Für meine deutschen Freunde

I wish that I were good enough to translate this myself because some things become last in translation on Google translate, but I love the way it sounds even now. If you love English crime novels, check this one out.

My Darling Dakota :
Ich bete, dass Sie mich heute Abend zu vergeben, denn ich Erinnerungen der Dinge für immer verloren. Vielleicht waren sie nicht in der Fantasie , die wir erstellt wichtig, aber manchmal frage ich mich, wenn wir falsch waren.
Ich habe daran gedacht, Akachi . Wussten Sie, sein Name bedeutet " die Hand Gottes " ? Das war wirklich wie ich mich fühlte , die Nacht , als sein Vater brachte ihn in mein Zelt . Er war kaum noch am Leben , nachdem er von einem Geparden, die nicht so selten ein Vorkommen in Südafrika , wie man denken könnte übel zugerichtet . Was war selten war für das Opfer , um zu überleben . Ich habe an ihm stundenlang fieberhaft Reinigung und die tiefen Wunden zu nähen . Er war acht und hatte die Jagd , begierig, seine Männlichkeit zu beweisen. Ich war mit ihm am nächsten Tag und Nacht, während der Stamm sangen ihre Gebete. Am zweiten Tag , öffnete er seine tiefbraunen Augen und sah mich an. In diesem Moment , meine Liebe , fühlte ich, dass ich den Höhepunkt meines Lebens erreicht hatte. Ich einen sterbenden Kind in meinen Armen gehalten hatte , und ich habe ihn gerettet hatte.
Und dann fiel mein Blick auf Sie , wie eine Vision von Schönheit , die mir den Atem weggenommen wurde , und mein Geist wurde taub für alle, aber das, was Sie sind. Ich habe diese Straße, die vielen Stufen unserer Fantasie gereist , und ich habe festgestellt, dass es Schönheit in beiden ein Leben zu retten und unter einem. Akachi wird nur eine kurze Zeit zu leben, für die Bühne seines Lebens bei der Geburt festgelegt . Wenn er nicht vor Hunger sterben, wird er sicherlich zugrunde gehen auf das Ende der Speer eines rivalisierenden Stammes Mitglieds. Und wer an ihn erinnern wird ? Wie die Tage vergehen , die Monate , die Jahre , die Jahrhunderte niemand Akachi erinnern.
Fürchte dich nicht, mein Liebling, denn obwohl die Erinnerungen verfolgen mich mal , ich habe nicht vergessen, wo ich hingehöre und was ich tun muss.
" In diesem Buch, das meiner Erinnerung ist ,
Auf der ersten Seite des Kapitels , das ist der Tag , als ich dich das erste Mal traf ,
Erscheinen die Worte : "Hier beginnt ein neues Leben. ' " Dante Alighieri

Get your copy now!

Rewrite of an old work - Find Me

I wrote this book several years ago but I just wasn't happy with it. Recently I decided to take a new look at it from a different direction. Here's the Prologue.
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PROLOGUE

Abigail Blanchard closed the door to the basement leaning her head against the cool steer barrier. She knew it was just her imagination, but she could still hear the shrieks of her child, the clanging of the chains against the concrete wall. Would it never end? What evil had she committed that was so bad that God would punish her in this way?

She sensed the old woman's presence behind her and without turning shrieked, "Go away!"

"You know what you must do. I have seen the feux-folet. She is the child of Diable and will curse us all."

"Fiank-o!" Abigail screamed, ripping her clothing and slipping into her native tongue.

"Mon chere ti chou, you know I speak the truth. I was here when she was born without life. Her body blue, her soul already beyond this world. Five years have come and gone. As she grows so does the evil."

Abigail slipped to the floor hugging her knees to her body, rocking back and forth. "She's only five. I have lost one. Must I lose them both?"

The old woman didn't answer. Instead she placed the knife in Abigail's hand. "You can't cure a mad dog, Aggie, you can only put it down."

Abigail rose to her feet. The old woman was gone, but the knife lay heavy in her hand. Much like the heaviness of her heart. And just as cold.

Grasping the knife she opened the door to the basement, descending the steps slowly.


If you liked this, or even if you didn't please leave a comment below. It is my desire to write the best books I possibly can and books my readers would want to read.

