Bouchercon Special: Free E-books

October 10, 2015 / Diane Henders / 28 Comments

I’m honoured to have been one of the mystery/crime/thriller authors selected to promote Smashwords at Bouchercon 2015, the world mystery convention being held this weekend in Raleigh, NC.

Never Say Spy (Book 1) and The Spy Is Cast (Book 2) were included on the Smashwords USB drive given to all Bouchercon attendees.

North Carolina is a helluva long trip for most people, though, so I’m making both e-books free to everyone this weekend. (Never Say Spy is free through all retailers, but The Spy Is Cast freebie is only available through Smashwords.)

Get the freebies from Smashwords here:

Never Say Spy (Book 1): https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/96058

The Spy Is Cast (Book 2): https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/100014 (Enter coupon code NH25H and click the ‘Apply Coupon’ button when you check out. The price will reset to $0.00.)

Note: This series contains coarse language and adult content.

This deal ends tomorrow (Sunday, October 11, 2015) so please spread the word. Thanks!

Fear Factor: Kitchen Edition

October 7, 2015 / Diane Henders / 54 Comments

Since October is Halloween month, I’m doing a series of Fear Factor posts. Here’s Number 1:

* * *

This week I embarked on a perilous mission. One that forced me to confront the darkest places in my soul. An epic crusade requiring nerves and stomach of steel.

Yes, I cleaned out the vegetable drawer in the fridge.

Ew.

I don’t know why I have such a mental block against vegetables. I eat a healthy diet most of the time. Fruit never goes bad in my house. But veggies? Um… yeah. If it’s not irresistibly delicious like fresh peas and beans or durable like carrots and beets and cabbage, it’s bad news.

I lifted out a bag of lettuce that had turned into soup without ever nearing a stockpot. Half a cucumber squished softly inside its plastic wrapper, its skin dotted with fuzzy black and white spots. A green pepper had only a small ring of black around the stem but when I cut it open it leaked foul-smelling liquid, like a giant green pustule.

Who knew that neglected green peppers turn into witch zits? Dang, if I’d only known, I could’ve kept it until Halloween and used it for decoration.

And speaking of the scariest night of the year, I could’ve offered a pretty good fear factor if I hadn’t cleaned out my bin of plastic storage containers. Seriously, that thing would scare anybody. Any time I need a container, it’s a quest worthy of Indiana Jones.

When I realize I need something from The Bin Of Doom, my heart sinks and a sense of impending disaster washes over me. I don’t even want to open the cupboard door because I know that therein lurks mortal peril. One time I opened it without sufficient preparation, and I spent the next week with a bruise on the bridge of my nose because one of the larger containers hurled itself at my face in a fit of unprovoked aggression. Plastic containers may look benign, but never trust those suckers.

So I cautiously open the cupboard door, muttering arcane incantations to protect myself: “Stay put, you bastards. I’m just going to eeeease out this one little tiny container- Aagh! Ow! Shit!”

That’s another thing about plastic containers: They ferociously protect their young.

Anyway, I finally faced the inevitable. Donned my body armour and face shield and hauled the whole bin out. The plastics mounted a daunting counterattack, but I escaped with only a few dents in my skull and equanimity. Then I sorted and reorganized the whole thing and put it back in the cupboard with my sense of accomplishment tempered by fatalism.

For now, it’s safe to open that door. But I know my enemy all too well (and the enemy is me). After a few iterations of “Oh, I don’t feel like dragging the whole bin out just to replace this one thing; I’ll just balance it on top”, I know the situation will recur. If it happens in time for Halloween, I’ll invite the little ghosties and ghoulies in and scare the crap out of them.

Or I could introduce them to the Tower of Terror: the precarious heap of bottles and cans that threatens to inundate anyone foolish enough to reach into the corner of the pantry. That’d do the trick.

What’s the scariest place in your house?

The Terrifying ‘Bearrot’

September 30, 2015October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 44 Comments

My mind goes strange places when I’m half-awake (or half-asleep, depending on whether you’re a glass-half-full or glass-half-empty type of person). So it didn’t really surprise me when halfway through my shower, my brain announced, “Parrots! We should write a post about parrots!”

