Rubber Band Theory Part 2

Well, I really didn't think that putting a book out as FREE promotion would work. My first novel in the Sabrina Strong series went free and there were a lot of hits on it. I was able to see that during that non-selling portion it went to #200. I don't count it as anything but people grabbing a free-bee. But some good results happened.

One was that within about a week the other books were selling, not just in the US, but in the UK, Canada, and apparently in Denmark--I guess that's what "De" means in the Amazon area on Novel Ranks. And I sold numerous copies of the ebooks at regular price.

Secondly, I finally got a few more reviews. And these were nice reviews from one person who FINALLY got what I was doing with the series. Sheesh. You'd think I have to have a few pages in the beginning to explain to people who are dense as to why each book goes the way it does! Anyway, she gave me excellent reviews and I thank her for that.
Some times you experiment and things don't work. And then other times they work out pretty good. This is an example of when something can work. And since I have a publisher who has ways of getting the word out better than I could (without the money to back it up), I've found that the books are selling well. Better than I could have imagined, and I'm happy about that.

Last week the weather got so warm and gorgeous, I set aside my writing, and enjoyed it. How many times can one say they sat outside in shirt sleeves and shorts in the middle of February in northern Illinois enjoying 60's. I wanted to sun myself, and I got a little caught up with some yard work as well.

This week reality kicked back in and we're back to where we should be in temperatures, but I know it will be short lived because all the spring-time birds are back, including the sand hill cranes, which don't usually make it until March. So, now that I've no real excuse to not work, I'm gradually trying to get back into the swing of it. Had a few ideas pop into my brain this morning for my current WIP, and although these were good I see I need to ponder and mull about them. And I'm hedging on continuing where I am at in the story, because there are later scenes  coming up that have me chomping at the bit to write, and some have been written into a separate document, and maybe these notes I've made could become new scenes. This book is going together like a patchwork, I guess. Nothing wrong with that, as long as the end result is seamless.

Well, that's all I have for this installment.

Oh, nearly forgot. I was feeling under the weather, yesterday. Early morning, I sneezed and felt it in the back of my throat. I knew that if I didn't act on it I'd get hit full blown with something, so I took an aspirin--just one--and later had my tea infused with elderberry, and had another cup later on as well. I had chills throughout the day and resisted this urge I have to clean. It's a burst of energy (I don't know if anyone else experiences this at all, in my case I want to clean the house). I knew if I spent my energies on doing that, I'd become sick for sure. I think it's your body trying to ward off whatever, and if you don't stay home, and rest, you will be screwed! I stayed in my office/room and I had to double up my layer of clothing (put on yoga pants underneath my sweats and two shirts plus a Dickie underneath the sweatshirt). I kept wiping down places where I'd touched, used a different toothpaste from my husband, and hope he doesn't catch whatever I had.
This morning I was much better, and although I know I'm not quite 100% I'm still better than I was. I do believe that the claim on elderberries is spot-on. I've used it whenever I felt I was coming down with something, and so far, this year, I haven't caught a cold or the flu--and I drive a transit bus where just about any germ can come from anyone who gets on the bus. Even if you can't gather and dry the elderberries yourself, the already made form is available in some stores where health food, etc. is sold. I take the tea from the elderberries I gathered and dried and put them into a Ball jar and store it in the fridge. Supposed to last at least a year. At least until they come ripe again in late August!

Okay, now I'm done. Have a good writing week!

Assignment: Murder

As any one knows when you begin a book, any book, you have to consider everything that happens in the book--even if it is fantasy--if the things that happen are plausible.

In a murder mystery you've gotta go the extra mile. It's pretty much why I avoided writing mysteries, even though those are my favorite books (along with John Grisham, I enjoy Sue Grrafton, Tami Hoag, and a few others--including the "Murder She Wrote" books by Donald Bain), to read. And it's why I put a mystery in every book I've ever written.

Here are my notes from 9-4-16 on my thoughts on how to have a person appear to have hung himself (suicide). But it's really murder.

Oh, and if you intend on reading the second novel this is a spoiler alert.

...I was having trouble with how the man would be hung in his office. I mean where could the rope (or whatever used) would be hung from? It has to be solid [enough to hold a man's weight]

Side note: {Changed to a bathroom]

Then I thought about a woman who hung herself in the women's john from the frame over the door. 
So, I may have to rewrite this. {which I did]

inside women's john, see upright cross section
sorry this is a poor picture

Above is picture of the very stall in which a  woman hung herself (true story, happened over a year ago) at NIU student center. I learned about it through a friend who is a janitor there. I was actually in the bathroom when this woman was setting up to do herself in. I saw she had a chair in there, and unfortunately I was in a hurry to get back down to my bus to keep it on time, so I didn't think too much about it, just thought it weird she had a chair in there.

