Cat DeLuca and her Pants On Fire Detective Agency are the creation of three sisters who haven’t outgrown their Nancy Drew childhood. Some Like It Hot is third in the Cat Deluca mystery series, after Sticks & Stones and Liar, Liar, one of Library Journal’s Best Mysteries of 2010. Julianne, Kari, and Kristen Larsen live in the Pacific Northwest and Chicago area.
People sometimes ask why three sisters write together.
“Are you crazy?” was the question out of one reader’s mouth.
“Sanity is optional. And highly overrated.”
Another reader responded, “I can’t be in the same room with my sister without wanting to kill her.”
I get it. I have five sisters. There are days I’d cheerfully knock them off like wooden ducks at an arcade.
Here’s the thing. Sisters inspire murder. And this is a good thing when you write mysteries together. You can plot out someone else’s grisly demise. Writing with sisters is both exhilarating and exhausting. It’s inspiring. It also sucks the life out of you. At the end of the day you won’t have the energy to brew your hemlock tea.
I’m thankful for the life I share with my sisters. They are my best friends. Writing together gives us a chance to connect every day. Even if it’s on Skype, hanging out in our pajamas. Our protagonist, Cat DeLuca, makes us laugh. She’s got spunk. And her Pants On Fire Detective Agency is a kick. Cat’s third adventure, Some Like It Hot, released on March 5th. We hope she makes you laugh too.
Writing is hard work. It’s not glamorous. The hours are forever. But for me, there’s nothing I would rather do. And when you write with your sisters, you only have to be 1/3 as smart as a real writer. Do the math.
As I write this, it’s a starless Saturday night in the Pacific Northwest. I’m hunkered over my computer, sipping on a glass of Trader-Joe’s Fearless Flyer Special of the month. There’s a leftover pizza in the oven. The TV is on in the other room. I can make out snatches of Bogie playing Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. Not exactly a sizzling Saturday night in Seattle.
But I can tell you what PI Cat DeLuca’s doing tonight. She’s in a smoky Blues bar in Chicago, hot on the tail of a client’s run-around husband. A hunky guy walks through the door: FBI lover, Chance Savino. Her breath catches in her throat. Her eyes lock with the cobalt blues. Cat’s head is dizzy with martini. She nibbles on bruschetta and crunchy French bread and she’ll have chocolate mousse for dessert. Cat DeLuca is my alter-ego. She doesn’t get fat. And she always gets her man.
Maybe that’s why we write. The world is a magical place. I close my eyes and the cold pizza becomes Rigatoni Bolognese. And sometimes, when we write, we brush the magic.