Me (grumbling into my washcloth): “What’s this ‘we’ shit? I don’t know anything about parrots. Where the hell did that random thought come from?”

Brain: “Come on, it’ll be fun! You could write about the World Parrot Refuge on Vancouver Island.”

Me (still cranky): “There was nothing funny about the refuge. It’s a cool place and it’s great that they take in unwanted parrots, but I spent the whole visit wishing I’d brought an umbrella to fend off the birdshit, and that creepy little bald cockatiel kept landing on my shoulder and cuddling up like I was his long-lost Mommy. Besides, I don’t trust any bird that’s capable of biting my finger off.”

Brain: “Oh, get over it. Parrots are amazing! They come in spectacular colours, they’re smart, they can live as long as humans, they can talk-”

Me: “Yeah, great. So now we’ve got a crafty old bird that lures you over with a display of pretty feathers and a cutesy ‘Polly want a cracker’, and then it bites your finger off!”

Brain: “Aw, come on. You can find something funny about parrots. How about Monty Python’s ‘Dead Parrot’ sketch?”

Me: “Well, there’s that…” (returning to the debate): “But that’s the only funny thing about parrots. Forget parrots. Maybe I could blog about my bear belt; make a few jokes about how dorky I look striding around the garden with that strapped to me.”

The bear belt: Everything I need to frighten a bear through sheer dorkage.

Brain: *martyred sigh* You’ve written about bears. Over and over. Everybody’s tired of bears. And they already know you look like a dork on a regular basis. Parrots, I tell you. You need to write about parrots!”

Me: “Piss off. Parrots are scary. Those blank soulless eyes…”

Brain: “Huh. Like bears aren’t scary? But you still manage to joke about them.”

Me (weakening): “Well, yeah, but…”

Brain (sensing imminent triumph): “Bears are terrifying! Parrots are much funnier.”

Me: “True, bears are terrifying…” *tries diversionary tactic* “Hey, you know what’s the only thing that could possibly make bears scarier?”

Brain (distracted): “Huh? Bullshit. Nothing could make bears scarier.”

Me: “Oh, hellz yeah! What if…” *pauses dramatically* “…you crossed a bear with a parrot?”

Brain: *stunned silence*

Me: “Imagine it! A bear that can not only chase you and eat you on the ground; it can also fly. Swooping down on silent wings with claws and teeth bared…”

Brain: “A bearrot. The most terrifying animal to stalk the earth…”

Me: *snickering* “…and you’d really want an umbrella…”

This is what happens when I blog while not completely awake.

Ears Like A Fruit Bat

September 23, 2015 / Diane Henders / 56 Comments

In the past I’ve complained about various parts of my body starting to mutiny as I get older, so I thought I should give credit where credit is due: My ears are still loyal citizens of the Kingdom of Diane.

Mind you, they do enjoy making me look like a goofball on a semi-regular basis. F’rinstance, they don’t necessarily translate other people’s speech accurately. Some of the things I’ve thought I heard would raise an eyebrow or two. But considering that they have to use my brain as an intermediary, my ears are probably doing the best they can.

Their preferences can be picky and arbitrary. I always carry a set of earplugs because movies are invariably too loud. Same with live bands, and sometimes even noisy bars. Outdoors I shoot wearing sound-dampening earmuffs; indoors I have to use muffs and plugs because muffs alone don’t soften the reports sufficiently for my princess eardrums.

But give me the fat lolloping rumble of a tricked-out big-block with straight pipes, and I’ll just grin and soak it all up earplug-free. Until I get to the drag strip and those pipes really start to bellow. Then I need earplugs again.

But I don’t mind indulging my ears a little. They’re good ears. I can tell whether a CRT is switched on without even being in the room, because I can hear the high-frequency electronic resonance. When we had cats, I could always hear them coming by the sound of stealthy paws compressing the pile of the carpet.

Or, as my brother-in-law puts it: “You’ve got ears like a fruit bat.”

(*Giggle* I originally mis-typed that as ‘ears like a fruit bag’, which is an entirely different thing.)