Back to Notes:

So, okay, I've named this character Blake [I've named him Ellwood Blake], who walks into the men's lavatory & finds this teacher hung himself ... {here I've had him take a picture, but later on I decide he is recording himself on his cell phone working on a novel he's writing for a class, and he takes a whole video of the body bottom to top, which Lainey later views and comes to the conclusion he didn't commit suicide}

My notes continue from here, but I've changed everything, so I won't include them here. 

However, I've taken pictures of various parts of the Student Center, if only to help me create--in my head--how this small college would look like inside, and certain Modus operandi as well.

Above is a hallway with a number of doors, it's a moderately long hallway and turns right at the end and continues.

Here is a small classroom.

Obviously, this bathroom had to be off in a remote part of the college. I put it down in a subbasement where no one ever goes, except maybe the janitor on occasion. Beyond the hallway are the locker rooms for sports teams.

By the way, the murders all happen off the page. My murder mysteries are "cozy" type where the more grisly or ghastly scenes are kept off screen, as it were. It's a YA type of book, and I wanted that any age could read it.

To continue with the murder:

Background: The teacher's wife,Carol Taylor, was in charge of the bursar's office (of small college), and finds that funds are way low from what she knew them to be when a large check has bounced. She is fired by the president, Mr. Smith, claiming she was the one embezzling. Her husband is Chad Taylor, English teacher, teaches creative writing class in which Lainey Quilholt is student.

The next day, after Carol's dismissal, Smith goes to the Taylor's home, hoping to get them together, but unfortunately only the wife is there. He gains entry, smoothly saying he's thought things over and wants to apologize. But when she's let him in under these pretenses, he shoots her--but not after learning that Mr. Taylor has gone to the school early. Thus he has to figure out how to kill him. But he can't use a gun. It would make too much noise, and to make it look like suicide, he'd have to shoot him in the head. No. he figures out a different way.

Luring Mr.Taylor away from his office to come and talk to him in his office gets him into the elevator. Cleverly, he's got the cart (below) inside the elevator, ready. He'd make some excuse like "Janitor must have left it here." He somehow gets behind Mr. Taylor and strangles him with a bit of cord. (I have not figured out where this has come from as yet.)

Once Taylor has been snuffed out, he angles his body onto this cart, presses G for Ground Floor, and rolls the man's body to the men's john, and hangs him up in the stall to make it look like suicide.

Mr. Smith is a very obese man, but is able to carry this murder out easily enough, I think. 

I've gotten past page 50, and the two murders--at this point it's considered a murder/suicide by police--have been discovered, using the whole embezzling thing is motive behind Mr Taylor killing his wife, and hanging himself. But Lainey will find clues, pester Sheriff John Weeks (who has since first book has married her aunt), to look further into this, especially since a number of anomalies and discrepancies have surfaced. Lainey will already know who has murdered them, but has to figure out why, and how he got away with it, and then trap him into confessing.

How far do you go to figure out the legitimacy of the things you write? Or how, physically, they could be done? Do you find places, things, objects and take pictures to help you create your story?

It's the best I can do at the moment

I'm happily in my writing cave working on #2 murder mystery - "Invitation to Kill". (My first one has been renamed "Party to a Murder".)

Funny how at the beginning of a new book I've only got ideas that may, or may not turn into anything worth while. There's always that certain fear of simply starting the book. Toying with scenes and characters in my mind, turning them over, trying to see which way to go with them. Once I feel certain that my brain cells have fired well enough over this, I open a document and begin to work.

Anyway, I'd had the beginning of this one written out in my notes. Definitely rough, and still things would change, certain aspects and details, but I put it into the new document, happy to commit to this. And since then I've worked on that scene, adding or changing something. That's fine. I think every writer has to have instinct on how to proceed, how they want to write. After so many years, one gets the hang of it. There are some writers who wouldn't think of going through their work until they've got the whole thing finished. I can't do that. I have to meddle with it until it suits me, until everyone and so forth is in line with the way I want it.

I go by the adage that "no one can teach you how to write." I've seen and heard this echoed throughout my writing life.

There's another saying which I just heard only yesterday--in all places on a "Murder She Wrote" show. Not so surprising, since JB Fletcher is a writer and she connects with writers all the time.

