Query/Synopsis Writing & Example

Everyone hates writing a query letter/synopsis.  How much do you tell?  Did I tell too much, or too little? Most submission guidelines with have a limit on how much you should write.  It may be two pages, or 200 to 300 words, but always try to stick to their guidelines.  Below is a query/synopsis I wrote for Honorable Death.  I did not use this, as I had already published the book and actually did it for fun, and to see if I could actually write one I liked.  I hope it gives you some ideas for you own.

I would love to submit Honorable Death for your consideration. It is a 63,435 word detective crime thriller. It is book 1 in a 3 book series. All three books are written and have been edited, and I’m currently working on the next three.

Honorable Death is written in first person, and revolves around Detective Kacy Lang and her partner, Dave Capello. A unique team as Kacy is a wildfire and Dave is what the other detectives considered over the hill. The novel is set in Chicago and begins with the discovery of Kacy’s twin brother’s tortured and mutilated body. Kacy and Kyle were adopted at birth by rich parents who really didn’t want them. Growing up unloved took its toll, and Kacy devoted her life to law enforcement, while Kyle took the opposite path of drugs and thugs. The investigation of Kyle’s death leads to the discovery of black market baby sales, slave trade and prostitution. Kacy’s life is in danger and her adoptive parents are at the top of her suspect list. The novel is interspersed with colorful characters from law enforcement and the drug world. Kacy learns that Kyle had a daughter and must do everything she can to find her and protect her from the people who killed her brother. When a fellow officer is killed they turn up the heat with drug raids and arrest of gang leaders. Kacy learns her real father is legal counsel for the Colombian cartel. The novel is filled with twists, turns and concludes in a deadly showdown between Kacy, her partners, and the woman behind it all, her brother’s sister-in-law.

The book has received praise from early ARC readers as well as the editor and proofreader, who called it:

Everything a detective novel should be--gripping, clever, and filled with deep characters. Brilliant but troubled detective Kacy Lang and her partner, Dave Capello, aren't the perfect detectives, but they're the perfect team. The history of their relationship is every bit as intriguing as the murder they're trying to solve." - Stefanie B., Red Adept Line Editor
Honorable Death is a multilayered, fast-paced archaeological dig of a mystery, with well-developed characters and a well-constructed plot well worth reading." Laura B., Proofreader, Red Adept Publishing

I have been both published and self-published since 2006. I am a New York Times and USA Today best selling author. My backlist includes twelve novels, all presently self-published. These include paranormal murder mysteries, legal thrillers, crime thrillers, psychological thrillers, and one romance. I have worked with the judicial system since 1997, first as a legal secretary, then a free lance court reporter and official reporter for criminal court. I have also worked closely with local law enforcement on murder cases and putting together evidence for local prosecutors.

The manuscript is complete and available at your request.

Linda S. Prather, Author

$.99/99p

Amazon

The Original Jake Savior - Comic Relief - Cigarettes Will Kill You

Occasionally I take a break from the chaos, murder and madness of my mysteries and legal thrillers and write just for fun.  Prior to writing Beyond a Reasonable Doubt, Jake Savior was my comedy relief.  I loved his witty attitude, and sense of moral justice.  He was willing to kill for a price, but it was the freebies he really enjoyed. I knew I would never publish this book, but occasionally I look back and read what I’ve written and smile.  Sometimes I add a new chapter just for fun.  Have you ever read a book or watched a movie that was just, well, too far out there?  Good Intentions was that for me.  Good for a laugh, and brining an excellent character to mind, but not really marketable.  Still, I’ll always be grateful to Good Intentions and the Jake Savior contained therein, as he inspired portions of Beyond A Reasonable Doubt.  Working with the justice system I can totally understand his statement:  “The courts seen fit to let a pedophile go--I didn't.”  Poor Jake.  Life was tough for a killer for hire, but death without his cigarettes was even worse.

CHAPTER ONE

     You grow up poor you've got to wonder if God's got a sense of humor. All the crap life throws at you. And He gives you mothers. It's kind of like that guy Brandon Lee said in the movie The Crow--"Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children."

     He got that right. My momma wasn't just a good woman. She was a Saint. Somehow she managed to raise four kids on a waitress' salary. And three of them turned out pretty good. Or would have. But that's another story.

     Sometimes when I'm thinking about momma I have to wonder if she knew about God's sense of humor. She read us the good book every night, but she never said nothing about no sense of humor. Still, she had to know something. I mean, after three girls she got me. She had to figure God was up to something.

     I’m Jake Savior, and yeah you might as well go ahead and laugh. Everybody else does. My clients are always telling me God's got a sense of humor. The people looking for me weren't looking for a savior. They were mostly searching the want ads for killer for hire. That's me. For the right price I put a lot of people out of other people's misery. Heck, I even done some for free. Some people deserve to die, and being the nice guy I am, I gladly obliged them.

     But I'm digressing. Let's get back to God's sense of humor.

     I'd had a pretty good day. Won a few bucks on the horse races. Did a little charity work by ridding the world of one more piece of garbage. The courts seen fit to let a pedophile go--I didn't. So I was feeling pretty good about myself, except I was out of cigarettes.

     Now anyone that knows me knows I love a good smoke. Last count I was up to five packs a day. Momma always said those thing were going to kill me. Turns out she was right.

     Only a die-hard smoker goes out at 2:00 a.m. for smokes. Especially since all the safe places close down early, leaving only a few gas stations and convenience stores open at that hour. Still, I was willing to take my chances. It was too damn cold for thieves to be out and I really, really wanted that last cigarette before I turned the lights out and called it a day.

     You've probably already concluded that I'm a smart ass bastard that beats my own drum. Some people will smoke anything. Not me. I'm a strict Kentucky Red's Best smoker. Which means whether I liked it or not I was gonna have to hoof it over to Winchester Road at this time of night. Not everybody carried Red's Best.

     Being the cautious person I am, I scouted the parking lot and looked inside for milling customers. No cars and only one customer at the counter. I quickly ascertained he was one of the good guys like me, needing that last deep drag to calm his nerves before he called it a night. Boy was I wrong. Wrong place, wrong time and wrong guy. Five minutes after I entered the door of the Shaky Seven Gas to Go bullets started flying.

     I've always heard that your life passes before your eyes when you're dying. Trust me, that's all bull. My last vision was that pack of Red's Best I held in my hand, and my last thought was how good that cigarette was gonna taste as soon as I got outside. Of course, that wouldn't have surprised anyone who really knew me. It wasn't any big surprise to me. I was surprised though. Having listened to momma all those years and growing up with three sisters extolling virtues that I never needed or wanted, I was expecting either that bright light to take me to Heaven, or most likely in my case, a little fire and brimstone trail leading to Hell. That didn't happen either.

# # #

     "God, I'd kill for a cigarette."

     "You're kidding right?"

     I glanced over at the convenience store clerk floating next to me as we both looked down at our bullet ridden bodies. I had to chuckle a little. That pack of Red's Best was still clutched tightly in my outstretched hand.

     "Yeah, mom always said those things were gonna kill me. Guess she can say 'I told you so' now."

     "So, what do we do now?"

     "Beats the hell out of me," I stated turning to really look at the clerk. He was young, probably in his early twenties and looked like he was gonna cry any minute.

     "Jake Savior," I stuck out a hand. I sure as hell didn't need someone blubbering all over me.

     "Ronnie Smith," he stated, gaze still riveted to his body. "Mom's gonna be really pissed. I don't know how she's gonna pay the rent this month."

     "Maybe she'll get lucky. Sue the store and get a million dollars."

Ronnie finally looked at me, took the hand I still had stuck out and shook it heartily.  "Really? You think she can do that?"

     Truth was I didn't know shit about civil lawsuits. Criminal law, yeah, I could advise you all day long on criminal law, but civil suits were a different animal with a whole new breed of greedy demons. Still, we were dead and what was he gonna do, sue me if I was wrong?

