by donalee Moulton

Céad míle fáilte. This Gaelic expression means “a hundred thousand welcomes.”

If you live in Nova Scotia, as I do, this is an expression you will have seen for much of your life. (Pronouncing it is a different issue altogether.) A hundred thousand welcomes in any language speaks to the type of people you are likely to encounter when you come here and the values they place on such encounters.

Riel Brava – attractive, razor-sharp, ambitious, and something much more – is the lead character in my first mystery, Hung Out to Die. He lives in Elmsdale, Nova Scotia, about a 40-minute drive from Halifax, the province’s capital. In East Coast parlance, Riel is a come from away.

Raised in Santa Barbara, California, Riel has been transplanted to Nova Scotia where he is CEO of the Canadian Cannabis Corporation – one of the estimated four to twelve percent of CEOs who are psychopaths. It’s business as usual until Riel finds his world hanging by a thread.

Riel’s chief financial officer is found hanged in his office. The police determine the death is not the result of suicide. Still, Riel resists the hunt to catch a killer. Detective Lin Raynes draws the reluctant CEO into the investigation, and the seeds of an unexpected and unusual friendship are sown. Ultimately, Riel finds himself on the butt end of a rifle in the ribs and a long drive to the middle of Nowhere, Nova Scotia.

Fact is, I could have placed Riel in the middle of anywhere. The murder is not location specific. The victim does not fall from the Brooklyn Bridge or mysteriously appear atop Old Faithful, places that are singular. Nova Scotia made sense for me as a writer, and it made sense for Riel as a character. I live here; I know this province better than any other place. I can write about it with ease, and with a personal perspective.

For Riel, who lives uncomfortably in a world where people hug each other because they care and share the pain of others because their brain is wired that way, being in a place where he does not have roots, where he is an outsider, mirrors what goes on within Riel. It’s the right place for him.

Because I am from Nova Scotia, I can also authentically and naturally insert elements of life here. Take the language, for instance. You may discover some new words such as “bejesus” and “tinchlet.” There will be expressions common to the area. “Bless your heart” is one you’ll hear a lot in Nova Scotia, and Riel hears it as well. It does not resonate.

There is also food that has Nova Scotia marinated into it, as Riel discovers. Turns out Riel is now a donair aficionado. (I am not.)

One of the things I have learned as a writer is that I am in control, and I am not in control. I can decide to situate a character in a particular place, and the character will let me know if that is the right place as the writing unfolds. In the case of Riel, he ends up in the dark of winter at a deserted row of cottages called, what else, Céad míle fáilte.

I did not see that coming. I have a feeling Riel did.

by donalee Moulton

We’ve left winter in the rearview mirror and welcomed more warmth and sunshine into our lives. This summer is particularly celebratory. I welcomed Bind, the first book in my series the Lotus Detective Agency.  I talked a little about the book previously. This month I’d share an excerpt with you – and would love your feedback.

Here’s a little background:

Everything that happens in a yoga studio is not Zen. Sometimes it’s grand larceny. Three yogis, two cops, and one damn cute dog join forces to discover who’s stolen a Patek Philippe watch from what was supposed to be a secure locker.  Time is ticking.

And here’s the excerpt from Bind.

Ten yogis are in various stretches, twists, meditations, and yawns when Kristi walks back into the studio. She forces a smile, and the smile spreads of its own accord into her muscles, her bones, her heart. This is her sanctuary. She is at home here. The rawness she feels is still there, but it has moved to the edges now.

Today’s bind is a yogi squat. One leg is extended; the other is bent. One arm goes under the bent leg; the other goes around the back until they meet. In theory. Lexie can’t wait until this month is over, and it’s only day three. Bhodi looks around the room to see if anyone else has completed the bind. Surprisingly, Honey seems to have easily maintained the squat and the bind. Bonnie begins the countdown until she can come out of the contortion, which for her is a little squat and a hint of a bind.