An Original Idea - Writing Your Novel

An Original Idea – Writing Your Novel

Every author wants to write from the angle of an Original Idea. A new book. Something that hasn’t been done before. In today’s world, with hundreds of thousands of new books coming out each year that is virtually impossible. If you took the time to read every book that had ever been written, you would probably find that someone, somewhere had the same idea as you.

Over time authors settled for a compromise. An original character. An original
setting. Perhaps even an original scene within the novel.

Develop your idea and write it down in one sentence. This is the basis for your novel. Everything else can change, but your original idea needs to be the foundation, and you must remember it as you write. Repeat it to yourself prior to beginning writing each day. The idea will keep you on track.

Still looking for that idea? Ask yourself what if? Ah, see the possibilities? What if you’re sitting on a plane and you notice the man across the aisle has a gun inside his jacket? What if you’re sitting in a restaurant and someone you’ve known all your life comes in but appears not to know who you are? What if you’re in a school room and suddenly a child disappears into thin air? What if you wake up one morning to find yourself in a strange bed, married to someone you don’t remember meeting?

What if opens the door for thoughts and ideas to roll across your imagination. And eventually you will find that one of those ideas is original. It may not be an original thought, and perhaps may have been written from one angle, but your way of seeing it is original, and your way of writing it will be original.

Before beginning you need to research your idea to see if is plausible. Let’s take the guy on the plane with a gun. With today’s security it would be almost impossible for that to happen unless the guy was security on the plane. Notice I said almost impossible. Perhaps one of the crew members placed the gun somewhere for this guy to pick up. Is that possible? Is a complete scan of the plane or search done prior to allowing passengers to board? I’m not sure, because I’ve never researched that particular scenario, but if you’re going to write from that angle you need to know if it’s possible. Once you’ve determined that your idea is plausible, you need to scope out your idea. Examine your thoughts and feelings about the idea. Does it excite you? Do main characters immediately start to develop in your mind? Can you see them? Feel them? Know what happens to them physically, mentally and emotionally? Are your characters someone you care about?

Readers want to care about what they read and especially the characters. Does your idea have a moral or emotional theme? You may not write the theme, but the theme should be present in your mind while you’re writing.

As an example, let’s take a look at my first book, The Gifts. What was my idea? Someone who hates secrets. From there I developed Gavin McAllister, a mystery writer who hates secrets and uses uncovered secrets to write his novels. So why does he hate secrets, and how does he have the authority to uncover these secrets?

From there I developed Jacody Ives, his alter ego and private investigator working with the FBI. Working on what? From there I developed the Mother’s Day killer, and Jacody/Gavin’s dreams of the murders. From the FBI I developed Carl and Rob. From the relationship between Rob and Gavin I developed Corrine, Gavin’s twin sister and her subsequent murder. From there I developed Glades Springs and Sarah McKnight, a small town Sheriff with a huge secret, and psychic abilities much like Jacody’s with dreams.

The remaining characters seemed to spring from a well that I had no thoughts about in my original idea. Gavin McAllister hated secrets. And each character had their own secrets to hide. And each character had their own “gifts” to deal with. This wasn’t a part of my original idea, but developed as I wrote. Realizing that my characters had psychic abilities a portion of my theme changed. I wanted to show that having psychic abilities didn’t necessarily make you a super hero. In fact, in most cases it left you feeling frustrated and confused. Never quite knowing when it’s real. And even if you know it’s real, not knowing how to stop it or change it.

Your idea is not your story. Your story will develop around your idea, one step at a time. And your original story, theme, characters may all change before you reach that final page, but the one thing that should remain constant is your idea. My second book actually came from reader requests related to my first book. They wanted to know Gavin’s secret. What created his alter ego, Jacody Ives. So my idea was already there. The story itself, the theme all developed from that one idea. What secret created Jacody Ives?

Ready to get started? Ask yourself what if?

When a Novel Clicks For You!

One of the most exciting, invigorating things an author can experience is when you start a book and bingo--things click into place. A few days ago I started writing an untitled draft here. I'd started this before, but just couldn't get into it. Even this time, if you've read the previous posts you'll know that I was having trouble getting inside Catherine's head. Haven't had a lot of time to write this weekend because we had our 3 year old grandson, and he takes a lot of work, but he's worth it. Still, even while playing with him and suffering the heat so he could be outside, the creative juices were flowing inside my head and finally--Walla! It all clicked. I knew who Catherine was, where the story was going and how. Now the hard part begins--research into areas, perhaps a road trip just so I can make it real, and putting it all into words that describe the emotions, scenery and action to take place.