     "Sure kid, happens every day."

     "That would be nice."

     "Hey, look, another late night smoker coming in." We watched as the guy entered the store, took one look at the blood and immediately jerked out a cell phone. A good Samaritan all the way. So what if he loaded up on a few cartons of cigarettes, a couple of gallons of milk, some bread and snacks and three cases of beer while he waited.

Sirens blared away and we watched as the local cops pulled up, followed by paramedics.        The good Samaritan stayed just long enough to give a statement before hopping in his now loaded Toyota and hitting the road. He'd be celebrating tonight and nobody the wiser.

I watched as the paramedic leaned over my body, checked for a pulse and shook his head.      "This one's dead."

     "No, shit, Sherlock. I mean, really, there's a hole right between my eyes."

     "Hey, Jake. . ."

     "Where the heck are you going?" I yelled. Ronnie was slowly drifting backwards as if drawn by some unseen force. I headed in his direction only to find myself up against an invisible brick wall.

     "Well, that sucks," I muttered, kicking the wall only to find another long held belief wasn't true. You could feel pain after death.

     Being the naturally curious person I was, and since death so far had held a hell of a lot more surprises than life, I drifted back inside the store.

     "We got a pulse."

     The kid was still alive. Hallelujah. Hope he doesn't tell his mother about that million dollars. She might really be pissed then.

     "Marty, you bag and tag that one when the coroners done."

     I'd always had a lot of respect for guys like Marty. The things they had to deal with every day. Bet his friends called him the bag and tag guy. I really wanted to pat him on the back until the fat bastard leaned over and picked up my pack of Red's Best, stowing them in his front pocket. "Don't guess he'll be needing these anymore."

     They all laughed. Laughed.

     I hope you get lung cancer you son-of-a-bitch and die a long, slow, painful death.

I watched as they loaded the kid into the ambulance, lights flashing, sirens blasting. Might have been happy about that if the fat bastard hadn't chosen that moment to light up one of my Best's. Smoke drifted my way. A tantalizing aroma of pure Heaven.

     "Hey, Marty, you got that body bag?"

     I watched the red tip as it arced through the air, landing a few feet away. There was still half a cigarette left. Dumb bastard. You don't throw away half of one of Kentucky's best brands. You smoke it slowly, savoring the aroma and taste.

     I spent the next five minutes trying to wrap my newly dead fingers around that cigarette. I could see it. Smell it. And if I closed my eyes, I could even taste it. But try as I might I couldn't pick the damn thing up.

     Frustrated I sat back down on the curb, listening as the cops made jokes as they loaded my body into the wagon. It wasn't funny. Wasn't funny at all.

     So the next time you're sitting around feeling sorry for yourself and you think life ain't fair, try dying at a late-night convenience store for a pack of cigarettes and then find out you've got to sit and watch some other lucky bastard enjoy them.

     That's when it hit me. Yep, God's got a real sense of humor. At least if Ronnie was here I'd have somebody to share my misery with.

     So this is hell. Stuck here in what I can only describe as grey matter to watch life pass me by, totally unable to intervene or enjoy even the simplest of things. That's what I was beginning to think. But that was before the kid. The kid changed everything and hell started looking pretty good to me.

"You Can Dress Up Ugly....But You Can't Cure Stupid."

I'm often asked if my job as a court reporter gives me inspiration for stories.  I've always said no, because most of the cases I'm involved with would bore the reader to death.  Occasionally when I work with the police departments on a murder case, that may fuel a few of my murder scenes, but not always.  Actually the downtime in driving does give me lots of time to think though.  I'm often on the road two to three hours between getting to the deposition site and coming home.  This morning, on top of pouring coffee into orange juice, I found myself in a somewhat pensive mood.  An hour on the road for a fifteen minute deposition, that without an appearance fee would be a loss for me.  Now, before you feel sorry for me, that isn't always the case.  Court reporters make good money at times, and have lots of jobs that aren't really money makers.  But getting back to my pensive mood.  I found myself looking back over the years to other jobs I've had, and one job I was offered that truly made me laugh out loud as I was driving along because it reminded me of something my daddy said to me when I brought home a particular "pretty boy".  Oh, and he was handsome.  After my date that night when I came home dad was waiting and we sat down to talk for a few minutes.  Dad wasn't a big talker and he often put it pretty bluntly, which he did in this case.  He told me I couldn't go out with that guy anymore and then he said "You can dress up ugly, honey, but you can't cure stupid."

I realize now what I didn't realize then--Dad was always right.  I heard several years later that my pretty boy had committed several crimes, including murder, and was serving a 98 year sentence.  Thanks to dad  I jumped ship on that one before it sunk.

These thoughts led to other thoughts in my pensive mood.  I went back over my life and training as a hypnotherapist.  I spent thousands of hours in classes studying psychology, counseling and hypnosis techniques.  I've always been fascinated by the power of the mind, and hypnosis to me seemed like a wonderful tool to help people.  One of our requirements was to attend and take part in a lecture presented by a top hypnotist on "stop smoking" seminars.  I limited my presentation to the health benefits received from stopping smoking, although there are times I believe there are benefits to those who smoke.  (Don't hit me with wet noodles.  A doctor actually told me that."

I'm a very passionate speaker on topics I believe in.  For years I have taught free meditation and self-hypnosis classes for healing benefits.  I'm a firm believer that the mind has the power to heal us if we can only tap into those resources.  After my speech the presenter made me an offer he probably felt I couldn't refuse.  He wanted me to join their group.  They could book speeches for me and charge up to $300.00 a person for a one hour speech.   What the presenter didn't realize was that I was passionate about what I was studying, but to me it was a spiritual journey in finding ways to help people learn to help themselves. It wasn't about money.  I looked at him, smiled and said: "You can dress up ugly, but you can't cure stupid, and anyone willing to pay $300.00 an hour to hear me speak is too stupid for me to be of any benefit to."

I walked away from that presentation with my morals intact, and still feeling good about myself.  I'd learned some valuable things there and perhaps I could be rich now at the expense of others, but I wouldn't be able to sleep well at night.  Daddy had another saying that we hear a lot.  "If it sounds too good to be true it probably is."  I don't see these people doing seminars anymore so the odds are they priced themselves out of business.  When you're studying something to help others, price should not be a part of the equation.  You should put just as much passion into helping someone who needs it that can't afford to pay as you put into that person who can afford to pay $300.00 an hour . If you do that, then odds are you're going to succeed.  If you don't, odds are eventually you'll run out of people who can afford you.

I turned my thoughts from this to my writing.  And wow, what a kicker.  The third Catherine Mans book just clicked and now I can start writing it.  So if you love the Catherine Mans Psychic Suspense team, get ready--there's going to be a new one coming soon.

The Power of Words

Two years ago I had the wonderful opportunity to work with a rehab shelter for young women, most of them under twenty-one and many pregnant, who were recovering from drug addiction.  One of the most powerful things we discovered for all of them was their inability to use words to express their emotions.  We worked on this for many months with poetry writing, letter writing, and finally they wrote a play which they produced and put on for family, friends and their children.  It was a wonderful experience and one I miss and hope to repeat in the future.

Words are our most powerful weapon.  We use them to convey our love, our disapproval and sometimes to manipulate people.  As a motivational speaker we use words to change the thoughts, beliefs and sometimes the actions of the people we're speaking to.

In writing, authors use words to convey the emotions and sometimes the personalities of their characters.  My sister-in-law commented that I sometimes used "bad words" in my novels.  I laughed and stated: "It's hard to write a hard-core FBI agent who comes upon a brutal murder scene and have him say "sugar-beads.'"

So what gives words their power?  Basically they're hooks.  And the power lies in the meaning of the word to the persons who hear them.  Powerful weapons, or meaningless manipulations.  Words trigger emotions and emotions trigger actions.  I could say "I love you", but I don't know who is reading this post so if I don't know you, how can I possible truly love you.  I could say "I hate you", but the same would hold true.  I don't know you, so how can I possibly feel strongly enough about you to hate you?