It is title of today's post. "It's the best I can do at the moment". Somewhere someone had to have said this to a class, to him/herself. Anyway, it's good and I'm borrowing it for now. Mainly because it's so true for a writer. We don't become over-night successes (some of us never become really successful), but you work hard at writing, at making it better today than it was yesterday. You are doing the best you can do at the moment of inspiration, or when you go in to correct. Hopefully you are better than you were a year ago, five or ten years ago. You keep getting better, but at the moment you are as good as you can be.

It also occured to me that writing is like movement. Like walking or jogging. Sometimes you can only take baby steps, because you're unsure. But that's okay. Being unsure is all part of being a writer. And that's where this saying comes in handy. You have to give it your best shot and say to yourself, "This is the best I can do at the moment".

And once you get beyond your fears, you're walking (writing) at a good gate. My husband goes for a brisk one hour walk every morning--prefers before sunrise. I, meanwhile, do my yoga. We're different in what we need to do in order to get our hearts pumping. I like walks, sure, but my knees can't take the punishment of a brisk walk in the park.
Anyway, what I'm trying to say is everyone is different. We all have our way of getting through a manuscript. Whatever you are comfortable with, do it, or find it. I like to make notes in the evening while drinking a light wine and in between reading a John Grisham--or whatever--novel.

The next day, I look  at the notes, already thinking about how to approach the object of the scene ahead, or have a character figured out and can add that to the notes. It's a process of notes, mulling, and then writing it all out, and then later on, my editing, adding or taking stuff out. If I can get even a little bit down, just a thousand words, or maybe only 300, I'm okay with it. I'm not a marathon runner, and so I'm not pushing myself beyond my abilities.

I'm doing the best I can at the moment.

Dear World;

I'm reaching a milestone. In age and in writing.

I'm never sure if I should count those early years, I was just messing around, at first, and took a creative writing course in high school (you know the one where when I told my English teacher who taught it that I wanted to become a writer/author, and she said I should find something else since my spelling and grammar was so bad).

That was 1972. Which makes 44 years I've been messing around with words. As I've said, my first attempts were mostly childish poems (I still have them), and some really silly stories that became a marathon of words, since I had no idea how to plot, and that there was a "beginning, middle, and ending".

I often thought myself on some sort of stage, and I was an actor in a play. So much has happened to me in those years. I've touched on a few here. But like everyone, I've got baggage up the ying-yang. Some of it has managed to just go away (divorces and deaths tend to do that), but my main thing has been, throughout, WRITING.

I wrote through the worst of times, when my father passed--before and after--back in 1999. Oddly enough, I was writing the book I'm currently on (and re-writing still). This book has been with me since almost the beginning. And for the sake of writing and taking it seriously, and having my first piece published by ByLine in 1983, we'll say for argument's sake, I've been writing this same story since then, on and off (mostly off), since then. It was very different back then. The whole thing was a totally different take on vampires, and a young teenage girl becoming infatuated with an older man. (that was one of those baggage things I mentioned earlier, which I used, and have used in my stories from time to time.) And her father who becomes concerned because this man keeps odd hours, owns the old mansion nearby, etc. And, of course, this older man is a vampire.

In a way the basic story didn't actually change, but I've reworked it, many times, rewrote the hell out of it, went back and forth a number of times on what to do where. At one point it was actually so long, no one wanted it (800 pages). I believe that was the 1999 version.


In 2013, I dragged this story out again--I needed a bulldozer to move it around. I was determined this story would get published some day if it killed me doing it. I took all the pages from various versions, I know I had more than 1,000 pages strewn on the floor, bed, an 8 foot table, and worked for a month or so trying to put it into some sort of order. After which I chopped, rewrote, rewrote, and chopped again.

But, since I was so busy with the Sabrina Strong series (and trying to find a new publisher), I couldn't do too much with it at that time. But, I had time to write the story anew. However, I didn't put an ending on it. As it stands, I'm working along in it and will finish it at some point in September (unless I have an unseen delay).

But for now, everything is okay. I just don't usually have much time after my job, what with doing all sorts of things when I get home. But the weekends are mine.

Speaking of which I'm having another UN-Birthday!

I'm gonna need a bigger cake than this to get all the candles on it. However, I'm happy, healthy, and all is well over here at the old Afton Homestead.

Have a good weekend all!

Getting Organized... Riiiight

I'm sitting here at the computer writing this amid a flotsam of newspaper articles, which I've collected in the past several years. I've brought down one of my craft tables because of the over-flow, and need to do something with these clippings. There's everything from Harry Potter news of its rise in popularity, to the end of the series and movies (I am a big fan), to just different articles on anything that caught my eye. Some of it I remember, and some of it I don't. A number of things have gone into the trash where it belongs.

