dianne salerni author
dianne salerni author


I had a chance to try out my new electric ski boot warmers last weekend when my husband and I took our daughters (plus two extra teenagers) skiing at Bear Creek Mountain Resort in Macungie, PA.

First of all, I have to say the boot warmers were the bomb. Now I need to find out if they make similar accessories for gloves!

Next, I’d like to rant about people who try to “save” a table for themselves in a crowded lodge and expect the table to be left empty all day – reserved for their use only – while other people have no place to sit. In particular, I bear a grudge against this lady …

… who was nasty to my children (and my borrowed children) because we ate lunch at “her” table. She had the nerve to say to me: “I went to some trouble to spread our stuff all over this table so it would be saved for my group. We got here early so we could do that.” Note: My family also arrived early, before the lifts even opened, but we weren’t selfish enough to try to save a table for our exclusive use.

Okay, rant over.

Third item of note: When I get around to writing the contemporary thriller set at a ski resort that is percolating in my brain, it will definitely include this conversation:

You are not wearing that hat.
Yes, I am.
You are so NOT wearing that hat.
Hey! Give me my hat back.
Oh my God, it’s shedding yellow feathers.
Give me my hat back!
Fine! Here!
WHACK! Don’t touch my hat again! WHACK!
OWWWW!

Yup. That’s real teenage dialogue, folks. Wouldn’t all you YA writers like to come with us on our next trip so that you, too, can pick up scintillating dialogue?

(Oh BTW, also in my ski resort thriller, a lady who hogs tables is going to fall off a cliff.)

And finally, a plug for a great read: I may be a competent skier, but my stamina was not up to teenage standards, so I quit early and went into the restaurant for a glass of wine. While I waited for the others, I opened up my Droid’s Kindle app and called up my newest purchase, Michael Northrop’s Trapped.

Now understand, I’m in a crowded, bustling restaurant with a glass of chardonnay. My toes are toasty warm. The guy seated next to me is wearing a Rastafarian Dreadlock ski hat and chortling with his buddies. But as I read the opening chapters of Trapped, a claustrophobic sense of impending doom and isolation descended upon me. My cozy surroundings faded away as I was sucked into sharing the plight of seven high school students during the worst blizzard in recorded history.

Yeah, it was that good. When my husband started texting me — Where are you? I give up! — and I saw him clomping around the entrance to the restaurant with snow covered kids – I seriously considered not answering.