Words without an emotional attachment are usually meaningless to the person reading or listening to them, and basically in time will bore a person to tune them out.  So how do we write exciting words that keep our readers turning pages?  We have to combine those words with emotions and meaning.  We do that with body language and punctuation.

Carrie turned back to the sink and continued slicing vegetables. "I said no."
Carrie turned back to the sink and continued slicing vegetables. "I said no!"
Carrie turned back to the sink, sighing deeply as she slammed the knife into the cutting board. "I.. said... no."

Each of these basically say pretty much the same thing, but express a different emotional state.  In sentence one, Carrie is basically just telling her listener that the answer is no. She's said it before, but she's still calm, and conveying the message without anger or frustration.  In sentence two Carrie is getting angry and frustrated and shouting "I said no!"  Her body language is still controlled and she's expressing her anger through her words only.   In sentence three Carrie is basically losing control as she slams the knife into the cutting board, taking her anger out both in her words and her body language.

As a method of power, sentence one might be enough for someone who was simply asking a question, like a child who wants a cookie.  Carrie says no, end of it with a well mannered child or someone listening who is willing to take no for an answer.  Sentence two goes further and could be the mother who is tired and has a  child, or adult for that matter, who repeatedly asks the same question. It insinuates she's said no before and more than once.  Sentence three is basically a woman who has pretty much reached the end of her rope.  Emphasizing each individual word I...said...no.  She isn't shouting, but using what is actually a more dangerous tone of voice.  Most likely deep, bitter and controlled.

With writing, as with life--emotions run the show.  Love, joy, pleasure, anger, fear, pain.  The only way your reader can possibly feel these emotions is if your character is feeling those emotions.  Jacody Ives said it best in The Gifts--the impact of words was in direct correlation to the emotions of the reader. Words could be twisted, knives to open up wounds long hidden. Maneuvered to evoke buried nightmares. Bare the soul, expose the wound, and you had a best seller.  Make them laugh.  Make them cry.  But above all, make them feel something.

A good writing habit is to set aside what you wrote this morning and come back to it in several hours.  Look at the scene, the words or conversation between characters.  Have you conveyed what your character is feeling?  Do you feel it?  Have you conveyed what your character is thinking?  Do you feel it?   If you feel it, then there's a good chance your readers will feel it, making their reading experience far more enjoyable.

Have a wonderful day!

Stop by my new website and say hi.  http://www.lindasprather.com

Tales From the Darkside - Creative Challenge

                Linda Claiborne paused in the doorway.  She looked around the padded, windowless room and wondered why they kept putting her in here.  “Life will slowly show you the dark side of everything, every time you think you’ve made it.”

                The thought came unbidden, unwanted.  Were they afraid of her?  Afraid of what they thought she knew?  A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth—or just afraid?

                “Please, sit down , Ms. Claiborne.”  Dr. Hester gestured toward the chair,  her voice coarse and hard.

                Linda stared disdainfully at the psychiatrist.  She hated her.  Hated the shellaced hairdo.  The red, red lips as if she had just devoured another soul.  She smiled softly again.  Because she knew.  Opening her mouth she spoke for the first time in three years.  She spoke the words she’d always wanted to say.

                "You think I’m crazy?" Linda hissed.   Her gazed traveled  around the room again, her eyes blazing with the contempt she felt.  “Don’t trust your sense of security. Don’t trust your profession.  Don’t trust anything.  It’s there; it’s waiting; it’s ready.”

               She watched as  Dr. Hester scratched the area that  long ago had housed a set of prominent balls.  Funny how it was much harder to break the scratching habit than it had been to get rid of those useless appendages
               “Sit down, Ms. Claiborne.”

                Linda turned around so she wouldn’t have to look at the psychiatrist’s haughty face another moment.  She studied the remnants of a stain on the padded floor, wondering what tortured soul  had left it there and why that section of the padding hadn’t been replaced.

                “Several years ago I was just like everyone else.  Young, pretty, my whole life ahead of me.  I had it all.”

~ ~ ~

                Dr. Hester sat, carefully watching as she listened to Linda.  She knew it. She knew eventually she’d break the bitch down.  Get inside her head.  And yet  her words were the same as all those before her.  Wondering what had happened to them.  “It wasn’t long ago I was carefree and happy.” 

~ ~ ~

                Linda continued talking, ignoring the smirk on Dr. Hester’s face.  Her eyes took on a dreamy far away look.

                “You want to know what happened to me?”  Linda turned back to the psychiatrist, her hands clenched tightly at her side.  “It can happen to you too, you know.  You think you’re so smug.  So smart. But you don’t know what’s out there.  You think it lurks in the dark.  It doesn’t."  Linda paused, wiping the  drool from her chin, “It’s coming.  It’s coming for you.”

                Dr.  Hester laughed. “Please, Ms. Claiborne, surely after three years of silence you can say something more profound than this dribble.”

                “Remember the dark.  Notice it around you.  Be aware of everything.  Don’t brush off those little things that bother you; those are your warnings.”

                Dr. Hester yawned, clicking long nails against the desk.  “Three years.  I’ve waited three years  to get inside your head, and this is all there is.  How boring."  

                Linda turned her back to the psychiatrist and closed her eyes.  Closed out the ugly vision. 

                “And the funny thing is, Doctor,” Linda spat the word doctor out like a four letter word, “you will never see it coming.  I can promise you that.  You will think she’s your friend.  Oh, if I didn’t hate you so much, I would actually feel sorry for you.”

                “You can go now, Ms. Claiborne.  I’ll see you in group tomorrow. “

                Linda smiled, her voice soft, gentle.  “I’ll grant your wish, Dr. Hester.”

                “And what wish would that be, Ms. Claiborne?” Dr. Hester scoffed, shuffling the paper work on her  desk.

                Linda didn’t answer,  but opened the door, quickly leaving the room.  Soon.  It would be soon.   Her lips curved into a smile.  “ I’ll let you inside my mind.”

Had a lot of fun with this one.  Perhaps tomorrow I'll do the light side.

Tales from the Dark Side--And the Light - A Creative Challenge

Sometimes in between books I love to play and give myself a challenge.  For today's challenge I've chosen a picture and will attempt to write a short piece from the dark side of my nature and then from the light side of my nature.  If all goes well, I may continue this--just for inspiration.  Care to join me?  Post your dark or light tale in the comments section.

Challenge 1:

FROM THE DARKSIDE:

"Wecome to your new home, sweetheart."

His words were almost drowned out by the pounding of my heart as my eyes widened, taking in the crumbled concrete, litter strewn floor and single chair in the middle of the room. The scream that rose from my chest choked off midstream. There was no place for it to go.  He'd stuffed the gag tightly inside my mouth, tying it in place with the dirty red bandanna he'd taken from Terry's body before he tossed it over the bridge. He'd killed him with one swift plunge of that horrible looking knife he carried at his waist. And now he was going to kill me.

He pulled me further into the room, his crippled bony hands cold against my skin. "I don't bring all my girlfriends here. In fact, you're the first."  He brushed my hair away from my face as his laughter echoed through the long hallway. "But you won't be the last."


FROM THE LIGHT SIDE:

"This may not be such a good idea, Jenna."  Terry eyed the crumbling old building before turning his attention back to me. "From the looks of that place it could collapse at anytime now."

Taking his hand I pulled him toward the steps.  "Don't be silly.  It's made of concrete and brick.  The only way it could possibly collapse is if we had an earthquake and according to the weather bureau there's none on the horizon.  Besides that's where Mama Pearl went, so that's where we're going.  Sarah has to sleep tonight."