I've complained about having some place to put things, but it goes in one ear and out the other. I'm waiting for my royalty check in order to buy something to help the over-flow. But in the meantime, I'm trying to organize my crap.

Upstairs I've consolidated all my yarn into 3 bins--well, one is delegated to keeping the unfinished projects, so that one doesn't count.

The two bins I've emptied of yarn will become the place I will keep my journals. These are in notebooks--regular sized school notebooks, and the smaller ones, like Gregg stenos. I've kept writing a journal since 1973 (wish I'd kept one in high school, it would have been good to remember the stupid things that happened back then). But, in all I have 4 bins--you know the colored ones you see in stores. I'm trying to keep them to the 10 gallon size. Anything bigger would be insanely heavy.

At any rate, I'm in the middle of this, at the moment, having put an ending on my murder mystery. And, as usual, I've got ideas for the next one. One character I'll be introducing is inspired by someone I knew, but I'm changing him enough to at least be more likable, more intelegent, but still somewhat of a braggart and story-teller. Well, he's going to be a writer in Lainey's college writing class, and I'm seeing him as someone who commands attention, not only with his mouth, but he's a very large guy. He'll be a fan/writer of fantasy--which makes sense to me.

Well, you'll excuse me. I've got to work on my mess here in my office. Have a good week!

Checking the Plot Elements

I've got the week off from my regular drudge, and so I'm working on some rewrites of my WIP (Murder on the Mississippi).

Writing a murder mystery is a challenge to me. But it's fun, too. Using the "Plot W" I've gotten into the last portion of the book. But I'm finding myself going back over the beginning. Without a strong beginning, it all will be useless. Not only that, I'm having to bookmark numerous elements in the story (like the clues), so that I can see where I've put what. I tend to forget where I've put certain things in the story--or if I have!

But back to the elements of the story. I've gone back to a very good source by Aimee L. Salter. Still great advice from this author, who not only goes step by step, helping novices and possibly those who've been writing for years, and need a kick in the butt to remember certain things. (She has altered her posts, and some have disappeared, but many still remain. I couldn't find the Plot W, anywhere.)

In working out the plot, as we all know, the very beginning has to capture your audience. There's something Aimee calls "The Inciting Incident" and I've provided the link here so that when you're ready you can go and check this out. It has been something I've forgotten, and needed to review. There are at least 4 things you have to do either in your first chapter, or as soon as possible, in your book, so that people can not only connect, but want to read on.

Here's a round up of these first things in a book's plot you should check that you've covered.

1). Status Quo

2). Change to Status Quo

3). Affected Character 

4). The Consequences

5). Inciting Incident

Go to the link for explanations of each one of these.

Aimee's plot elements have been something I've followed for a  long while, and every one of her installments are well-written and worth checking out, no matter if you've been writing a long time, or are a novice.

All for today, my writerly friends. Gotta work on my beginning a little bit more.

Finding Voice

I wrote this on Monday in my journal...

I think I've found Lainey's voice. It gradually came to me--or was coming to me--and then this morning I was jotting down this scene and there it was.

It's hard to explain this phenomena (other writers know what I mean by this), but there it was. I'd been writing along, pages, chapters, filling the document with scenes, dialogue, which I tried to give life to. In some cases they were bare bones, no fleshing out, or attempts at it have been like a fishing trip, where the fish don't bite. I would be left with the thought that eventually I'd find a way to make it better.

And then, one day--this day--I'm writing a vivid scene (one of those which either wake you, or you have it in your head when you wake), and BOOM! There it is! Your character has, well, character.

As in all books, I know basically where I'm going. Like driving in the dark with one headlight. It's just getting to that destination without hitting a deer, or having a flat tire--something that stops you cold.

Well, today, it came. Yep. Lainey Quilholt, my MC of my murder mystery has come alive in my head, and I suddenly knew her like the back of my hand.

The following is the scene in which she just popped out on the page. And mind, its in Chapter 9... but here is the section. Set-up: Lainey is investigating the apartment of the girl who was murdered. It's been up-turned by someone looking for something, and Lainey just happened to find whatever incriminating pictures to explain--she hopes--why she was murdered.

And this is the one point in the book she is physically threatened. As a cozy, you can have your MC get into sticky situations, she can get out of them, or a combination of her and someone coming to her rescue. This is one of those situations.