Anyway, I didn’t realize how dependent I am on my hearing until I had a bad cold and both ears got blocked. Apparently I cook based on sound. Whether it’s the barbeque or an open fire or the frying pan, I know it’s the right temperature when the food sizzles properly. Pancakes sizzle at a different frequency than, say, scrambled eggs. Foil-wrapped potatoes/butter/onions over an open fire should sizzle loudly but not crackle. Until my ears cleared I hovered anxiously over everything I cooked, wondering whether I was cremating it or barely warming it.

Since I’m a gearhead, I’m also attuned to even the tiniest change of sound in my car. We were driving this weekend when I mentioned to Hubby that I’ve been noticing a very slight whine lately that might be drivetrain-related. He couldn’t hear it even when I hummed its frequency (admittedly not the most effective diagnostic tool, since I can’t carry a tune in a bucket).

But I know he has a few flat spots in his hearing, so I remarked, “Oh, well, it’s probably just in one of the ranges you can’t hear.”

And he said, “Oh, you mean like the ‘wife zone’. Guys don’t pick up that frequency at all.”

I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that…

That’s me: Ears like a fruit bat.

Attack Of The Killer T… Oh, Wait; That’s Been Done.

September 16, 2015 / Diane Henders / 49 Comments

They’re coming. They slowly fill our house like an inexorable tide, backing us into the corners while we battle them with knives and saucepans…

Okay; so they’re not exactly ‘killer’ tomatoes.

We’re about to get our first hard frost so we brought in most of the garden produce this past weekend. (The snow in August was just a warning. This time they’re serious: Predicting -4C. Brrr.)

We measure the production of our garden in gallons because we transport it all home in 5-gallon pails. Our weekend haul was 10 gallons of green tomatoes (fortunately they ripen easily indoors), 15 gallons of carrots, and 60 gallons of potatoes. We could probably feed a small town.

But we can’t help ourselves. Every year I say to Hubby, “You know, we’re planting an awful lot of potatoes.”

And he says, “Uh-huh”, and keeps on planting.

I don’t really try to stop him. For a foodie like me, a plethora of potatoes is pretty close to heaven. When we dig them in the fall, Hubby maintains a stoic silence while I exclaim: “Oh, wow, look at this one! Now that’s a potato! Look at the size of this one! Oh, look, look, there are tons of them under here! Woohoo!” On and on I go with boundless enthusiasm until we’ve extracted the last tuber. You’d think I’d never seen a potato before.

It’s the same with the zucchini and tomatoes and beans and everything else throughout the summer. Chortling over the plenitude of produce, I drag Hubby hither and yon in the garden babbling, “Look at this one! And this one! Look how big/shiny/beautiful/(fill in superlative here) this one is!”

It’s not until I’m into the umpteenth hour of standing in the kitchen chopping and blanching and canning that the thrill begins to fade.

Yes, that is a 10-gallon pot full of carrots.

That’s when I begin to remind myself that there are three supermarkets within a mile of my house. I could just trot over and buy whatever I wanted throughout the winter instead of going to all this trouble. And if I wanted to ogle large quantities of vegetables I could go and stand in the produce department.

But it’s not the same. They’re not my vegetables. Supermarket potatoes are generic. Ours are Norlands and Vikings and Purple Caribes and French Fingerlings and Yukon Gems. We line them up and do taste tests and debate production levels with the seriousness of a UN conference. (Potato taste-test winners thus far are the French Fingerlings and Norlands, but more testing is required.)

And despite my aching back, I know that in a few months I’ll eagerly yield to the seduction of the hortiporn once again.

Hey, if it made sense it wouldn’t be a hobby, right?

* * *

P.S. Just because I know you’ve come to expect dirty jokes on my blog, here you go:

Q: Why do gardeners make excellent gossip columnists?

A: Because they’re always digging up dirt.

And:

Q: Why did the gardeners get kicked out of the church picnic?

A: Because they were telling dirty stories.

And finally:

Did you hear about the 1-900 line for gardeners? When you call in, a happy hoer will talk dirty for you.

I could go on, but I wouldn’t want WordPress to censor me again for all these dirty jokes…

Games With Whipped Cream

September 9, 2015 / Diane Henders / 39 Comments

It all started with whipped cream and a devilish grin…

…Sorry to dash your hopes, but this isn’t going where you think. Nope; for a change I’m writing a G-rated post. (Well, okay, I realize how unlikely that is. Maybe PG-13.)