I hoped I sounded a lot braver than I felt at the moment.  Darn Mama Pearl for putting me in this predicament anyway.  Terry and I had been searching for her kittens for almost a week now. We'd followed her all over the neighborhood and Sarah had cried herself to sleep every night for the past week.  We had to find them today.  There might not be any earthquakes on the horizon, but the weatherman was predicting a massive blizzard and I knew if we didn't find the kittens soon they would freeze.

We picked our way carefully through the litter strewn hallway to the double doors at the end. The wind outside was picking up, creating a mournful howl and rattling the windows.

"We'd better make this quick," Terry pushed the door open wider. "The snow is on its way, and I definitely don't want to be trapped here when it hits."

"Shh...," I whispered, listening intently. Somewhere within the howl I'd heard the slightest of mews. "Did you hear that?"

Terry shook his head. "I didn't hear anything."

Squeezing through the doorway I stopped just inside allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness.  The sound came again from a far corner. "There."  I pointed across the room to where Mama Pearl's bright eyes glowed from the darkness.  Taking a step forward I stopped when the board beneath my right foot crumbled and crashed to the floor below.  Terry grabbed me from behind, pulling me backwards.  "We can't go in there, Jenna. It's too dark and too dangerous."

I knew he was right, but I also knew I couldn't leave Mama Pearl and kittens here to die.  Sarah would never forgive me. Kneeling I called out to her and held open my coat. "Come on, Mama, bring the kittens to me.  We have to get them some place safe and warm."

 She meowed once, long and low.  I continued to kneel as she came toward us, a bundle in her mouth.  I took the tiny kitten from her, placing it inside my jacket as she moved gingerly back across the floor.  It took four trips before her meow told me we had them all.

"That was amazing." Terry cuddled two kittens inside his jacket, close to his heart.  "Are all cats like that?"

Picking up Mama Pearl I placed her inside my jacket with the other two kittens.  I couldn't wait to get home and show them to Sarah.  "That's what all mothers are like.  It's getting late we'd better run for it."


Wow, it took a lot longer for me to do something in the light than it did in the dark.  The dark just rolled.  And I might even look into incorporating that into a real story eventually.

Casseroles and The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery - Meet the Characters

Shoepeg Corn Casserole

1/2 C. chopped onion
1/3 C. green pepper
1/2 C. Celery
1 C. French green beans - drained
1 C. shoepeg corn
1 C. celery soup
1 8 oz. sour cream
1/2 C. cheese - grated
Salt and pepper to taste
1 stack Ritz crackers
1 stick oleo - melted

Sauté onion, green pepper, and celery. Add remaining ingredients except crackers and butter. Crumble crackers as a topping. Dribble melted butter over all. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

English Pea Casserole

1 sm. Onion - chopped
1 green bell pepper - chopped
1 stick butter
2 cans English peas - drained
1 C. water chestnuts chopped (with liquid)
1 can mushroom soup

Sauté onion and pepper in butter. Add peas, water chestnuts and mushroom soup. Put in square baking dish and top with buttered crumbs. Brown until bubbly and crumbs are brown.

Sweet Potato Casserole

1 lg. can sweet potatoes
1/2 stick margarine
1/2 t. apple pie spice
1 1/2 C. sugar
3 eggs
3/4 C. condensed milk
2/3 C. potato juice
1/4 t. vanilla

Heat potatoes and juice. Drain and save 3/4 cup juice. Mash margarine with potatoes. Add apple pie spice, sugar, eggs, condensed milk, potato juice, and vanilla. Beat all together in mixer. Bake 1 hour at 350 degrees. Put mixed topping on baked casserole. Place under broiler until brown.


Topping
1/4 stick oleo
1/2 C. sugar
2 T. milk
1/4 t. salt
1 t. vanilla
1/2 C. pecan halves


Hamburger Casserole

1 pound ground beef
2 tablespoons butter
4 medium sized potatoes
2 onions
1 teaspoon salt
dash pepper
1 cup tomato soup

Brown the beef in skillet with butter. Cut potatoes in 1/2 inch cubes and spread in a baking dish. Cover with half the meat. Add half the soup and a sliced onion. Season with salt and pepper. Repeat, using remaining ingredients. Bake 1 1/2 hours in a 350 degree oven. More soup may be added during baking if needed.




Gavin The nightmares were getting stronger, the screams louder, closer. And this time there had been blood and pain. The knot in his stomach still hurt, and there was a strange ache in his chest. An eerie sadness. “What the hell have I done?” he whispered.

Sarah She hated the dreams. Hated the feeling of helplessness they created inside her as the dying reached out, sending messages to loved ones, or crying out for vengeance against their attacker. Only this time the dream had been different. This time the message was for Sarah.

Carl “Didn’t expect an old biddy like you to hit a man so hard.” He groaned, opening his eyes and glaring at Millie. Clarence stepped next to Millie, placing an arm protectively around her shoulders. “I’m afraid I hit you, Mr. Jackson. Saw you skulking around and followed you.” Carl turned his fierce gaze on Clarence, but held his tongue. The old fart looked pretty tough, even barefoot. Besides, he wasn’t in any shape to take on the two of them.

Rob The words cleared the remaining fog from Rob’s brain. Taking the mug of steaming coffee from Carl’s hand, he sat down at the table. His head still pounded, but his eyes were sharp and clear, his voice strong, “I’ve got your back, Carl.”

Nikki
A heartbreaking smile lit up the small face. Gavin found himself entranced, images flowing through his mind. He could see himself teaching her to play ball, pacing the floor while she was out on her first date, walking her down the aisle. He mentally shook himself, dispelling the images as he concentrated on what she was saying. “I’m going to write books some day about a beautiful ballerina who travels all over the world and solves crimes and helps people.”

Millie Millie couldn’t stop herself from lifting the blinds and taking a quick peek to see if he was still there. A slight pang of disappointment filled her when she saw he had already entered the flower shop. “Flirtatious old coot,” she muttered to herself as she opened the bookstore for business. Always calling me Millicent. She stopped her muttering as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror behind the counter. The slight flush on her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes belied her age, as did the spring in her walk. The old fool had her feeling like a teenager. Maybe she’d just take a walk over there and see those new roses. He could probably use a good cup of coffee. Might even ask him over for dinner one night. Possibilities. The old coot had definite possibilities.

Joshua Taking the mike, Joshua lowered his voice. “Listen, Sarah, get everybody you can out to the old mill on Elliott Pike. I’m sending Gavin back with Nikki. I’ll stay here and watch Cooper until backup arrives.” Joshua clicked off, his eyes meeting Gavin’s over Nikki’s head. “That’s the way it’s gonna be, partner." Gavin nodded. He knew somebody had to stay. “No heroes?” Joshua grinned, popping a fresh toothpick between his teeth. “I ain’t the hero type.”

Clarence Millie smiled, still running her hand over the smooth surface. “She’s a real classic.” “Yep.” Clarence moved in, putting his arm around her. “Classics are hard to find today. When I find one, I tend to hold onto it.”

Excerpt and some homemade fruit, veggie and chip dips

Introducing two of my favorite characters - Billy Dawson and Charity Froste. Hope you enjoy the excerpt and some really great cookout dips to try.


“And so it begins.” Billy Dawson flipped over the tarot card, placing it on top of the first card.

Charity Froste sighed, poured two cups of coffee and took a seat across the table from him.

“Jacody soon be on his way,” she stated, sipping the thick hot liquid. She rolled her eyes, noticing the cards. New fangled toys was what they was. She touched the medicine bag lying between her two huge breasts. Now there was real magic.

Billy didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He could feel her disapproval. “Tools, Miss Charity. The cards, the stones, the bones, they’re all just tools.”

“Dem’ bones don’t lie,” Charity chastised him.

Billy swallowed the laugh on his lips as the wind carried the sound to their ears. A lonesome sound. A sound of pain. A sound of heartache. The sound of a lost soul.

Billy turned over the next card. The Hanged Man.

Perhaps the sound of destiny.