I walked through the living room carefully, my phone out, and began making a video of my walk-through, meanwhile talking about what I saw as I went along. I picked up a few large pictures, opened their backs, which wasn't hard, as the glass was shattered, but found nothing. Finding nothing in the living room, I stepped down the hallway, picking up scents from her bathroom. I opened the door. Expensive perfumes had been left untouched on her bathroom tile counter. The medicine cabinet was emptied, but there wasn't a mess—no toothpaste or lipstick smeared on mirrors or walls. Again, drawers were turned out. Obviously, the destruction wasn't out of hatred, or a need to trash her place. They were looking for something hidden. My instincts were on the mark.

In the bedroom, similar destruction, as everywhere else, filled my eyes. Only in here her clothes were scattered everywhere. The closet was completely emptied. I saw no hidden safe inside, so the person who had been hopeful of something of this sort had been out of luck. Books from shelves were strewn all over. I was a bit surprised that Arline would have books of any kind in her apartment, but upon close examination I learned she liked romance novels. The books themselves were thrown open, face down on the floor. Again, suggesting to me that this person was looking for something that could be slipped between the pages of a book. A picture, or a document came to mind. The person who had been looking would have shook the book, hoping something would slip out.

Oddly, they did not yank down the pictures off the wall, nor disturb those on her dresser. They were looking behind the drawers again. If they had found something, I wouldn't know. But I still wondered if Arline wasn't a bit too bright for locating something she needed to hide from someone she might be blackmailing.

I had been assured by Weeks that the forensics had dusted thoroughly for fingerprints, so I didn't feel the need to don any sort of gloves to begin searching. I took down the first picture and opened up the back. I found nothing in the first three I took down. These were pictures of Arline on a quarter horse. Obviously, she owned a horse and rode dressage in competition. Something that Wendy hadn't mentioned in her rant about what Arline had and Wendy didn't have.

I moved to the next series of pictures. One was of Arline and AJ at the prom. They were a good looking couple, no doubt. Another picture that sat squarely on her dresser was of her and AJ in evening attire. I looked at a small card tucked into the far left corner. This was their engagement announcement and picture.

A thrill went through me as I picked it up and turned the little metal brackets that held the picture in place, and opened up the back. Carefully, I removed the cardboard underneath the velvet backing. Unbelievably, a piece of paper folded in half was revealed. I held my breath, took it out and unfolded it. The picture was hard to see in the dim lighting, but it was of a car with a crumpled front end. I turned on the lamp by the bed, sat and leaned toward the light so that I could see the details of the photo. This was an enlargement of the actual photo. I had to wonder what happened to the pictures, and were there any negatives?

Now that I had better lighting, I could see that there was someone slumped behind the wheel, but couldn't make out who.

Quickly I went to the other photo. The one of their prom. Upon opening this one, I was rewarded again with a prize. Another picture, similar to the first one I'd found, only this was a close up and I squinted to puzzle out who it was when a sound out in the hall, or further in the living room, alerted me that someone was coming. I quickly shoved the pictures the underneath my shirt at the small of my back, and into my waistband to hold them in place. Grabbing my phone off the bed, which was still recording, I held it facing the door to record whoever walked through.

“Hello? Who's there?” I said, my heart having suddenly begun pounding in my chest.

The door opened a little wider, and the young man with incredibly blue eyes, who'd been in the bookstore looking for this very apartment building, was standing there staring at me. Today he was wearing cream-colored chinos and a dark blue shirt and some sort of lace-up boots.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he said in an accusatory voice. Apparently he didn't recognize me from that day he was in the bookstore. Just as well.

“I might ask you the same, but since you asked, my name is Lainey Quilholt, and I've permission to be here by both the police, and the landlady. Do you?”

“I came to see Arline. What happened here?” he said, looking around.

“And your name is?” I wasn't going to let him go without learning his name.

“Dave.”

“Dave? Just Dave?”

He made an exasperated sound like he couldn't be bothered. “Dave Corbin.” He pointed at me, those blue eyes edged in black seemed to throw sparks. “Again. Why are you here? Where's Arline? What the hell happened here?”

Either he was doing a stand-up job of acting like he didn't know about Arline, and wasn't the one who had turned her place upside-down, or he really didn't know. I couldn't discern which.

“Arline is dead,” I said and waited, still recording his reaction with my cell phone. At least I hoped I was, I was too afraid to look down at the cell phone in my hand to tip him off what I was doing, or that I was holding it.

