Get Notices of New Posts
- THE RIVIERA IS BURNING – MY MEMOIR
- NEW! #11 DIAMONDS ARE NOT A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND
- 86 Avenue du Goulet
- Marcia Carrington Interviews Author Peggy A. Edelheit
- Uvi Poznansky Interviews Author Peggy A. Edelheit
- Cheryl Holloway Interview With Author Peggy A. Edelheit
- Mother, A Portrait
- New Mystery On Amazon: Book 10, Saving Sindia
- The Bat
- Peggy’s Post: When Handed Lemons, Make Lemonade
- Descriptions & Grammatical Errors
- Questions I’m frequently asked on being an Author.
- A Peek at Too Close For Comfort
- An excerpt from #8, The Lush Life
- Peggy’s Post: Gaining Perspective
- The Diary
- Father, A Portrait
- Heartless And Heartfelt
- Ah, Paris… We’re sleeping where?
- I Remember
- The Snake
- A Perfectly Deadly French Mystery
- The Puzzle Desk
- Giving Thanks
- Suzanne Jenkins Interviews Author Peggy Edelheit
- From my repertoire of visuals, scenes and dialogue
- Who is Samantha Jamison and why are terrible things always happening in her life?
- Sleuth Samantha Jamison is Interviewed by another mystery Sleuth protagonist
- Author Peggy Edelheit Guests on Ellis Vidler’s Unpredictable Muse Blog
- Author Peggy Edelheit Interviewed by Jill Edmondson
- Author Peggy Edelheit Interviewed by Indie Author Land
Category Archives: General
Questions I’m frequently asked on being an Author.
What is your specific genre?
Peggy: I write a mystery series. My protagonist is Samantha Jamison, an author, who solves mysteries with her crew.
Although I did write a French Memoir called The Riviera Is Burning. It is a true story about me and my family fleeing fire from our home in France. It is told in the first person. So you only see it playing out from my point of view. It was a frightening experience I wanted to share with my readers. Trust me, what we experience stays with us and affects how react and think in the future, which is a premise I base my 10th mystery on.
How do you deal with writer’s block?
Peggy: Don’t let it stop you! Try to write everyday, even when the words are not flowing. That to me is important. Keep things moving along, no matter what. I just keep plugging away. I don’t set hours or have a rigid schedule other than writing each day. Of course I may delete a lot of it, but feel it’s important not to give up. I will consider anything, even swapping dialogue to do a change up for an unexpected twist, providing the chemistry works. Many times it does!
Too Close For Comfort
“That was a warning,” I said. “Touch me again and…”
“It’s this cold cement floor we’re sitting on,” he griped.
I was furious. My red silk dress was probably ruined.
“Man up,” I said. “Have you heard me complaining?”
“Being such a hot broad, how would you understand?”
“Keep your compliments and hands to yourself,” I said.
He sighed. “I was just trying to shift my position.” Continue reading
An interview with Samantha
Looking Back At Vol.1 The Puzzle
An excerpt from the The Lush Life
First thing I noticed: my interviewer appeared nervous. Her foot was tapping a mile a minute on the floor, as she glanced down to reread from her notepad resting on her lap. Why the unease? I was the one being scrutinized here. Or did she think she was? Was she worried I was analyzing her? After several mysteries under my belt, I noticed I have that effect on people. She did admit it was her first interview with an author of my stature.
My stature? I had to laugh at that. No pretense here. Continue reading
According to the dictionary, perspective is the ability to perceive things in their actual comparative importance. And by looking at the past, you are thus able to gain perspective on the present. But what is the point of gaining an accurate point of view if you don’t have the ability to see it for what it is? If you get lost in the details, you then lose the sense of the larger whole. You are ignoring the obvious. You miss the key point. You have tunnel vision. Continue reading
I remember getting my first diary. It was one with a lock and key. This was an event. But what would I write? It didn’t come with a set of instructions. There had to be some magical secret because my sister treated hers like gold. She was an older sister: older enough in years for me to be constantly in her hair. But I was desperate to start writing and had to know that secret. I had no choice but to start spying. Continue reading
Father. A word so easily said and yet, “Can one really fathom the meaning of such a powerful word?” To each one there is a different meaning, I guess. To me? It’s something that goes very deep, embedded in the depth’s of my heart, and the very root of my being.
When he died, I lost a father, mentor, best friend and confidant that was irreplacable. Continue reading
When those two words come into play in the same story, and they have countless times over and over, as an author, I am intrigued by the individuals, whether real or imagined, who get caught up in it. I also know that it is simply a matter of degree, how far or how little they play out. In my Samantha Jamison mystery series human interaction is a constant. And so this timeless subject brings to mind a true story I’d like to share with you about how someone felt after a heartless and heartfelt scene played out in the Frankfurt train station of all places. Continue reading
My husband said, “We don’t need hotel reservations. We’ll be just fine.” Continue reading
I remember when I was a little girl sitting on the piano bench next to my mother, my legs swinging freely because they were too short to reach the floor, enthralled, watching her hands float over the ivory keys, hearing her soprano voice singing along, and being transported to another place by the sheer pleasure of it.
