The thermometer outside our kitchen window hovered halfway between 0 and 10 this morning.

Cozy warm, Rudy (cat) and I felt bad as John (husband) crunched across our backyard to set out feeders and suet for waiting woodpeckers (downy, red belly, hairy), nuthatches (white and red-breasted), white-throated sparrows, cardinals, and the rest.

In anticipation of the morning’s weather, right before lights out last night I picked up the sole book permanently perched on my bed stand – E.B. White’s “One Man’s Meat” – to read “Cold Weather”. White lived on a seaside farm in North Brooklin, Maine not far from Acadia National Park. In January, 1943 he wrote:

“For about a month now we’ve had solid firm cold—firm business-like cold that stalked in and took charge of the countryside … Clean, hard, purposeful cold, unyielding and unremitting. Some days have been clear and cold, others stormy and cold. We have had cold with snow and cold without snow, windy cold and quiet cold, rough cold and indulgent peace-loving cold. But always cold.”

In the piece White says there’s a “fraternity of the cold” to which he’s glad to belong.

Me too.

Several days ago in November at the Sisters in Crime/Mystery Writers of America annual meeting in the Boston area, I stood in front of the crowded ballroom as I – and a dozen or so other authors – were applauded. Each of us had received awards of one type or another for a mystery we published in 2018. Mine was an IPPY (Independent Publisher Book Awards) for “Demon Spirit, Devil Sea”.

I’ve received numerous awards and the like for my books and short stories, but I’d never stood before hundreds of my peers as the big room rang with applause. I think it would’ve been awkward had I been alone up there, but with such a group – many terrific authors – I have to say it felt just terrific.

On any full moon evening when it’s clear, you’ll find me staring eastward as the first glorious bit of light slides up onto the horizon. It’s truly a spectacle of nature and it happens every month!

I can’t really explain my fanatism. The full moon rising is a beautiful sight to be sure, but so are gorgeous sunrises and sunsets and I don’t go running around looking for them. I think my full moon passion has something to do with its simplicity and reliability. An “oo-ah” sunset is gaudy – every color red you can name – and you can’t count on it. In contrast, the rising full moon on a clear night is pure white-gold. And it happens at sunset exactly when NOAA says it will.

On Little John Island where I live, the public dock faces southeast towards Chebeague Island on the other side a good-size channel. It’s a perfect full moon viewing spot. Last evening my husband John (yes, John lives on Little John) stared open-mouthed as the Harvest Moon rose right over the Chebeague Island Inn.

On the way home we agreed, for the thousandth time, that we are so lucky to live in this lovely, lovely place. Neither of us has overwintered here – so I’ll report back mid-winter about the experience of full moon viewing off Little John then.

Like most authors, I write short stories and articles in addition to books. For one thing, short pieces like these are easier because, well, they’re short!

I explored a particular interest in an article published by New England’s Sisters in Crime group. Social Change Through Fiction explains why novels are such important vehicles for social change messages. Researching the piece I learned, for example, that the abolitionists’ book Uncle Tom’s Cabin was the best selling book of the 19th century next to the bible.

Last year my short story Bless America’s Visitors was selected for and published in an anthology titled Snowbound: Best New England Crime Stories (Level Best Books). I was thrilled to be published with the likes of Lucy Burdette, Bruce Coffin, and Edith Maxwell.

Bless America’s Visitors begins when crusty retired lobsterman Barney McRae steps onto his lobster boat Bless America. It’s dawn and Barney is horrified to find a dead man in his wheelhouse. Barney staggers backwards into the coaming on the stern of his boat, clutches his chest, and slides down the transom onto his butt. On shore, ER doctor Nadia Almasi sees Barney, thinks he had a heart attack, and runs to him. The story brings Barney face-to-face with a female doctor from a country he can’t even guess. It’s a story of old-time and contemporary Maine—people who seemingly have nothing in common who end up helping each other.

This year I’ll submit another story for the Level Best competition. In The Seeding of Brianna Mahoney’s Destiny, still in draft form, a Maine mother has been told her autistic daughter needs to attend a private school the family can’t afford. Maureen, the protagonist, can get a lot of cash fast if she cheats on her quota for catching eels. But Maureen comes from a proud fishing family that greatly values conservation of fish, lobsters, and other Maine critters. She must choose between preserving her family’s reputation and the future welfare of her only precious daughter.

I’m working on another “Flash Fiction” story for the Maine CrimeWave meeting in June. Starting with this sentence—On the thirteenth alligator gizzard she opened with her scalpel, out poured a dazzling array of cabochon-cut star sapphires, mingled with mud, grit, and a rotting human finger—we must write a story of no more than 500 words. It’s a challenge for sure, but I’m hoping my entry titled Because Gators Need Stones will be recognized. I’ll let you know!

Magazines are another terrific outlet for writers (and they pay). A First-hand Lesson in Lobstering appeared in the 2017 November/December addition of Maine Boats, Homes, & Harbors. In that piece, which was really fun to write, I describe a day on the water when a lobsterman was kind enough to let me tag along. At the time I was working on Secrets Haunt the Lobsters’ Sea and had never actually watched how lobstering is actually done up close. It was a lovely day and I learned a lot.

Writing is hard work and you have to keep at it. Other the other hand, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.