Anyhow, a couple of days ago Hubby and I were eating dinner. I had made crêpes and I was alternating flavours: dousing the first one with maple syrup, then rolling up the next one with whipped cream, sugar, and cinnamon.

I had just finished rolling up a plump crêpe when Hubby looked over at my plate and gave me a devilish grin. “That’s really full of whipped cream,” he observed. “What would happen if I did… THIS!”

And he mimed slamming his hand down on the end of my crêpe.

Imagining my crêpe being transformed into a whipped-cream cannon, I burst out laughing because it brought back great memories of being in the Taché Hall residence at the University of Manitoba a few decades ago.

Taché Hall now houses the Marcel A. Desautels Faculty of Music, but it was originally built in 1911 as dormitories for the Agricultural College. (The College later expanded and became the University of Manitoba. For history and architecture buffs, a fascinating account of Taché’s history is available here.)

Taché Hall in 1911, when the U of M was still the Agricultural College.

It still retained most of its original grandeur by the time I got there in 1982, but we rowdy prairie teenagers failed utterly to respect it. Fortunately it was mostly stone, because it never would have survived otherwise.

That’s where the whipped-cream memory comes in. Or rather, shaving cream. (Or sometimes sheep shit from the agricultural buildings, but that’s another story.)

The room doors had been modernized and the locks were good (unless someone who shall remain nameless managed to purloin a master key… and that’s another ‘nother story). But there was a gap of approximately half an inch under each door.

Some enterprising person (no, not I) devised a nasty and elegantly simple practical joke. The only materials required were a sturdy 8×10 manila envelope and a can of shaving cream (or semi-liquid sheep shit, depending on how nasty you wanted to get).

Once the envelope was filled with the substance of choice, one had only to slide the open end of the envelope under the gap in the victim’s door and then jump on the envelope. The resulting high-velocity splatter would reach nearly every part of the tiny room. Bonus points were awarded if the occupant was present at the time.

Another favourite prank was the shit-shower, in which the prankster lurked in a toilet stall bearing a bucket of ice water mixed with shredded toilet paper. When an unsuspecting victim entered the adjacent cubicle and sat down, the prankster would dump the bucket over the cubicle wall, dousing the victim and escaping before he/she could pull his/her pants up and pursue.

(Note: I swear I never did these things. I was only an innocent bystander.)

It’s amazing how one crêpe can bring back so many happy memories…

* * *

P.S. I’ve finished the next cover update: Tell Me No Spies. Slowly but surely, I’m getting them done…

Cremation, Cucurbits, And Coc… Erm… ‘Roosters’

September 2, 2015 / Diane Henders / 66 Comments

This week’s silliness comes to you courtesy of my friend and long-suffering employee, David, who went to considerable effort to snap the following photo for me:

Ummm…. Okay… There’s an unexpected combo…

This is why David and I have worked together so well for so long: a complete meeting of minds over all things even remotely humorous. We laughed ourselves silly(er). Cremation and hospitality? Is there a brew pub in the basement so you can suck back a few pints after immolating the mortal remains of your loved ones? Or maybe they rent out the chapel for weddings and bar mitzvahs in between memorial services?

I guess it could be worse, though. My mind immediately leaped to other unfortunate potential combinations like ‘Cremation and Wild-West Weenie Roast’, but maybe that’s too tasteless entirely. (And there’s nothing worse than a tasteless weenie.)

Speaking of weenies, last week I speculated that my zucchini might have suffered shrinkage due to the frosty outdoor temperatures. Eh, no. Not even close.

Just as plump and perky as ever (the zukes, not me).

I realize these are nothing compared to the behemoths that grow in more temperate climates, but those gardeners know better than to turn their backs on a zucchini plant for two weeks at a time. I shoved these bad boys into the downstairs fridge, and when I went down to check on them the next day they’d wedged themselves against the door in a bid for freedom. I’m pretty sure they’re still growing. Maybe the researchers who developed Viagra should be studying zucchini right about now.

Anyway, floating along this stream of consciousness…

I spotted this on my walk yesterday:

Yes, that says ‘Rooster Scented Jasmine Rice’

For those of us who grew up on a farm, this brings to mind (or rather ‘to nose’) a far-too-vivid image. Have you ever smelled a rooster? Nasty. Just nasty.