“Dead?” he said. One hand went out and grasped the frame of the door as he slumped a little. I couldn't decide if his expression was one of shock, or relief. There was thought that you couldn't go by how a person reacts to such news. Some people are good actors, and others simply are shocked and can't show emotions right away. “How?”

“She was murdered,” I said.

“When?”

“Two nights ago. On Friday night.”

He mulled this over for a few beats. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, I'm grabbing a few things I left here,” I lied. He had no business knowing. I wanted to get out of there real fast, but I felt that there might be more incriminating pictures hidden somewhere. I had wanted to check the smaller pictures, plus that large switch plate in the kitchen which hadn't worked—which I figured might be a possible hiding place.

He gathered in the scene, saw the dismantled pictures on the bed and said, “What are you doing? Why have you opened up those pictures? What did you find?” His accusatory voice rose.

I lifted my chin. “None of your business.” I hadn't brought my purse in, because of the burden of carrying it while I searched, not that I carried a weapon in it or anything, but as heavy as it was, I could certainly have used it to swing at his big head with.

In a flash he suddenly had a knife in his hand and held it up. It looked like a switch-blade, not that I knew one knife from another. Although the bed stood between us, I didn't feel that was much of a barrier. I could see him scrambling over it to get to me easily. My brain went through a hundred ways I could react, some of which included throwing things at him—like a stupid girl (which was how I felt at that very moment), to running around the room screaming (like a trapped hamster in a cage with a cat after it), and there was my personal favorite scenario (and totally unrealistic), where I became a combination level 5 black belt and professional kick-boxer.

Returning to my reality quickly, I searched my immediate options—throwing pillows wouldn't hurt, or stop him. I eyed the picture frame with the glass just as he said, “How 'bout I cut you a knew belly button.” He wiggled his knife to get his message across.

“Me first.” I grabbed the picture frame, glass and all, off the bed and flung it like a Frisbee. Reflexes like a cat, he dodged just in time. A good thing he did because the frame clattered off the wall, but the glass stuck into the drywall by one corner about three or so inches. I didn't have time to think about what it might have done to him if he hadn't moved. But that definitely got his attention. I grabbed the other picture, took the glass out of it and held it, poised to fling it at him again, even knowing I'd probably cut myself when I threw it, but he'd get cut worse. At least I hoped so. But after that, my options were nil. Filming it all was now no longer important, and at some point I'd dropped my cell phone.

“Don't come any closer, or I'll cut you in half!” I shrilled.

He snarled, looking as though he'd call my bluff and made another step forward.

At that exact moment, someone burst into the room yelling, “Freeze, scumbag!”

Corbin froze.

“Drop it!” came the command. It was Weeks with his service revolver pointed at Corbin's head.

Suddenly the room was full of cops, and within moments Corbin was pushed into the wall, assuming position, searched and handcuffed by two deputies. It all happened so fast, I barely had time to watch and realize I was now safe.

“Charge him with trespassing and assault with a deadly weapon for starters. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know,” Weeks said.

His two men roughly pushed Corbin out of the room.

The excitement was over and my knees shook. I slumped from adrenaline dump. Strong arms grabbed me and held me up. A heavy chest and pleasant aftershave in my face while Week's voice above my head said, “I gotcha Lainey-bug. You're safe. You'll be alright, now.”

After pulling myself together and letting out my held breath, I breathed, “Thank you.” He released me and I stood on my own.

“You okay now?” He bent to look at me in the face. His eyes squinting, the crows feet deepening around them.

“Yeah.” I took stock, breathed some more thinking about how close that had come. “I almost cut him in half.” I pointed to the glass embedded in the wall.

“Too bad you didn't. Could've saved me the job of processing the punk.” I let out a small, very weak chuckle at his joke. Somehow I don't think he was joking all that much.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Mrs. Couch called, said there was the same guy prowling around the place as the other day. Didn't like the fact you were here on your own, and we got out here pronto.”

“He's the one came into the bookstore,” I said. “Asked me where The Chandelier was.”

“Really?” Weeks hands were at his hips, utility belt making it a little difficult to give him a relaxed pose, but he managed. “We'll straighten this all out later. Find out who the hell he is and why he was so interested in this place.”

“You going to question him?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Can I watch?” He gave me a startled look. “You know, through two-way glass, or something?”

“We don't have a two-way mirror, nothing fancy like that. But we do have a live video feed.”

“That would work.” We moved through the room, toward the hallway while talking. I stopped. “Oh. Wait. I forgot, in all the excitement.” I pulled out the two concealed pictures I'd found from my shirt and handed them to Weeks. “I found these behind some pictures.”