Tonight a soul would pass into the netherworld. The white wolf would howl its mournful song. The elder would dance and sing his prayers to God. The dreamers would dream.

“Told you dem’ bones don’t lie.” Charity eyed him suspiciously. “You called the wolf, didn’t you?”

Billy shuffled the cards, ignoring the question. She knew the answer. “We can’t be interfering, Miss Charity.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Yes, ma’am, I reckon he is.”

“Ain’t right.” Charity clutched the cup tightly. Time was running out. Night would come all too soon. A dark night.

“No, ma’am.” Billy continued to shuffle, mindful to be respectful and listen. Answering her, although it probably wasn’t necessary.

Charity studied her reflection in the coffee cup. Lost in thought. “He didn’t choose the path he’s on.”

“No, ma’am. I don’t reckon he did.” Billy pulled another card. Miss Charity was losing her accent.

“Somebody chose it for him before he was even born. It just isn’t right, I tell you. And I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I can’t just watch him die. I’m not going to do that, Billy Dawson. You can’t ask me to do that.”

Billy reached for the last card, avoiding her searching eyes. He knew what she wanted. What she needed. She was waiting for him to say something. Answer the question she hadn’t asked. Condone her interference, or condemn her actions not yet taken. He could neither condone nor condemn. He’d already interfered. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

Billy turned the last card over. The Devil grinned up at him. A male chained to his left, a female to his right. His smile a mockery of everything Billy believed in.

Lifting his head he met her gaze. There was nothing he could say to ease her pain. “I’m sorry, Miss Charity.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cheese Dip

2 lb. Mexican Velveeta Cheese
1 lb. sausage
1 - 15 oz. can stewed tomatoes

Brown sausage and drain. Melt cheese on low heat. Stir in sausage and stewed tomatoes. Do not drain. (for those with a love of "hot" stir in some jalapeno peppers).

Bagel Dip

8 oz. package cream cheese
1 cup MIRACLE WHIP
2 - 3 oz. Buddig beef packages
1 bunch green onions, chopped
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
Dash of garlic powder

Mix all together and chill.

Onion and Bacon Dip

8 oz. pkg. cream cheese, softened
6 slices bacon, fried crisp & crumbled
Dash of salt
1 medium onion, chopped fine
Miracle Whip

Mix first four ingredients together and add enough Miracle Whip to make smooth and of dip consistency.

Mexican Dip

1 - 8 oz cream cheese, softened
1 - 8 oz. carton sour cream
1 can refried beans
1 envelope taco seasoning mix
20 drops Tabasco sauce
3 green onions chopped

Mix all together. Spread in casserole dish. Cover with shredded cheese (about 1 cup). Bake at 350 for about 25 to 30 minutes until hot throughout. Serve with nacho chips.

Artichoke Dip

1 cup Parmesan Cheese
1 can artichokes
1 cup mayonnaise

Stir ingredients together. Bake in oven at 350 degrees for 40 minutes.

Veggie Dill Dip

1 pint sour cream
1 cup Hellman's mayonnaise
6 tsp. dill weed
6 tsp. minced onion
4 tsp. parsley flakes
2 tsp. Lawry's Seasoned Salt

Mix all together, chill; serve. Good with veggies or chips.

Tell Me A Story - A tribute to Poet Robert Penn Warren

As an author I truly appreciate the beauty of words. If you've read any of my poetry you've probably gathered that I'm not that great a poet. Occasionally something clicks for me and those moments are precious. Words are about passion, and poetry many times is passion at its best. Like the words of a beautiful love song they inspire us to greater heights. I, as an author, use words to weave stories. Stories of love, hate, fear, good and evil. My words aren't always subtle like the poets. And that perhaps is why I have always loved poetry.

Kentucky has had many great poets, and possibly some in the making right now. Robert Penn Warren caught my eye early on with the subtle messages weaved into his words. And if you've ever been to a poetry reading--they're amazing. To have someone read those lines of verse grasping the passion beneath the words.

I combined poetry and story in my second book because of my love of the art, and the passion in those short verses that say so much. Take the poem below, one of my favorites by Mr. Warren. As an author I immediately have a vision of this young man as he stands in the road. His passion to see the world, experience life as yet unknown. To write his story. Perhaps he is a young man in his early teens wanting to spread his wings. He knows there's a world out there. He can't see it, but he's heard about it. And his heart beats to fly into the adult world. Or perhaps he's a young man and war is going on, and he aches to join the fight. Either way you can feel the passion of this young man, standing on a dark country road, hearing the sounds of life in motion, and seasons changing. Or perhaps it is simply the opposite. A time when the Elderberry blooms. Mid-summer. Perhaps he was seeing the days slip by, moving much too fast toward the end of summer.

The ability for the reader to feel the passion, and place upon it their own feelings and emotions is part of the true beauty of these subtly written words.


Robert Penn Warren 1905 - 1989

Tell Me a Story

Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood
By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard
The great geese hoot northward.

I could not see them, there being no moon
And the stars sparse.I heard them.

I did not know what was happening in my heart.

It was the season before the elderberry blooms,
Therefore they were going north.

The sound was passing northward.



I hope you enjoyed my tribute to Robert Penn Warren. Look up his poetry, see what passion it inspires in you. Enjoy for this is National Poetry Month.

Snakes, Alligators and Voodoo--More of Find Me a WIP

I've really enjoyed working on this book, and the research into things I had absolutely no clue about. Hope you enjoy the excerpt.


Catherine kept her hands inside the boat, but couldn't help being drawn into the beauty of the Bayou as the marsh sparkled in the later afternoon glow. An alligator scampered away from the bank as the canoe approached. Herons, egrets and seabirds flew up from the grasses. The Bayou was certainly wild, beautiful and deadly.

"How far do we have to go?" Catherine asked, noting the shadows were getting longer around them. She really didn't want to be in this water after dark.

Aureole spoke with her grandfather who shrugged and kept paddling. "Grandpa says patience is a virtue."

Catherine bit her lip to keep from cursing out loud. Grandpa hadn't really said anything. It was clear Aureole didn't like her. Yet at times there was something in her eyes. Something very sad. There were so many questions Catherine needed answered and Aureole was her only hope of getting those answers.

"Tell me about Voodoo, and how my mother got involved."

Aureole shifted in the boat, causing it to rock gently and Catherine to reach for the sides.

"There are several religions referred to as voodoo, or voudou. There's also hoodoo which is similar in some respects. Our religion is a combination of Roman Catholic, African animism and Christianity. We believe in one God who is all powerful. Many of our traditional ceremonies are presided over by Roman Catholic priests.

"In the old world we call God "Bondje", meaning "Good God". We reach him/her/it through the spirits. We worship God, and serve the spirits.

"There are twenty-one nations of spirits, called the "lwa-yo". The more important nations of Lwa are Rada, Nago and Kongo. The spirits sometimes come in families such as Ogou, Ezilli, Azaka or Gede.

"Rada sprits are familial and mostly come from Africa. Petwo spirits are native to Haiti and can be more demanding and require more attention to detail. Both can be dangerous if angry or upset, although they are not good or evil. They simply are.

"Everyone has spirits, and each person has a special relationship with one particular spirit who is said to "own their head", but we have many lwa, and the one that owns our head, the "met tet" may or may not be the most active spirit in our life."

Catherine listened to the recitation, which sounded like it came from a history book, but her mind honed in on the twenty-one nations. Each of the victims had been stabbed twenty-one times. Why?

"Do you want to know more, or are you bored yet?" Aureole turned giving her a condescending look, clearly expecting her to be bored.

"I think it's fascinating. Of course, I could have read everything you just said in a textbook. Do you find it that boring?"

Aureole rocked the boat again, this time almost capsizing it, and gaining her a rebuke from her grandfather.

"Sorry," Aureole mumbled, clearly not sorry at all. Unless she was sorry Catherine hadn't fallen out of the boat.

