National Park Service.  As I hiked the trails of Reef Bay and Ram Head in silence, I discovered a Michele I had yet to meet. One who appreciated words were not always necessary and the power of the Universe not always found in churches. That you don’t need “stuff” to live well and that the one commodity needed by all human beings is kindness.               This morning, I’m perched safely on Cape Cod in Massachusetts, far away from St. John as Irma skulks toward its shores. Poised to hear news, praying that everyone is safe, and that damage is minimal, I am reminded of another lesson learned on an island where Mother Nature reigns as queen. All of this is beyond my control and I am at peace with that. I have faith in the people on St. John. They have rebuilt before and will again. Resilience is something no hurricane can destroy on St. John.            I’ve been working on my third Sabrina Salter novel, which coincidentally is set during a hurricane on St. John where the courage and humanity of my characters is challenged by the forces of nature. I know where to find the inspiration to finish my story.

  We were walking in the woods one morning, having inspected the pond for insects and the river for currents. The air was cool for August, but the sun shone through the trees splashing patterns on the path. There was magic in the air.            “Grandma, I looked you up on my mom’s phone,” said Wyatt, my beautiful and brilliant seven-year-old grandson.            “You mean, you Googled me?” I asked.            “Yeah, I found a picture of you and a picture of your book,” Wyatt said, grinning at me with pride, which I think was directed more at his research skills than that his grandmother had written a book. Still, I was honored and touched.            He climbed up on a huge rock, posing for a photo with me his grandfather took, and ran ahead into the forest. The sight of his blonde head, lean tall young body, jumping over limbs made my heart sing.            “I have a story, too,” he said, called back as he forged ahead.            “Tell us about it,” I said.            And he did. The tale began with three children in the middle of one night when they awoke to join in an adventure that began with them entering a portal on an urgent rescue mission.            “Wow, that’s a great hook,” I said, explaining to him what a hook was and how important it is to excite your reader right from the start.            He nodded and went on to tell a tale with twists and turns, spirals and arcs, characters that included Dr. Seuss and his dog, as we listened, spellbound by a seven-year-old whose imagination was unfolding before us in the forest. I asked an occasional question, but I hesitated to interrupt the miracle we were witnessing. Wyatt answered patiently, moving on to the next scene in his story, clearly pleased by my interest.            There was a finale, which Wyatt revealed just as we returned to the same pond where we had begun our walk. The climax was both happy and satisfying. Pleased with himself and our admiration for his talent, Wyatt told us he had lots of stories to tell.            Is this how it begins? The budding of a writer. A child born to be a storyteller. We encouraged Wyatt to try to put his stories on paper or to dictate it into one of the many devices children his age consider to be natural appendages. We explained, stories are gifts to be shared.            I wondered. Do all children have stories inside of them or are some just born to tell tales, while others to make music or paint or sculpt?  Where do these talents go, if not nurtured? Do we suffocate our children with busyness and activities we think they should be doing and ignore what they naturally and instinctively hold within themselves?            A seed sits in every child, waiting to be planted, watered, and grown.  If ignored, the plant wilts and goes to seed. Decades later, the adult wonders what is lying dormant in the empty cave within him. With a little luck and a lot of tenacity, the adult may rediscover the gift that was his to give from the beginning.            Let’s honor the artists in our children. Let there be writers, sculptors, painters, singers, musicians, and artists of all kinds, nurtured from seed. For this to happen, all we have to do is listen and love.