I'll still be posting my draft, as I work out the details and also as I get to know Cody Allen better. He's still elusive to me, and perhaps he will remain somewhat elusive, as Catherine is my focus.

But for now--I'M SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And one more excitement to share: You can now sample up to 50% of The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery before you decide to buy.

Check it out at:

The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

New Novel--Passing Judgment

Prologue

Deangelique shuddered, drawing the thin, worn blanket closer around her shoulders, sinking back into the doorway seeking shelter from the wind. She was so cold, and her stomach ached. She stared at the half eaten sandwich she'd taken from the garbage can, bile rising in her throat. Pieces of garbage clung to the dirty bread, but she would die if she didn't eat. Dusting off the bread she closed her eyes, forced herself to take a bite, pushing down the bile, swallowing without chewing.
"Well, now, what have we got here?"
DeAngelique froze, eyes opening wide, stomach contracting.
The man laughed as she pushed further into the corner, pulling the blanket around her.
"I can do better than a dirty sandwich. Hot meal, warm bed."
He reached out and stroked her cheek. "All you gotta do is be nice to me."
DeAngelique knew what he mean by "be nice". She'd learned it the hard way, when her mother sold her for a cheap bottle of whiskey. "You be nice to the man, honey, and he'll be nice to you."
Still, if she stayed here she would freeze or starve. "All right," she whispered, standing up on shaking legs. She'd be nice, and she'd survive. Taking her arm the man pulled her roughly against him, feeling her small breats, one hand cupping her rear. His breath smelled of sour whiskey and stale cigarettes.
"How old are you sweety?"
DeAngelique squared her shoulders, puffing out her chest. She needed food, and she needed a warm place to sleep. She could survive tonight. After all, it was just her body he wanted.
"Eleven."
(Poetry by my son--Charles W. Prather, Jr.)

SIP YOUR NUMBED PARADISE
Crumpled cigarettes litter the table,
Alcohol burns the throat,
The pattern of self-destruction forms,
Cacophony of voices permeate the air,
A den of forgotten dreams,
Washed away with pinpricks to the brain,
Here there are no names,
Faces are all that matter,
Time is merely a formality.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it sit in the corner for a while,
You don't need to worry about it,
We'll take away the cause,
Sip your numbed paradise.

Dance away your memories,
Who needs them here,
You are in this moment,
Just let go of your future uncertain,
You can certainly be sure it's worthless.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it soak in the view,
A little taint never hurt,
We'll take away the consequences,
Sip your numbed paradise.

The lights are now less faded,
We've got to bid you farewell,
Our time,
Out of time,
So long yet so short,
But come back tomorrow,
A kindred spirit cannot be denied,
Your table will be waiting.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Do you remember where you left it?
We'll help you find it,
Sip your numbed paradise.