Kristi takes this opportunity to explain the benefits of binds. “These poses allow muscles to release, relax, and open. You can go deeper. You can also focus on alignment and flexibility while building strength.” She breathes in.

“Dear God,” thinks Lexie, “there’s more.”

“If you make her stop,” Bonnie says to her higher spirit, “I will give you my first born.”

Kristi continues to talk, and smile. “Remember to breathe when you’re in the bind. Don’t tighten. And come out of the bind if you feel any pain. Go to your edge, but no further.”

Archina isn’t sure where her edge is, but she fears she left it behind several minutes ago. Woo Woo unbinds. She believes in the mind, body, spirit philosophy of yoga, but enough of this shit.

If it’s one thing Kristi knows, it’s how to read a room full of yogis. The edge has been reached. She tells everyone to stand up, give themselves a hug, and as a special treat, this morning there will be an extended savasana that includes a meditation. (Kristi always has a guided meditation on her phone.) The room smiles, even Bhodi. Eleven bodies move from the vertical to the horizontal. Archina grabs a blanket; Lexie puts a bolster under her knees; Kevin, the newest member of the group, reaches for his socks.

The Dalai Lama is midway through his 13-minute meditation on the disturbed mind when the studio door opens. Twelve faces turn to look at the human who belongs to the shoes that just clomped into their zen-like state. All twelve agree, zen is overrated. Standing at the entranceway to the studio is a 6’2” man with ripped muscles, ebony skin, and a three-day stubble. “He can bind with me any time he wants,” Kevin thinks.

It takes the intruder less than a second to realize he has interrupted the class at an inopportune time. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I thought class was over.”

“We’re running a little late,” says Kristi in a voice the class has not heard before.

“Please continue,” says Ripped. “I will come back.”

“Too late now,” says Bhodi. He gets the evil eye from most of the class.

“How can we help?” says Kristi introducing herself.

Ripped steps forward, hand extended. “My name is Michael …”

Before he can continue, Woo Woo interjects. “No, it isn’t. Your name is Lewis.”

The demi-god looks at her in surprise. He’s not alone. The whole class stares at Woo Woo.

“I’m so sorry,” Woo Woo says turning a deep magenta. “I don’t know why I said that.” But she does. Sometimes a thought, an image, a tickertape runs through Woo Woo’s mind. She knows it’s a message, and she usually tries to convey it. On this occasion, she wishes she hadn’t.

Michael turns back to Kristi, leader of the pack. “Terrell. Michael Terrell.”

“Did you want to join the class?” Bhodi asks. The snark is obvious.

“Please,” thinks Kevin. “Please join.”

Terrell smiles. “It’s on my bucket list, but today I’m here for a less pleasant reason. I’m a detective with the Halifax Police Department. I’m looking into a watch that seems to have gone missing from the gym.”

Kristi tries to control her breathing. No one else tries to control anything. Lexie’s eyes fly wide open. Charlene gasps. Bonnie recoils.

Honey farts.

            As a freelance journalist, writing to deadline is as natural as breathing. When editors assign a story, they provide three essential pieces of information: topic, word count, and delivery date. Miss your deadline and kiss the possibility of a second assignment goodbye.

            This is not about editors flexing their weight. It’s about the reality of publishing. In the days before online everything, a story that didn’t arrive on time meant publications had a gaping hole in their magazine or newspaper. Gaping holes are filled when editors rush around like mad, cursing the name of the writer who missed their deadline.

            When I started to do more fiction writing than reporting, I found deadlines are often self-imposed. I will finish my first chapter by the end of the week. I will write a thousand words of my short story every day for four days. I will edit the story by Monday. I also found self-imposed deadlines are often more wishful thinking than etched in stone.

I missed the rigor of deadlines I didn’t dream up. Then I discovered anthologies. Genre writing is rife with anthologies – and anthologies have deadlines. They also often have themes, the journalistic equivalent of topic. The path ahead is paved for you. Here’s what we’d like you to write about. Here’s when you have to get it to us.