 We are thrilled to have D. A. (“Alison”) Bartley join us at Miss Demeanors and wanted you to get to know a little more about her, so we interrogated her for you. She sat unflappable under the hot lights for hours while we grilled her. She’s going to fit in just fine here at www.MissDemeanors.com Miss Demeanors:   When did you first know you wanted to be a writer?  Alison: I should have always known, but I didn’t. It was only after I started writing my first mystery that I realized how much I loved being a writer.  I’m a lifelong mystery reader, so my mind gravitates towards puzzles. I started writing when my mom was in the final stages of Alzheimers. I was flying back and forth between New York and Utah all the time. On one of those trips I visited a friend in Pleasant View, where there was an enormous, brand-new house that was completely empty. I couldn’t get the house out of my head. One day I started writing about it. I had written about seven chapters when my daughter got a moderate concussion playing lacrosse. (She is completely fine now!) She had to stay in a dark room without a computer or books while she recovered. She didn’t like the audio books I got her and asked me to read what I was writing. When I finished reading everything I’d written at that point, she asked, “What happens next?” I told her I didn’t know. She asked me to go write some more. So I did. That story became Blood Atonement, which is scheduled to be published by Crooked Lane in 2018. Miss Demeanors:   What other careers, jobs have you had? Alison: I was a litigator with a large international law firm in Manhattan. Then I was a research scholar. My area of interest was state sovereignty and international law. I have a Ph.D. in political science and a law degree. In both fields your writing and ideas are constantly critiqued. You learn not to get too attached to words or thoughts because, generally, the critiquing process makes your writing and thinking better. In retrospect, it’s probably not a bad background for a writer. Miss Demeanors:   Who has influenced you as a writer?  Alison:   First and foremost, Agatha Christie. My mom and grandma were big mystery readers. Agatha Christie was at the top of their lists, so she was at the top of mine, too. There are so many other great writers who inspire me. On my nightstand and Kindle right now there’s some P.D. James, Terry Tempest Williams, Harold Evans, Elizabeth George, Linda Castillo, Craig Johnson, Dana Stabenow and Zygmunt Miłoszewski. I recently finished my first Tana French and can’t wait to read more.   Miss Demeanors:    What is your debut novel about? Alison:    Unquestioning faith. My protagonist, Abish Taylor, grew up in Utah, but moved away after high school. She has returned to work as the sole detective in a small town in the north of the state. Her father is a well-respected Mormon historian and Chair of the Church History and Doctrine Department at Brigham Young University. Abbie doesn’t go to church, so there’s tension between father and daughter. Both Abbie and her dad want a close relationship, but neither is very good with interpersonal connections.  Of course, there’s a body (maybe more than one), and it has hallmarks of a ritual dating back to the days of Brigham Young. Abbie starts investigating and uncovers a dark side of the quiet town of Pleasant View…  After that, I can’t say.  Miss Demeanors:    What is something about you that would surprise us? Alison:   I spent my junior year studying in Leningrad/St. Petersburg because I thought I wanted to be a Sovietologist. On second thought, maybe a better answer is that I completed Improv 101 at the Upright Citizens Brigade. I heard an interview with Amy Poehler where she spoke about how the world would be a better place if everyone learned the skills that make for good improv. I thought, “Wow, I don’t do any of those things very well.” I signed up. The two most important practices I learned there were how important it is to really listen to other people, and that it’s much better to say “yes, and” than to say “yes, but.” I wish I could say I’ve mastered those skills. I haven’t, but I know when I follow the improv rules, life flows a little more smoothly.  So now you’ve met our newest Miss Demeanor. Please stop by and ask a question we may have missed.      

  Michele: I’m always fascinated by photos of where people write. Even better, I love to visit actual locations of authors. The Mark Twain House is one of my favorites. I asked my fellow Miss Demeanors to share where they write. I’ve included my own writing spots. One is in St. John; the others are in my she-shed writing sanctuary on Cape Cod.   Tracee: I split my time between my office, where I have a big computer monitor and face away from the window to avoid distractions, and outside on my front porch, where the view is lovely and calm. I tend to think of indoor work as the nuts and bolts of entering changes to the manuscript or fact-checking. The boring stuff. I prefer the porch unless the rain is blowing too hard or it is literally freezing. I’m fortunate that I’m well back from the street so it feels like an oasis, a perfect place to let my mind wander. It also helps that the dogs get to be outside….  Paula: I recently converted what was once a back porch into my new creativity space, which gives me room for reading and daydreaming on the daybed (which also serves as a guest bed in a pinch), as well as for writing (I sit cross-legged on the daybed with a lap desk and my laptop). I also have enough room for yoga and meditation. All of these things — reading, daydreaming, writing, doing yoga and meditating — are critical to my writing process.   Cate: The view from my writing space, as long as it’s sunny. When I look up from the computer, I like to see something pretty.   Alexia:  I write in a variety of places: airports, airplanes, hotels, coffee shops, home, etc. I bought a membership in a co-working space so I’d have someplace near home to write when home felt too distracting. My only essential elements are paper and pen for writing, laptop, internet access, and a power cord for editing. Alison: What a good question! I really don’t need anything except for my computer. I’ll write in bed, at a park or on a plane. Having said that, I like to work at a standing desk (aka a dresser I’ve stacked two thick books on top of so my computer is at exactly the right height for me) with my “view” from the back of our apartment in Manhattan.   Susan: This is the view from my office window. (It’s no wonder I keep writing about oak trees!)    Where do you like to write or read? Post your photos. I’ll send a free copy of Permanent Sunset, the second book in my Sabrina Salter series to Miss Demeanors’ favorite photo! (Must post by midnight, Sunday, July 23rd)