CHAPTER ONE

"Are you gonna shoot my papa?"
The course of life can be altered by many things. Lacey St. Claire knew that more than most. Her own life had been altered many times. Given new direction. Tragic events that shaped her, molded her, allowed her to survive. In the end it all boiled down to choices.
Lacey stilled her auto reflexes, gently removed her finger from the trigger and stared at the small child standing less than five feet away. Damn Chandler, he'd told her Domaslav had no family. Someone had made a mistake. A really big one.
Lacey could hear the sounds of movement overhead. A baby's cry. The flick of a light switch, opening of the door. Light spilled down the stairway.
"Anna?"
"Here, Papa."
Lacey moved back into the shadows beneath the stairway. Seconds ticked by, the huge clock in the foyer the only sound in the small hallway. The child had not moved. Her eyes were huge, riveted to the gleam of cold steel. Her body trembled, but she made no sound. She'd seen guns before. Knew about death.
Lacey caught bits and pieces of whispered conversation above her. The mother's anguished cry. Domaslav knew she was here. Knew why she was here. She could hear him hastily dressing, shushing the woman. Footsteps descended. The huge Russian stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
"I know you're here."
Lacey moved out of the shadows, gun held in front of her. "Keep your hands up."
"I'm unarmed."
Gun held firmly in her right hand, Lacey patted him down and stepped back.
"Anna, go to your mother."
The child hesitated, but moved slowly toward the stairs, her bare feet soundless. She stopped at the bottom step, raised her head and stared into Lacey's eyes. A single tear slid slowly down her cheek. "I love my papa."
The words were a mere whisper, lost within the ticking clock, raspy breathing of Domaslav, but Lacey heard them. A shudder ran through her. A long forgotten memory. No sobs, no begging for her father's life. Just a single tear from a power blue eye. Lacey waited as the child ascended the steps. Waited for the sound of the door closing above.
"Please, do not hurt my family."
"Turn around."
The Russian turned slowly, hands held on top of his head. Lacey studied his face, just as she'd studied the photograph that had been given to her. There was no mistake. It was Domaslav. He had the same powder blue eyes as Anna. The same age-old acceptance that death was imminent. He showed no fear as he lowered himself to his knees. He obviously knew the drill. He wouldn't beg for his life, but he would beg for the life of those he loved.
"You will not hurt my family?"
"I love my papa." The words seemed to echo in the room, but Lacey knew it was all inside her head. She felt dizzy. She could still hear the baby crying, the sounds of quiet sobs above her. How long had they waited for this moment? Anna could be no more than five, and yet her eyes had reflected knowledge far beyond her years. Acceptance of this day. The death of her father neither suprised her, nor had she feared it. She had merely accepted it. Lacey glanced around the small foyer, noting the sleeping bag just beneath the stairs. The child had not mysteriously appeared. She has been waiting for her, or someone like her. Kneeling there in the dark, watching the shadows. How many nights had Anna kept that vigil? How many morning suns had risen to find the child on her knees, murmuring a prayer of thanks for one more day.
"Please, you will not hurt my family?"
The words brought Lacey back to the present. Cleared her head. Her hands trembled slightly as she tightened the silencer into place. Dammit, she didn't pass judgment. It wasn't personal. Just names and faces. People who had to die. Choices. She hated choices.
"I will not hurt your family."
Domaslav relaxed, his last words a knife that sliced into Lacey's soul. A curse of things to come.
"Bless you."

What Makes A Great Mystery

Before becoming a mystery/suspense author, I was and still am an avid mystery/suspense reader. Perhaps I'm just a detective at heart. I love following the subtle clues, fleshing out the characters underlying personalities and guessing--and then waiting until that last page and finding out if I was actually a good detective, or because of my bungles the killer would have gone free.

A good mystery needs a good plot, and possibly several sub-plots to keep the reader guessing. So if you're starting a mystery today, consider the following:

1) A believable protagonist. Every believable protagonist makes mistakes. They don't walk from point a to point b and capture the killer. They struggle, both with the clues themselves as well as their own inner struggles which make you like them or love them and want to follow them all the way to the end.

2) A really intelligent bad guy. Criminals are not stupid. In fact, many are brilliant. Your bad guy must be able to lead your main character on a chase--which of course should have a good ending, the killer punished by being caught or well. . . .

3) Clues. Readers are not stupid either. And we love to follow clues. Figure out the answers and use our own imagination. So leave plenty of clues to allow your reader to make an educated guess, and follow you to the end--just to see if they're right.

4) Reality in place and time. Research your period. Not just the architecture, but the language, the dress. Mini skirts weren't prevalent in the 1920's. At least not on the street. A mistake in time and place can stop a reader dead cold and make them wonder what you were thinking, or what the heck did they just read.

Should a mystery have a sequel? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It truly depends on your character and your readers. After writing The Gifts, many of my readers wanted to know more. More about Jacody. What caused the split between him and Gavin. Loved or hated, they wanted more. So I didn't write a sequel. I wrote a prequil. The story behind the story. I sort of did a Star Wars. Wasn't my original intention, but I wanted to give my readers what they wanted.

Sacred Secrets was a character driven novel all the way for me. To be honest--I guessed, but I truly didn't know 100% for sure who was the bad guy--until the last three chapters. Was I surprised? Yeah, I sat back in my chair and looked at Coby and said, "Geeze, I would never have guessed that."