He took them and squinted at them. “Looks like an accident with a car.”

“Yeah. I heard that Arline had an accident while coming down from the Dells, back in June. She had to have had some sort of insurance claim. But I don't know what sort of car she owned, or anything. You might want to check this out.” I pointed at the second one. “See? That's not Arline behind the wheel. It almost looks like AJ.” I was squinting at the blown up version of the first photo.

“Where'd you find these?” he asked, looking through them again.

“She hid them behind two nice pictures of herself and AJ.”

“How'd you come up with looking there?”

I shrugged. “My mother hid things in her framed pictures. I didn't know for sure, but it made sense to check these, since the framed pictures were on Arline and AJ.” I looked up at him. “They were once engaged, you know.”

“No. I didn't.” Holding the pictures he said, “This is great. Is this what you were looking for?”

“No. I was hoping for her bank book. But I'm sure whoever had gone through here like a tornado has it.” I held up a finger. “Wait,” I said, having thought of the non-working light switch in the kitchen. Weeks followed me through the apartment. I paused at the light switch. “You got some sort of screw driver?” I asked when he pulled up beside me.

“Sure.” He took out a Swiss Army knife and pulled the correct tool out. “Open that. This light switch wasn't working. I'm just curious as to why.”

Weeks worked all four screws out and lifted off the switch plate. Sure enough, there were no wires, but a small hiding place in the wall. There was something inside. Weeks reached in and pulled out a small camera.

“Man, how did you think of this?” he asked, holding the camera, looking at it.

I shook my head. “All I know is that Arline and AJ were really arguing that night at the park. Someone said she wasn't working any more. And also that she had this expensive apartment.”

“You thinking blackmail?” he asked.

“I'm thinking she may have been holding something over AJ's head. She can't tell us anything, now. But these things might help.”

He nodded. “Lainey, any time you want to help out, let me know.”

“I want to hear what Corbin has to say,” I said.

“Follow me to the station.”

For the first chapter you can go to:

Murder on the Mississippi

Just so you know, this is a WIP, and it's not perfect, (subject to rewriting and changes).

That's a lot a BULL! (And updates)

Largest statue of a bison, Jamestown, SD

Yeah, had way too many "anonymous" comments on both blogs, and had to get rid of them. These people are not interested in me or my posts, their aim is to sell something from their web-site. Among a number of things which tips anyone of us off that they are not one of us, is their leaving their website and asking you to come and check them out. Plus, they've got no NAME!

NO

THANK

YOU!!!!

So, hopefully, I've eliminated their comments from getting into my email--yes, it goes there and I can DELETE them! 

Now, on to other things.

All aboard!

Silverton, Colorado

Work on WIP, is coming along. I've been writing a couple of scenes which take place on board a train--yes a locomotive, as a matter of fact. This book takes Sabrina back to the world she visited in the 3rd in series Vampire Nocturne, called Black Veil. Since I've never been on a train, I went and did some checking about trains, best I could. I found out that the conductor takes care of all passengers and everything else except for driving the train, and there's a man who feeds the train either coal or firewood called a "fireman".

I've found some pics of inside of trains on the web to help me out.

seating car

I would love to be able to buy a ticket on a locomotive out west and experience the ride, some day. I've been on short rides where you're cramped in with other people. I've even rode a stagecoach at least twice. Like this one in Silverton, Colorado. It's a dusty ride, in case you have the chance to ride one--bring a scarf--yeah there was a reason cowboys had those scarves around their necks. In our case it rained and we had to put down the window coverings. That was a new experience. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a throw-back--I was born in the wrong century (Dennis and I both). So, these sorts of experiences are something we both enjoy.

Stage ride in Silverton, Colorado 2010

I'm also hunting for a picture of a statue of a woman's face--from the neck up (tight). I may have to ask someone to take a picture of one, if I find something suitable. It's for the next book. Not an angel by no means. I'm not certain where I'll find something, but my search is on.

Other than that I've figured out where the title of my 8th book comes from (usually it takes me a while to either come up with it, or invent it). Six Shades of Hell is the name of a desert that Sabrina must cross in order to get to where she needs to find clues about the missing princess Aljehambra.

My summer has been pretty good, so far. I've gotten a lot of gardening work done--some of it involved moving large, heavy rocks, and setting them down in a spot I needed for run-off when it rains. Still uncertain we'll get away for a day or more. We'll see. I know my husband needs a break from mowing--bouncing on a mower several hours a day does terrible things to your insides.