But it could have been worse. They might have used a synonym for ‘rooster’. I’d love to see the reactions of passersby if they’d been advertising ‘Cock Scented Rice’.

Maybe you think I’m reaching a bit with that thought, but I assure you I’m not. This fine product is available from Amazon if your local grocery doesn’t carry it: http://www.amazon.com/Grace-Cock-Flavored-Soup-Mix/dp/B002Q46EH6

Yes, this is a real food product.

And speaking of Amazon, I just had to share a capture of the screen that displayed when I looked up the soup mix. Note the ‘Also-Viewed’ offerings: ‘50 Ways to Eat Cock: Healthy Chicken Recipes With Balls’, and ‘Aunty‘s Spotted Dick Pudding’.

Amazon has a dirtier mind than I do.

Ahem.

As usual, my stream of consciousness has carried me far past the point where I should have paddled hurriedly ashore and portaged past the treacherous bits.

So, leaving behind the sordid beginnings of this post, I’ll finish off with something bearing no connection to cremation, cucurbits, or cocks. (Though, come to think of it, it does include two out of three of those. Dang, if I’d had Aydan eating zucchini instead of peas from her garden I could’ve scored the trifecta.)

Anyway, voilà: I’ve finally finished another cover update. This one’s for Book 3: Reach For The Spy:

Quite a change from the original, but I didn’t feel comfortable pointing even an unloaded weapon at my photographer friends.

Snow And Shrinkage

August 26, 2015October 2, 2018 / Diane Henders / 39 Comments

So it snowed on Friday. Yes, in mid-August: http://www.cbc.ca/news/trending/summer-snowfall-near-calgary-greeted-with-only-in-alberta-sentiment-1.3200450

Only a couple of weeks ago we hit the hottest temperature in 110 years of recorded Calgary temperatures: 34 degrees Celsius (93F). I know that’s not terribly hot compared to the rest of the world, but we thought we were going to melt. Then Friday morning it started dumping down rain, a north wind blew in, and by 4 PM it was 1.5 degrees Celsius (34.7 F) and… yes, snowing.

Leaping to the rescue of our veggies, Hubby and I drove to our garden outside town, where we pulled out our three big 30×40 tarps and covered most of one garden (the potatoes and onions had to fend for themselves). When I mentioned I was thinking of burrowing under the tarps to pick a couple of zucchinis before they got too big, Hubby replied, “No, don’t worry, they’ll shrink in this cold weather.” I promptly snorted tea through my nose at the mental image of shrivelled, flaccid zukes huddled shivering under the tarp.

Which, of course, reminded me of this scene from Seinfeld.

And while I’m in that, erm… area, let me tell you about the gigantic rod of hot meat I got in my Brazilian last night. It was amazing! It just kept coming and coming until I was so sore and exhausted I had to beg for mercy…

Wait, why are you looking at me like that? I was talking about a Brazilian barbeque restaurant. What did you think?

Yes, we went to Bolero for dinner last night: a meat-lovers’ heaven. Fixed price, all you can eat. There’s a salad bar, too, but don’t be distracted from the main event (which my friend Laurie terms ‘meatatarianism’). The servers keep bringing gigantic skewers of barbequed meat to carve at your table until you beg them to stop. Last night it was bacon-wrapped filet mignon, garlic parmesan sirloin, habanero pork loin, lamb shoulder, bacon-wrapped chicken, and a few others I can’t remember, including some squares of amazing grilled halloumi (Arabic cheese that has a very high melting point), and absolutely delicious grilled pineapple. Yes, I was in pain afterward, but it was so worth it!

Meanwhile, I’m slowly resurfacing into real life after my burial in the last-minute minutiae of releasing Spy Away Home. Emerging dazed and blinking, I’m looking around and realizing I haven’t done anything silly for a very long time (unless you consider gorging on meat to the point of pain to be silly).

This needs to be remedied – I don’t dare let my silliness levels drop too low or I’ll wake up some day to find myself dressed in a suit, sitting at a boardroom table and nodding seriously while somebody drones on about ‘leveraging synergies’ or some shit.