" You still haven't told me how my mother became involved in this."

"I can only tell you what my grandfather has told me. Mother Rose was a Catholic nun who served in Haiti for many years. There she met my grandfather, and from there we came to New Orleans. When I say "we" I mean of course the Duprè family. She brought us to the Blanchard plantation where my family worked for yours. When grandfather saw your mother she was surrounded by spirits, and he knew immediately that she was born to be a "manbo" or high priestess. He trained her for many years, although to hear him tell it she trained his as well. She was an amazing woman."

"You knew my mother?" Catherine asked, noting the emphasis Aureole had placed on was an amazing woman.

"I told you, we came over with Mother Rose. We lived with you."

"Catherine. . . . come play with me."

"Were we friends?" Catherine asked.

Aureole turned, leveling her with an angry gaze. "I thought we were."

Catherine remained quiet as darkness closed in around them. The Bayou came alive with strange noises, and ravenous bugs. Thank God she had on jeans and long sleeves, but she found herself constantly swatting giant mosquitoes from her neck and face. Surely they didn't have much further to go.

Almost as if Grandpa had read her mind the canoe slowed and they approached the bank. Taking off her shoes Aureole jumped into the murky waters and pulled the boat ashore, tying it off to a huge tree.

Catherine followed Grandpa's lead and walked to the front of the canoe, stepping gingerly onto the bank. Once again she thanked God she'd worn boots. Five hundred dollar boots that were now covered in Mississippi mud.

Grandpa disappeared into the trees and Aureole slipped her shoes back on mud covered feet. "We walk from here."

Catherine looked around her, hearing the sound of a huge splash behind her in the water. "It's almost dark, how are we supposed to see where we're going?"

Aureole tied her shoe laces, glancing at the alligator now about ten foot from shore. "Guess you'd better keep up then hadn't you? The Kayiman looks hungry."

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.
**********************************************************************************

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.

Sample Sunday - WIP The Road To Hell

Sunday samples are a great way to get to know new authors, their works and works in progress. I decided this week to share a work in progress instead of an excerpt from one of my published books. Mainly because samples are out there of the printed books, as well as this is something totally different for me. I've never written in first person before so I'm anxious for comments on how you think it's going. I've been told this is somewhat of a combination of the movies Ghost and Constantine with a whole new twist. Perhaps it will make the big screen someday - who knows, I can dream can't I?
***********************************************************************************
CHAPTER ONE

You grow up poor you've got to wonder if God's got a sense of humor. All the crap life throws at you. And He gives you mothers. It's kind of like that guy Brandon Lee said in the movie The Crow--"Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children."

He got that right. My momma wasn't just a good woman. She was a Saint. Somehow she managed to raise four kids on a waitress' salary. And three of them turned out pretty good. Or would have. But that's another story.

Sometimes when I'm thinking about momma I have to wonder if she knew about God's sense of humor. She read us the good book every night, but she never said nothing about no sense of humor. Still, she had to know something. I mean, after three girls she got me. She had to figure God was up to something.

I’m Jake Savior, and yeah you might as well go ahead and laugh. Everybody else does. My clients are always telling me God's got a sense of humor. The people looking for me weren't looking for a savior. They were mostly searching the want ads for killer for hire. That's me. For the right price I put a lot of people out of other people's misery. Heck, I even done some for free. Some people deserve to die, and being the nice guy I am, I gladly obliged them.

But I'm digressing. Let's get back to God's sense of humor.

I'd a pretty good day. Won a few bucks on the horse races. Did a little charity work by ridding the world of one more piece of garbage. The courts seen fit to let a pedophile go--I didn't. So I was feeling pretty good about myself, except I was out of cigarettes.

Now anyone that knows me knows I love a good smoke. Last count I was up to five packs a day. Momma always said those thing were going to kill me. Turns out she was right.

Only a die-hard smoker goes out at 2:00 a.m. for smokes. Especially since all the safe places close down early, leaving only a few gas stations and convenience stores open at that hour. Still, I was willing to take my chances. It was too damn cold for thieves to bout and I really, really wanted that last cigarette before I turned the lights out and called it a day.

You've probably already concluded that I'm a smart ass bastard that beats my own drum. Some people will smoke anything. Not me. I'm a strict Kentucky Red's Best smoker. Which means whether I liked it or not I was gonna have to hoof it over to Winchester Road at this time of night. Not everybody carried Red's Best.

Being the cautious person I am, I scouted the parking lot and looked inside for milling customers. No cars and only one customer at the counter. I quickly ascertained he was one of the good guys like me, needing that last deep drag to calm his nerves before he called it a night. Boy was I wrong. Wrong place, wrong time and wrong guy. Five minutes after I entered the door of the Shaky Seven Gas to Go bullets started flying.

I've always heard that your life passes before your eyes when you're dying. Trust me, that's all bull. My last vision was that pack of Red's Best I held in my hand, and my last thought was how good that cigarette was gonna taste as soon as I got outside. Of course, that wouldn't have surprised anyone who really knew me. It wasn't any big surprise to me. I was surprised though. Having listened to momma all those years and growing up with three sisters extolling virtues that I never needed or wanted, I was expecting either that bright light to take me to Heaven, or most likely in my case, a little fire and brimstone trail leading to Hell. That didn't happen either.
# # #

Like the sample and want to know more? Check out Karen Cantwell's blog on January 20th where Karen and I will be discussing this work.

Want to sample my current works? Check out The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery and/or Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery.

The Gifts

Sacred Secrets

Also available on Amazon in the UK, as well as B & N, Sony, Kobo, Diesel and Smashwords.

Have a great Sunday and Happy Reading!

If you like this, or even if you didn't--please leave a comment below. All constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

Passing Judgment

I truly enjoyed sample Sunday last week, and decided this week to choose something a little different. One of the things I love most about being an Indie is the lack of structured rules on genres and not being bound to one specific genre. Hope you enjoy the sample.



CHAPTER ONE

“Are you gonna shoot my papa?”
The course of life can be altered by many things. Lacey St. Clair 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 removing her finger from the trigger and staring at the small child 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 powder 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. She looked deep into his eyes. Faces could change. Hair. Even body shape. But the eyes were always a dead giveaway. 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 surprised 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 had 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.”

Writing--Are you ready to release your first book?

If you're getting ready to release your first book--first, I'll say congratulations. You've reached milestone that many before you have reached, and many after you desire to reach. I hope to share some things below that I wish someone had shared with me. Following just a few of these can give you a better chance of success.

1) Create your platform NOW. Get involved in social media. Learn to write short, interesting tweets. Set up a blog and WRITE. You don't have to blog every day. In fact, you're probably going to bore a lot of people if you do. I mean, seriously, do you have something truly worthwhile to say every day? Something significant to share? Get a facebook page and invite your friends, family and others that are interested in the genre you're writing.

2) Now, to the really hard soul searching issues. Ask yourself the following questions:
1) Have you written the very best story you can write?
2) Are your characters well defined and easily identifiable even if you don't use their name?
3) Are your descriptions overly wordy, or easy for the reader to use their own imagination along with well placed descriptive words?
4) Has your book been professionally edited?
5) Have you sent out review copies to major review sites and/or review bloggers?
6) If self-publishing, have you studied the formatting for properly formatted books so that your book is attractive and easy to follow?
7) Are you ready to commit at least one hour or more a day to doing something to promote yourself and your book?
8) Is your cover professional looking and complimentary to your book? Put it up for your social media contacts to review and comment on. Run two or three potential covers and let people choose the best. The benefit here is you'll get an eye-catching cover as well as pre-release publicity for your book.
9) Do you have a marketing budget?

I'm sure there are a lot of things I've missed, so if you're reading this and you can think of something to add, then please do. These are just a few of the ones I wish I had known about four years ago. I've always followed the professional editing route, but I was totally unaware of author platforms, and yes, there are times when I look back now that I wish I could start over. I think my books are the best story I could write, but perhaps I would written the series differently. I would have started at the beginning and plotted exactly where the series was going, and how long it would continue.