I remember my father nurturing and tending his irises, grapevines, and fruit trees when he wasn’t working. I always preferred playing hide and seek with my friends in my yard because I would always sneak behind the grape trellis and pluck away at the grapes as fast as I could, hoping no one would find me. Afterward, I would sit in the crook of a fruit tree, my legs dangling, biting into a pear or peach, and then wipe my sticky hands on the grass and running to my next adventure.
I remember my mother cutting a small bouquet from her numerous rose bushes still wet from the morning dew and wrapping them with wax paper for me to take to my teacher.
I remember in the summer sitting on the back porch step with a freshly-plucked ripe tomato from my father’s garden, sprinkling salt on top, and taking that first bite as the juices squirted all over me and giggling from the wonderful taste.
I remember my mother never wrote down recipes, not even her favorites. So when I was older, I had her sit down and list the ingredients and instructions, which I promptly filed away, only to laugh years later when I was newly married and finally read them. It was trial and error on my husband’s palate, experimenting with her ‘touch of this and handful of that, with a pinch on top’ until I got it just right.
I remember reclining on the grass under the massive oak trees in our backyard daydreaming and reading my favorite book of the moment, being carried to another world, totally captivated, and thankful the library kept me well supplied.
I remember my father always had a book in his hand, too, whether it was historical, biographical, or a scientific journal while I sat in his lap pretending I was reading it, too. He would often read three books, alternating from one to the other. Love for the written word was passed from father, to daughter, to my three children.
I remember racing my bicycle down the hill of our street throwing my hands up in the air and feeling the wind rake it’s fingers through my hair, tossing it in all different directions. It was exciting to feel free and race against the wind. To this day, the small scars on my knees are a constant reminder of those thrill-seeking rides that occasionally ended with me spread-eagled on a neighbor’s lawn, laughing.
I remember the joy, the heartache, the laughter, the pain, and the numerous celebrations of the births and deaths of the lives of those I’ve loved and lost.
I remember the birth of my three sons like it was yesterday.
I remember reaching the goals I set for myself, and those I never met.
I try to remember to stay humble and gracious to those who believe in me.
It is important for me to remember, to look back, to remind myself never to forget what molded me into exactly who I am today so I will always try to keep my adventurous spirit, my fearlessness, and my love of life.
And most of all, I try to remember what is important and what is not.
Chase your dreams and remember everyday is a blessing.
My three young boys were playing by our small waterfall moving large rocks at our log home in Highlands, NC (the setting for my first mystery, Volume 1, The Puzzle). They were hard at work hauling and dragging rocks to build a dam. My oldest son said his younger brother suddenly yelled out, “There’s a gigantic snake!” After getting a good look at it, our oldest son ran as fast as he could to go for help. I was in the kitchen baking cookies. He already knew how I felt about snakes and went straight for his father. My husband took the news in stride. He knew kid’s imaginations. They always exaggerated the size of things. He took his time strolling down that dirt road on our property wondering what kind of garden snake they managed to uncover.
He approached smiling, but then did a double take, stopping dead in his tracks. That snake was well over twelve feet long. My husband stepped back a pace and told our oldest son to quickly go back to the house and tell his mother to get his shotgun and cartridges from our locked gun case so he could bring them back to him. Our son ran back, hollering about what was going on. I handed over his father’s unloaded shotgun and he quickly flew through the door. I stared out the window, but they were too far away for me to see clearly. There was no way I was walking out there. I hate snakes.
I was told later on that our son gave the gun to my husband, who loaded the shotgun. He then waited so see what the snake would do, as he was undecided about shooting it. It wasn’t acting hostile. The snake then started to slowly slither toward the woods, but then it stopped. It turned around and rose straight up in the air about four feet, like someone was playing a flute then latched onto a branch with its head. It stopped and just stared at my husband at eye level, showing no fear whatsoever. The three boys and my husband could not believe what they were witnessing. My husband considered his dilemma. His young boys played in that spot everyday, and since the snake wasn’t slithering off like it should and wasn’t talking, the snake had to go. My husband didn’t want to take chances. He raised his shotgun and eliminated the potential future threat.
My husband then picked up a large branch, draped the snake over it and asked our son to go back to the house to show his mother the snake so I could see sheer the size of it, otherwise, I wouldn’t believe it. Well, I have to tell you it the wrong thing for him to do. I watched our son drag it back all excited. I had a fit. That snake was not entering our house. I beat our son to the door, took one look at how long that thing was, snatched that branch from my son’s hand and ran to the edge of our drive and heaved-ho. That snake went sailing over the cliff, branch and all.
Moral of the story to all potential predators vs. my children: Be cautious in the forest and pay attention where you walk or place your hands. ….Oh, and anything that remotely threatens the safety of my children better make sure they know how to fly first: dead or alive.