So please help me out here: What’s your favourite silly activity, one that’s guaranteed to make you laugh?

Oh, and in the mean time, here’s a little gem I found on Facebook that helps explain our attitude to snow in August:

P.S. Spy Away Home is now available for pre-order at all retailers – click here for links. Release date September 4, 2015!

It’s A Fine Line…

August 19, 2015 / Diane Henders / 43 Comments

People often ask me about my creative process, so I thought it might be helpful to provide an illustration of the exact process that went into creating last week’s post. Voilà: My Creative Process.

P.S. We have a release date for Book 10, Spy Away Home: September 4, 2015! I tried really hard for August, but it just wasn’t to be. Pre-orders should be available at all distributors within the next few days (Amazon and Smashwords are already up). If you’ve signed up on the new-release notification list, you’ll get an email when all the pre-orders are up, and again when the book is available.

P.P.S. I’m on the road today, so I won’t be able to respond to comments until this evening. ‘Talk’ to you then!

Nostril-damus Speaks

August 12, 2015 / Diane Henders / 37 Comments

I had a great idea for today’s blog post, but by the time I got up from the breakfast table I’d forgotten it. Seriously. One minute I was thinking, “Oh, that’ll make a good blog post”, and the next minute…

*blank*

I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I know my memory is shitty, but this was ‘way over the top.

I spent the next twenty minutes racking my brain for the wisp of genius (after I forget an idea, it always seems like the most brilliant thought ever conceived). Finally I recalled it, but I couldn’t figure out what was so great about it.

So, in the absence of genius (which, to be realistic, was unlikely in the first place) I’ll fall back on my usual weirdness. Today’s topic is nostril hair.

The thought came to me a while ago, when I was talking to a woman whose nostrils were, erm… a significant facial feature. Huge and completely round in a slightly upturned nose, they looked like twin mineshafts in white limestone.

But it wasn’t their size and placement that caught my attention. No; it was the fact that they were smooth dark abysses, completely hairless inside as far as the eye could see (and I was at an unfortunate angle that allowed me a full view).

It took all my willpower to focus on her eyes. My gaze kept getting dragged down to the Nostrils of Doom. And while my mouth made idle chitchat, my brain was boggling. How did she get rid of every single hair? Most people have at least a few hairs ‘way up there to act as a pre-filter for bugs and dust.

Nostril hair is the final privacy frontier. Nobody ever talks about it. Even TV commercials and spam emails don’t go there. They’ll offer me ‘discreet bladder protection’ and a half-dozen ways to remove ‘unwanted body hair’; each more barbaric than the last. They’ll go on about ‘feminine hygiene products’ that are inexplicably linked to white frilly dresses and white horses in fields of white daisies, or at the very least, white pants and a lot of jumping around. Or worse, they offer me ‘feminine freshness’ (with more daisies). Ew.

For the guys, it’s razors that look like race cars, with some dude caressing his smooth manly jaw and smirking at the camera. Or it’s Viagra and Cialis ads (which would be considerably more entertaining if they featured a dude smirking and caressing a manly body part, but I haven’t seen an ad like that yet).

One way or another, it seems the entire advertising world wants to get all up in our bizniss and attack our body hair. But despite the fact that no topic seems off-limits… have you ever seen an ad for a nose hair trimmer?

I haven’t.

That’s when the questions began in my brain: Is nostril hair so shameful that even TV ads won’t tackle it? Do people secretly buy nose-hair trimmers in plain brown wrappers? Is laser nostril-hair removal a ‘thing’?

And most importantly: Without the constant badgering of advertisers, how do we even know we should be depilating our nostrils?

I dunno. It seems to me that this is a major untapped market in personal grooming. I foresee a whole batch of cringe-inducing ads as soon as the industry realizes its omission.

Alert the media, but remember: Nostril-damus predicted it first, right here.

* * *

My readers have spoken! The survey from two weeks ago showed that 48% had no preference for which day of the week Spy Away Home should be released, and 33% preferred Friday. So we’ll probably have a Friday release day… I just don’t know which Friday yet. 🙂 When I get the last of my beta reader feedback and I know how much work is left for me to do, I’ll choose a release date and set up the pre-orders. Fingers crossed that the feedback is good…