Reviews are essential to your success. Getting reviews can be difficult, and take weeks or months before they're posted, so it's important that you look for those most beneficial to your genre prior to publication. Seek out good reviewers or bloggers that have a consistent following in your genre. There are many out there just waiting for a book just like yours, however, they may have an overload and a good review takes time.

It's said only the strong survive. And that is essentially true if you're an author. You're going to come up against some rough winds and choppy waters. Unless you're extremely rich already, or win the lottery, odds are you're not going to be an overnight success. The competition is vast and getting your book into the hands of people wanting to read it isn't as easy as it sounds. And even bestselling authors occasionally get a bad review. So face it, you're probably going to get a bad review at some point during your career. It isn't necessarily the bad review that will hurt you--it's your response to it. If it's an honest review, then pay attention to what the reviewer is saying. Learn from it. Thank the person for taking the time to read and review your book. Bad reviews don't necessarily hurt you. In fact in some instances they actually increase sales. But you've got to be tough. And you have to above all believe in yourself and your product. It's impossible to sell something you wouldn't buy yourself. So ask yourself why would I buy this book? What's appealing to me about it? The answers to those questions are the basis for your promotional platform. Good luck.

Writing - Opening Lines

Writing - Opening Lines

I love opening lines of books. Sometimes it's difficult to have just one line that pulls a reader in so you have your opening paragraph. If you've followed me on Twitter lately you'll notice I've been posting one line opening lines. Most of these are things that would pull me into a book at least enough to read the rest of the page, or perhaps the first chapter. In today's fast paced world of writing and marketing, sometimes all you have is ONE WORD to catch the attention of potential readers and buyers. That word has to either invoke or evoke an emotion or enough curiosity to capture the imagination in a way that makes them want to read more. Professional marketing executives know that you have to use power words or a one-line powerful sentence to sell your product. Amazing, Attention, Authentic, Bargain, Cheap, Daring, Destiny, Excellent, Free, Huge, Hottest, Incredible, Limited, Magic, Monumental, Noted, Outstanding, Powerful, Quality, Rare, Shocking, Tremendous, Unbelievable, Unparalleled, Unusual, Unsurpassed - for just a few. We've all seen these words in advertising and, yes, they catch our attention.

I used the word Destiny as my one-word opening line for Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery. Hopefully that word implies to the reader that something major is going to happen somewhere along the line. Some of my one-liners from yesterday were:

They called us acceptable losses.

For me this opens the door to my imagination for a group of people that have been set up. It could be soldiers in the war sent on an impossible mission. It could a group of kids in high school singled out because they're different. It could be two lovers. It could be anything the imagination wants to conjure up. It could be much like the movie The Expendables. Same thing, different word - Expendable a one word line that says a lot or - They called us acceptable losses.

Today I killed a man.

Okay, that gets the imagination juices flowing. Why? Ooh, I have to know why. Was he a good man, a bad man, an accident?

A one-word line I truly love to play with is - Click.

Simple, right? Not really all that simple. Click could be a thriller as you hear the sound of the gun being cocked behind you. Click could be a horror story as the lights suddenly go out in the old house. Click could be a romance as the guy at the end of the bar lights a cigarette, his sultry brown eyes gazing into yours. Click could be a comedy as the camera snatches one of those pictures you just can't have up on facebook. One word, but a powerful word.

These are things I wished I'd known when I first started writing. The old KISS syndrome. And valuable tools for marketing. Alas, I wasted a lot of time writing long blogs, wimpy releases and wordy sales ads. It doesn't take a lot to tell your potential readers something fantastic about your books. Sometimes it takes only one short word. Let's take the Jacody Ives Mysteries - Chilling! Shocking! Cheap! (only .99 on Amazon Kindle and B & N).

And you can buy them with just one - CLICK!

The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Happy writing and happy reading.

Looking for a Holiday E-Book Sale - Check out the Indie Authors at:

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Writing - Eyes

If you’ve followed any of my previous blogs on writing, body movement and show don’t tell, you know by now that body language can be an excellent tool for conveying the internal emotions of your characters. Today I want to talk about eyes. Eyes are, in my humble opinion, one of the greatest tools an author has to convey emotion.

Every movement of the eyes says something about the emotions of the character. Sending a signal to your reader of what your character is feeling. Remember the old cowboy movies. In every gunfight they squared off and watched each other’s eyes. Why? Because the eyes would show an involuntary movement just seconds prior to the hands moving toward the guns.

The muscles of the irises are controlled by the nervous system. The pupils of the eyes dilate in response to emotional stimuli, especially excitement and sexual arousal. Keep that in mind if you’re admiring someone—they just may know what you’re thinking by the size of your pupils.

Eyes are more than just blue, green, grey, etcetera. Eyes speak in ways that our voices can’t. And unlike the spoken word which is often controlled by the speaker, eyes speak the truth.

And it isn’t always necessary to actually use a color. “Her eyes were the color of a deep pool of shimmering water.” Although the color is not used, the reader can use their imagination here. A deep pool of shimmering water could be green or blue bordering on black.

Eyes can set up a scene, but you have to extremely careful that the foundation is properly laid out. For instance, women’s eyes will get misty when they’re happy, sad, anxious or scared.

Accusing eyes: Your character has walked into a scene where you’re standing over the body, holding a bloody knife. You can see the accusation in his/her eyes. This perhaps might work better in a romantic setting where you walk in to find your lover embracing another man/woman.

Hungry eyes: A small waif on the street, standing outside a restaurant gazing longingly at the food.

Watchful eyes: Her eyes were watchful, searching his face for signs of betrayal.

The sultry look. A come hither look that says I’m ready, are you?

Lashes lowered over misty eyes. How could he have done this to her?

Downcast eyes. A possible signal of guilt, shame or sadness.

Fear normally causes the eyes to widen, but desire also causes the eyes to widen and the pupils to dilate. Angry eyes widen and are usually fixated on the object of their anger.

Beady squinted eyes: Could be a sign of interest as the character squints at something of interest. Normally a character with beady squinting eyes is distrusted.

Combine your character’s eye color/movement with eyebrow, mouth and nostril movements and you have an emotional picture painted with words. The color of eyes also changes with emotion. Darkening during angry or passionate moments and becoming lighter during happy or excited moments.

Remember – sometimes less is actually more. Too much description will bog down the reader and interrupt the flow of your story. Carefully placed tidbits create a mood the reader can not only see and feel, but empathize with.

Writing - Character Development - Body Language and Show Don't Tell - Part Three

One of the things I love about writing these blogs is that I learn as much as I share. My approach is rather simple at times, but developing real life characters is as simple as watching those around you or a good TV show or movie. Profiling – the physical looks of your character, as well as their little ticks and quirks, and then adding the internal mental/emotional baggage to their persona.

Kentucky has a comedian that has always used real life episodes for his comedy. He can truly entertain you for hours as real life is often funnier than fiction. Of course, if we’re lucky few of us know serial killers or the “bad” guys/gals we write about. Or perhaps we do, and once again if we’re lucky we don’t become a part of their agenda.

I was watching Criminal Minds last night. It was an old show, and one I’ve seen before. But truthfully I’ve never really seen the killer in the light I saw him last night. The show opens with him in his house and his actions clearly show you in the first few minutes that he’s obsessive compulsive. Perhaps someone unfamiliar with obsessive compulsive order at first glance in the apartment would merely sum him up as a neat freak. But closer examination of his movements, the three turns of the door handle before opening it, the measured number of brushes with the tooth brush, the fanatical placing of items exactly as they were before he picked them up all point to something more than just neatness.

