2018 May : Camille Minichino

Archive for May, 2018

Happy Birthday, Gemini!

Filed Under : Personal by Camille

May.31,2018

Gemini dates: May 21-June 20

On the door of our local coffee shop is a sign: “Take Comfort in Routine.” Under the letters is a picture of a steaming frappa-thing. I turned away in disgust. Comfort and routine do not belong in the same sentence. I realize their marketing people are trying to build customer loyalty to the frappa, but I hope it’s a temporary aberration.

I don’t like routine.

I blame this on my start in life as a Gemini.

Here’s what one source says about Geminis:

There is a dual aspect to the Gemini personality, making it difficult for these individuals to stick with any one thing in order to master it.

It’s the logline of my life.

Please don’t ask me to do the same thing every Wednesday, or at ten every morning, or twice every day. (Geminis have trouble with meds; they fudge a lot.) I meet with a book group at our library on the first Tuesday of the month—this is fine since it’s always a different book. The same with regular blogs or meetings. As long as the content is different, I survive, but ideally I’d prefer to meet on a rotating basis, using a random number generator to pick the date.

What self-respecting physicist believes in astrological signs? Not me, but I have to admit that what they say comes eerily close to my MO:

• Geminis have a hard time finishing things.

• They have many careers and are easily distracted.

and (this is a biggy):

• Their favorite color is yellow.

Geminis are superficial, says one esteemed astrology site. Well, not Frank Lloyd Wright or Francis Crick. And not Sally Ride.

But me? Yes, I admit, I’m the cliché Gemini. I’d rather do a lot of things than one thing well. It’s nice to know it’s not my fault. It’s the fault of June 3, many years ago.

An exception: I love the routine of a homemade Boston Cream Pie on my birthday (Thanks SAS)!

Anecdote about finishing

My husband, The Cable Guy, has the opposite traits. (There’s a rule about that, isn’t there?) He’s a finisher; I’m not.

Take the way we each do word puzzles. As soon as I “get” the theme and fill in about one third of the squares, I’m done. I need a new challenge. Not so for The Cable Guy. He fills in every box to the last letter, even though the puzzle is destined for the waste basket thirty seconds later.

I dislike finishing so badly that I often do the end of a project rather than plow sequentially through the middle and get to the end last.

I have many reminders of my Gemini status—when I attend a miniatures show, for example, where I look at museum quality vases and furniture, like a miniature Shaker chair I saw recently (which deservedly cost more than my entire collection of life-size chairs).

30 books for 30 years of the conference at which it was auctioned

My miniatures are “cute” (see photo) and they’re received well for their personal touches, not for their amazing craftsmanship.

Many of my writer friends dream of being able to quit their day jobs and do nothing but write. Not me. Not a Gemini. If I had only one thing to do, I’d probably go into a null state and do nothing, ever.

In Flanders Fields

Filed Under : Personal,words by Camille

May.24,2018

Memorial Day Weekend, May 26-28, 2018

MEMORIAL DAY was originally called Decoration Day, after the practice of decorating the graves of fallen soldiers.

: Entrance to Flanders Field American Cemetery in Belgium, image courtesy of National Archives

Soldiers of the 119th Infantry, 30th Division, entering trenches at Watou, Belgium on July 9, 1918. Image courtesy of The National Archives.

Some history, and a meditation to mark the day, to think about the too many graves.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

It Takes a Village

Filed Under : Books,Reading,Writing by Camille

May.17,2018

It’s only May, and I’ve already been to 3 significant writers’ events this year: Left Coast Crime annual conference in Reno, Nevada; the Edgar™ Banquet; and Malice Domestic, a conference in Bethesda, Maryland. In a couple of months, I’ll be attending a 4^th, ThrillerFest, in New York City.

Jeffrey Deaver (the tall one) and me at the podium for the Edgar™Awards

In between there have been writers meetings, bookstore events, and book clubs.

One of the things that worried me when I thought of writing as a career was that it would be a solitary occupation. So much for that.

I’d been a physicist for a long time. No one does physics alone, not since Newton, anyway. Who can accommodate something like a 17-mile-long tunnel to house a collider, or a 192-beam laser, in her garage?

Physicists gather around huge equipment in giant laboratories these days, working as a team. My graduate school mates and I spent long hours together in the same laboratory every day, sharing power supplies, monster-mentor stories, and data. We became close friends and knew each others’ families as well as our own for a few years.

All the while, I’d wanted to be a published writer—something with more popular potential than my technical papers on the scattering properties of a titanium dioxide crystal. But I couldn’t imagine sitting alone in a room with pen and paper, or keyboard and monitor, pouring out my thoughts and plots, in solitary confinement.

Imagine my delight when I discovered that writing—mystery writing especially—was a community endeavor. I discovered not only professional organizations and critique groups, but book clubs, conferences, Internet lists and groups, and blogging colleagues. Who knew?

Sure, there’s a lot of me-and-my-chair for hours at a time, but I always know I can call or email any number of colleagues if I want to brainstorm a plot point, or discuss a new character I’m developing. With each book, my acknowledgments list gets longer.