I wrote my first mystery short story, “Swan Song,” in 2021 in response to a call from the Crime Writers of Canada. To celebrate its fortieth anniversary, the national association planned to publish an anthology, Cold Canadian Crime. There was a theme (“cold” in the broadest sense of the word). There was a deadline. Count me in.

Since then, I have written fourteen more short stories. Most of them have been published, mostly in anthologies. A few have been reprinted in anthologies. At least one has been reprinted in several anthologies.

One of my recent anthology short stories is called “Maladaptive Anonymous.” In the story, the main character calls this group, somewhat disparagingly, Daydreamers Anonymous. The anthology, which will be out June 18^th, is entitled: Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers. Just as editors expect you to meet your deadline (or miss out on the opportunity), they also expect you to stick to the topic. You have lots of room to play, but the boundaries are there.

While every anthology editor has their own process, the process is usually rigorous. And appreciated. Judy Penz Sheluk, who edited Midnight Schemers, had three rounds of readers and after the first and third round we were provided with feedback – and helpful suggestions for improvements. There were also at least three rounds of proofreading. At some point, you think this is overkill until in the final proof you discover your main character has titled their head. In the published version, their head is now tilted.

 As a short story writer, anthologies bring me back to familiar ground. I am given three essential pieces of information: topic, word count, and delivery date. This helps me to focus on a theme – and to go to wonderful and wacky places with plots I might otherwise not uncover and characters I might otherwise not create. And I go there by deadline.

In addition to buds, baby birds, and bugs, spring has brought with it Bind, my new book. I would love to hear your feedback.

Everything that happens in a yoga studio is not Zen. Sometimes it’s grand larceny.

Three yogis, two cops, and one damn cute dog join forces to discover who’s stolen a Patek Philippe watch from what was supposed to be a secure locker.  Time is ticking.

Shondra (Woo Woo) Aeron, Lexie Hill, and Charlene Kurtz meet five mornings a week at the Asana Yoga Studio for a downward dog or two, one serene savasana, and a steaming cup of coffee afterwards. They’re not friends, but the theft of a very expensive watch from the gym where their studio is located draws them together – and into a bind of another type. 

To support Kristi Yee, their yoga instructor and co-owner of the gym, the three women offer to help her retrieve (some might call it stealing) financial information from her business partner. Mission successful (albeit with a few hiccups). It doesn’t take Charlene, an auditor, long to determine the balance sheet is not all it appears. Certainly, fencing a very expensive watch would help.

The partner isn’t the only suspect. The watch owner could use some money. He is having a relationship with at least two women, neither his wife. One of those women, who made the affair loudly public early one morning in the gym, has managed to cash in on her relationship. The other woman is unknown, at least initially.

The watch owner’s son, a diehard romantic, is also a suspect. His father and his girlfriend certainly think so. He doesn’t need or want the money, but his girlfriend does. At least he thinks so. He thinks wrong.

The girlfriend is also a suspect. She could, apparently, use money and she does not like her boyfriend’s father. That’s not fair, she detests him. Gym staff are also under police scrutiny as well as Kristi herself.

One conundrum for Halifax Police Detective Michael Terrell: how could someone remove the watch from a busy changeroom locker? Admittedly, the owner lost his key, which he usually does at least once a week, but you’d have to know what locker the key opened or try each locker in the change room. Warriors three to the rescue. Their task, at the request of Terrell (who seems to have a thing for Woo Woo, a reflexologist) is to try and penetrate the inner gym sanctum.

They fail, hilariously. But in their failure comes one undeniable conclusion: whoever stole the watch knew exactly what locker to open and what they would find inside.

Throughout the investigation a number of other more personal issues arise. Lexie clearly has a thing for a gym employee. (It’s not what you think.) Someone is repeatedly trying to connect with Charlene. She resists. (It’s not what you think.) Every once in a while, Woo Woo gets a message from another world. (It is what you think.)

Namaste.