As I’ve been blogging on facial expressions I watched his this time. He has a look of innocence, and possibly a little “book wormish”. Not unattractive, but what some of us older people would have labeled “geekish” in our day. Even though I’d seen this show before I at first saw him as the victim (which if I remember correctly, he was a victim as a child, so perhaps that image wasn’t totally off). He leaves the apartment walking down the street and an older woman drops something as she’s getting into her car. He picks it up and gives it to her. A nice, quiet, helpful young man. And so polite. As I stated, he has a look of innocence, and also a look of skittishness. Not someone you would expect as confrontational.

He approaches a house for sale where he’s greeted by the realtor. This throws me in his character just a little, for this action requires a certain boldness. It’s broad daylight, and anyone could walk into this house at any time. He allows her to see the knife for just a moment before he moves in close, shoving the knife underneath her heart. Here his facial expression is truly a work of art. He closes his eyes, his head tilts back just a fraction, and a look of total satisfaction crosses his face. Perhaps sexual satisfaction, but the one thing you know for sure is something about shoving the knife into this woman relieved some inner need. An inner need so strong it was impossible for him to overcome it.

The woman stumbles away and he asks her in a voice that has just the right amount of innocence and curiosity – “Where are you going?”

He follows her as she stumbles into the living room and sits down on the couch. He isn’t too close, not threatening nor helping. He leans over her and looks into her eyes watching her die. Here once again his face is a painting of curiosity, as if he has no understanding of what he’s done, or the consequences of his actions.

My first thoughts—wow, a perfect killer and one no one would see coming. And even though you fear the character you also have just a little sympathy for him because you realize immediately this isn’t who he wants to be—it simply is what life has made him.

Profiling – your characters must fit your story in age, physical looks and internal emotional/mental baggage and/or needs. Work with them by watching others who have similar “needs”. Start with people you know describing them in ways that would probably surprise them, as well as may surprise you as you look underneath the physical persona. Keep a note pad by your side as you’re watching your favorite movie and profile the characters. Play with it and have fun. The next time you sit down to write I believe you’ll find your characters taking on new life.

Writing - Character Development - Body Language and Show Don't Tell - Part One

Readers expect a great deal more than just words on a page. They want to become a part of the story. Be able to not only see the characters and the scenery, but also feel the love, hate, joy and emotional tension of every scene. Every character has a specific physical look, but they also have internal mechanisms that affect their physical appearance. For Part 1 we're going to take a look at Anger and the physical attributes that a character might express that will clue in the reader to the emotional status of the character. In other words, we're going to show the body language related to anger.

The word Anger is often used to describe a variety of emotions - resentment, wrath, rage, fury, passion, indignation, displeasure, vexation. Most of these are associated with a strong feeling of extreme displeasure accompanied by a desire to punish the object of your displeasure. Anger can be passive or aggressive. Today I'm going to focus on facial expression of anger.

Facial Expressions of Anger:

The face is a perfect indicator of human moods and emotions. And a perfect writing tool to emphasize the emotional turmoil or mood of your characters. Let's break it down.

Anger signs:

Eyebrows - Lowered eyebrows, pulled together to form wrinkles in the skin of the forehead

Eyelids - lower and upper eyelids tighten as brows knit together. Intense anger may cause the upper eyelids to raise

Eyes - eyes wide with fixed gaze or stare; squinted - a light tick at the corner of an eye usually following the tightening of the jaw muscles

Mouth - flattened or clenched; teeth bared

Jaw - tightened or jutting

Face color - red

Also keep in mind there are various degrees of anger. Your character may go from minor frustration to a slow boil, and then an all out fit of rage. Anger can also be evoked by other emotions such as fear, emotional pain and grief. Many times anger is expressed through words either screamed at the source of the anger, or soft-pitched words that are dangerous in their undertone.

Anger can be expressed and shown in many ways. It can be hot and explosive, or slow and seething. Anger can also be cold. A stiff and rigid back, a cold shoulder or soft words spoken in an icy manner. Ragged shallow breathing. Rapid heart beat. Anger can be shown through written passages, or heated dialogue.

So with this in mind, let's develop our character and his/her characteristic of anger. For the purpose of this demonstration I've chosen "Joe" a retired police officer now private investigator. Knowing this, we know that Joe most likely has dealt with angry people throughout his career and is an expert in recognizing the signs of anger, as well as an expert hopefully in controlling his own anger.

Example:

Marie handed Joe the current readout on Cosgrove. The report wasn't good, but she knew Joe would take it in stride. After all he wasn't a hotheaded teenager prone to fits of rage. A slight tremor of fear started in her stomach as his lips tightened and a dull red flush started at the base of his neck. She took a step backwards as the trembling hands holding the report slowly ripped it into tiny pieces.

Okay, now the scene above shows that Joe is getting angry. What appears to be a slow seething anger. We have the tightening of the lips and the dull red flush, and the slow ripping of the report. We then have Marie stepping backwards away from him. Of course, Marie stepping backwards could also be a sign that Joe at times has more of an explosive personality.

I personally see Joe as the slow, seething, soft icy word type.

Now you've developed your character's reactions to anger. You can change them throughout the story, however, you will need a clear explanation for you readers as to why his reactions change.


Check back tomorrow as we explore other emotions and body language.

Dean Koontz - One Door Away From Heaven

Being a Dean Koontz fan since his Odd Thomas series, I have to admit that I’ve been trying to read this book for years now. I normally get so far in, and then stop. This is truly an unusual characteristic for me, as I love stories and books and especially page turners. I’ve tried to decipher my problem with this book, and it’s difficult as it truly is a masterpiece of beautiful artistic flowing words, and leads you down the path of three individual and yet titillating stories. If asked to rate the book I would have to give it five stars across the board for character development, story development and as I said, beautiful artistic flowing words.

I found myself following three distinct stories, each captivating in their own right and yet each time I was caught up in the story line I was immediately transferred to another captivating story with another character. I would at times have to go back and read the end of the chapter on the first story prior to going forward on that story as my mind was caught up in the story I’d just read.

Are the stories good? Yes. I found myself totally immersed in the problems of Michelina Bellsong and Leilani. And then totally immersed in young Curtis Hammond and his flight from killers, as well as his tagalong partner, Old Yeller. Anyone who knows me knows that the story of Old Yeller has always been my favorite, and the fact that young Curtis named his dog Old Yeller only endeared that story to me more. And then there’s Noah Farrell, a burned out former police officer now turned detective with his own deep, dark burdens of guilt. All three fascinating stories that up through Chapter 28 have absolutely nothing to tie them together. I know that’s coming, but I’m on page 214 of 606, and truthfully tired of trying to follow three distinct stories that I love individually and keep the pages turning and the story line flowing.

Can a book be too eloquent? Possibly. As I’m reading it’s almost as if each paragraph was written individually. Not that they don’t tie together in the individual stories, they do. But each paragraph offers its own descriptive eloquence that sometimes leaves you thinking too much about the words you’re reading, and then losing the story line. Once again, there have been many times I’ve had to back up and reread. And miss a day reading a chapter, well I’m totally lost on which story I’m following and where the character has been and where they’re going.

As I stated in the beginning, I’ve been a Dean Koontz fan for years, and I loved “False Memory”, “Fear Nothing”, “Hideaway”, “Midnight”, “Watchers”, “The Key to Midnight” and the “Odd Thomas” series. His style is truly unique, and his characters always masterpieces of literary genius. I did something today, though, that I rarely if ever do with a book. I went to the end and read the last page. Why? I guess I wanted to know if the stories ever truly came together. They do, and perhaps someday I’ll finish this book. I hope so, because I learn so much from Mr. Koontz’s writing. But life is simply too short, and I have so little time to read, that I feel I must once again move on to something else. I will miss my travels with Micky and Leilani and with Curtis and Old Yeller, and I’ll even miss Noah Farrell, but with almost 400 pages in front of me to finish, I think I’ll leave it for another time period in my life when I can snuggle up with a good cup of hot chocolate and hopefully make my way through to the very end.

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?