Also, like physics, writing requires research. Most of it is people-oriented, which has turned out to be quite a bonus. In the course of writing themes and subplots for 25 books, I’ve interviewed an embalmer, a veterinarian, a medevac helicopter pilot, an ice climber, a telephone lineman, a hotel administrator, an elevator maintenance man, a postmistress, a musician, and countless experts in forensics, and—uh—ways to kill people. I even have a special cop who never minds answering procedural questions.

I’ve gone to conferences in cities I’d never have visited otherwise, like Omaha and Boise and Milwaukee (I usually fly over these states on my way to and from San Francisco and Boston or New York.)

And the readers! In each series I’ve tried to make the protagonist sleuth someone readers would like to have lunch with. I’m still amazed and pleased when readers approach me, through email or at a signing, with a kind word about my books, and I remember whom I’m writing for.

Research at the Morgan Library

I’m sure some writers prefer go it alone, but I never would have made it.

The writing and reading community are smart, fun, and generous.

I’m glad I found them.

A Pebble in My Shoe

Filed Under : Books,Personal,Technology by Camille

May.10,2018

I’m just back from New York City and the Edgar™ Awards. If you missed the nominations and the grand banquet where winners were announced, go here.

Jeffrey Deaver, MWA President (the tall one) and me at the podium.

The event had me thinking of Edgar Allan Poe and his legacy for mystery writers especially. But it’s this quote of his that I relate to above all:

The past is a pebble in my shoe.

And we probably all feel the same way about a pebble in our shoe: Out!

The high school history teacher tasked with giving me a healthy respect for the past failed—maybe because his primary duty, for which he was hired, was to coach the football team to victory. (He failed at that, too.)

But I can’t blame Mr. F. forever. I’ve had ample time to visit the past in a meaningful way, to learn the details of wars, to imagine lunch with the greats of bygone ages.

We see this “poll question” all the time: if you could visit the past, whom would you have lunch with?

I suppose I could go back and ask Poe if he could sleep at night after writing the “The Tell-Tale Heart.” I couldn’t, after reading, the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. The same with his “The Cask of Amontillado.” I was young enough to worry myself sick that I’d hurt someone enough for him to seek that level of revenge.

If I ever did have a chance to time travel, I’d go forward, not back.

I don’t want to revisit the time when some women had their lower ribs surgically removed to achieve a more pleasing (to whom?) waistline. And I already know all I want to about the days before plumbing and the zipper and all the iStuff.

I’d like to visit the future, find out what becomes of the Kindle.

It’s fun to have my slide rule hanging in my office, as a reminder of earlier times, but I wouldn’t want to give up my computer.

I’d love to go away for a while and rest, and then come back in 60 or so years and talk to those who are now toddlers.

Some questions for them:

1. Has there been a First Gentleman in the White House yet?

2. Was there a revival of regular cinematic dramas—no comic heroes, no animation, no “special” effects?

3. Did we ever give peace a chance?

4. Did Amy Adams’s face ever wrinkle?

5. What’s the official language of the United States?

. . . and more.

Of course I could read sci fi and get someone’s idea of the future, or I could write it myself and make my own predictions.

But I want to know what actually happens, whether there’ll be paper books in the year 2100, and what became of the kids who grew up hearing “Good job!” just for waking up in the morning?

What would you want to know?

Nomophobia

Filed Under : Personal by Camille

May.3,2018

Nomophobia: the irrational fear of being without your mobile phone or being unable to use your phone for some reason, such as the absence of a signal or running out of minutes or battery power.

OH NO Where's my phone?

I rushed out of my house the other day for an appointment 2 miles away. About halfway there I realized I’d forgotten my cellphone. OMG! If I went back for it, I’d be late, and the only thing worse than not having my phone is being late.

I did some quick troubleshooting.

What if I had an emergency? I wasn’t even going on the freeway, I reasoned; it would be easy to flag someone down. I’d be on city streets the whole way, no lonely stretches. I’d be passing the library, 2 churches, 3 schools, at least 4 gas stations, the homes of 5 friends, and a bakery where I often stopped for scones. I’d be okay.

What if my husband had an emergency and needed to call me? If it were something really bad, he should call 9-1-1 anyway. If he wanted tell me he needed bagels, well, he was out of luck.

How about an emergency deadline that might come through email? They could wait a couple of hours till I got home, couldn’t they? I’d tell them I was camping and out of range.

I drove on, phoneless. But it wasn’t easy. While I waited for my appointment, I wouldn’t have access to my email or my calendar or Facebook. I could miss a national crisis. Or a bit of juicy gossip.

I’d have felt more comfortable if I’d left my shoes at home, or even my wallet — I could always call and have them delivered! As long as I had my phone.

Without revealing my exact DOB, let me say I lived many years without a phone in my purse. In fact, for high school graduation, I got a hot-ticket item—a “portable” radio, which was about as big as a breadbox, with a battery much heavier than a loaf of bread.

But I’ve become a nomophobe.

I feel that I’m a polite nomophobe, however, never checking my phone or texting if I’m with a real, live person. Unless that person is checking, too.

Anyone else a nomophobe?