That's all for now. See ya around. You know I'm busy, but I'll check in with everyone now and then!

Screw Writing What You Know!

Make it all up as you go. It's more fun that way!

That's my advice for the day. Plus a few more tips that I've had clipped to the back of my upright desk for a while.

When starting out in a new book, you've got to ask and answer two main questions:

IS ENOUGH AT STAKE?

In other words, are the stakes high enough?
There has to be DEATH.
Either physical, professional, psychological or spiritual.
You pick one of the above.

HOW CAN IT GET WORSE?

This one is one that I sometimes have to kick myself on the behind to produce. I hate putting my favorite characters through so much horror/terror. But, you gotta do what you gotta do.

I remember one fan of my Sabrina Strong series asking me why I had killed off Dante in the end of second book, Vampire's Trill.

Why, indeed. Because he made Sabrina happy. But he couldn't be with her, because he was Tremayne's scion. If Dante (a handsome Native American hunk who happened to be both a shape-shifter and shaman in life), had continued his wooing of Sabrina, Tremayne would have had a hissy-fit in vampire terms. He'd of killed him. Which would have fit nicely in the above. But I needed her to loose him in a different way.
Besides, I brought him back to be Sabrina's biggest secret weapon when shit hits the fan in the third book.

With my current WIP I'm working my way into the meat of the story, and am plotting things to go awry, in every damn way I can think of. Dante, who is now an Undead, can't always be with her physically. He has to feed. Since I've invented this sort of unusual vampire, I'll explain that he has to feed either on the soul of the dying, or on sex. Because at this point I've written books 5,6, & 7, a lot has happened. Let me just say I've made things more difficult for these two to be together--either intimately, or him being able to become a physical being. Otherwise, he's a spirit who can reach her only through a mirror. As long as she carries one, or there's one wherever she happens to be.

I'm working up the villains in this story. One worse than the next. And sometimes, it'll be hard to figure out if the one that's supposed to have been the bad guy, is really all that bad. I'm having fun with it.

Rule #1:
HAVE FUN!

That's the other unwritten rule. If you aren't having fun writing whatever it is you're writing, then stop. Take a break away from it. If ideas aren't coming to you, you need to rest. Your brain needs to rest. Find something else to occupy your time, but above all, don't let the inability to write get to you. We won't call it "writer's block". To me that's a fancy schmancy word that the "professionals" have invented to make you paranoid about your inability to produce every day.

Rule #2
BREAK THE RULES!

If you pay too much attention to what the "professionals" say about the craft, you'll become constipated on the page. Don't. Listen. To. Crap.

I once attended a critique class a long, long time ago. The word "was" was considered bad, and if you used it in your writing, well, you weren't very good at writing. I busted my buns to try and write without using that word too much. All I got was crap on the page. I got nowhere with that rule. I'm not going to take out every last damned word that other writers - "professionals" - say we mustn't use. I've read all the masters from King to Rowling. What do you know? They don't pay much attention to "the rules". They most definitely break the "rules". So why shouldn't I?

Your main objective is to get the story down, first. Worry about the flow of words later. But the plot is number one. You also have to know who's going to suffer and how and where and who the bad guy's going to do this to your good guy from the beginning. Even if you don't have a name, names and descriptions can come later.

Eventually, "Six Shades of Hell" will get Sabrina down into some hot, nasty, hard to travel territory--that's why the title was chosen. This takes place in a world which is poised in the 1870's. How will she get through it, to her destination on horseback?  Will she be attacked by marauders? Will Dante be able to help her?

Her objective is to get to a small village named Elvira, and find the man who is supposed to have abducted the Princess Aljehambra (we know her from 3rd book, Vampire Nocturne). If she doesn't find Ali, they will kill her.

To top things off, Sabrina becomes romantically involved with the man, Hawk, who may have abducted her. Plus, in the very beginning of the book a wizard, named Booth, has asked her to find his wife and child, who he claims has been abducted by King Drakulya. (Drakulya/his son, Joha, denies this.) Sabrina declines to work for Booth, as she feels there is conflict of interest, since she has worked for Drakulya in the past, and would rather work for the Drakulyas to find the princess, instead.

So, you see, the stakes not only are high, but they become stacked higher and higher. Ali is Sabrina's friend and an innocent waif of a girl. When Sabrina digs deeper, she is startled to find that something more sinister is afoot in another place all together, and by someone else, who may be the most sinister villain I will write as yet.

Lorelei is author of Sabrina Strong series,
Spell of the Black Unicorn,
and short stories