One of my cherished and vivid memories is a sweltering summer night in my hometown of Montgomery, Alabama. Although I was too young for a driver’s license, my father—never one to let little rules stop him—was teaching me to drive. Out of the darkness ahead, a bright headlight beamed directly into my eyes, blinding me.
“I can’t see!” I shouted, certain I was going to wreck the car and kill us both.
His calm voice at my side said, “Focus on the white line on the shoulder of the road.”
To my great relief, eyeing that line kept me on the road and eased my panic. Even now, whenever I lose sight of the road from oncoming headlights or a heavy fog or storm, I remember his voice and look for that line.
That brings me to a strange something I’ve been mulling about—the fact that, although I wanted to be a writer most of my life, I never had any interest in writing about American history, much less the civil rights era, even though my family played a role in it (a subject for another post) or perhaps because of that.
Wonder Woman was my childhood hero. Science fiction enthralled me as a young person (Heinlein, Asimov, Herbert). Then epic fantasy (Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, Dune) took hold of my imagination.
I confess that I still watch Marvel superhero movies.
Ancient history was interesting, even as a youth, because it was pretty much epic fantasy, particularly the pantheon of the Greek, Roman, and Norse gods. Where do you think the comic book heroes came from?
Thor, the “real” mythic Norse god of Thunder. Or Superman? (Hercules, anyone?)
There is a surface answer to why I wrote two civil rights era histories. In brief, a former Birmingham police officer/FBI analyst and a retired FBI agent asked me to write one of them. And four men who’d lived through the era in Birmingham and had sat for decades with the frustration of knowing important stories had been forgotten or never told, asked me to write the second.
That’s the simple explanation.
But the first book took four years and the second one, eight years. That’s a dozen years of my life. Kind of a long time for a didn’t-really-mean-to-go-there project.
One ought to self-examine.
Looking back on my life at this point, I have come to understand this: Curiosity is a major driving force of my psyche.
After contending with me in his 10th grade confirmation class, my rabbi wrote a poem in the form of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” only the refrain was not a raven quoting, “Nevermore,” but young Teresa asking, “Why?”
I suppose I should be flattered that I merited a poem from my rabbi. My chutzpah to debate with him on God’s existence as a fifteen-year-old must have simultaneously frustrated and bemused him.
Where did that chutzpah come from?
Hmm. In large part, methinks, my dad.
How fortunate I was that my father welcomed a rousing discussion at the dinner table and beamed with pride on the rare occasion I won a philosophical point. He taught me to always question the status quo and to look for alternative solutions to problems.
So, curiosity and the desire to tell an important story drove me to accept the challenge of writing those histories. Puzzling out a timeline and uncovering the unexpected kept me working on Last Chance for Justice— law enforcement’s behind-the-scenes tales of the investigation, trial, and conviction in the1963 Birmingham church bombing that killed four young girls and changed history.
Counterbalancing the long haul of writing Behind the Magic Curtain: Secrets, Spies, and Unsung White Allies of Birmingham’s Civil Rights Days was the joy of learning overlooked facts and ironies about a time and people that has influenced my present.
But I never considered that anything much would come of the books other than my finishing them. After all, the tomes already written on the period overflowed my own bookshelf, and those represented only a partial offering of what others had penned.
When I woke from the “coma” of writing/researching, I found, to my genuine shock, that those books were relevant. How could that be? This was history. Gone. Past.
Nope.
Faulkner said, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
And Pulitzer prize-winning Alabama journalist, John Archibald, recently observed: “We’re moving forward fast. Right back to the past.”
It’s dizzying. Terrifying.
The world I have always thought of as a safe and forward-moving current carrying us toward more freedoms, more opportunities for all . . . is . . . .
At risk. Imperiled.
Where is Superman when you need him?
The headlights of oncoming nightmares are screaming in my eyes.
How do we move forward in this chaos?
I hear my father’s voice through time, as though I am still a young girl, panicked and overwhelmed.
“Just focus on the white line.”
Focus on where you are going. Write the stories you must write. Write the truths you must tell.
Thank you, Daddy.
T.K. Thorne writes about what moves her, following a flight path of curiosity, reflection, and imagination.
Chasing an Intruder
/in Author Life, Detective, Kathryn Lane, Mystery, Nikki Garcia Mystery Series/by Kathryn LaneBob and I spend the summers in northern New Mexico. We enjoy the idyllic mountain scenery, the wildlife, the enriching tricultural experience in art, food, and the wonderful people who live here. Some are full time residents while others, like us, are only part timers.
After we arrived at our cabin, I was surprised we’d had a visitor who had left his calling card.
Ever the investigator, I wanted to identify our intruder. I asked friends, family, and long-time residents to help me out. Most people offered suggestions like a cougar, a mountain lion, a bobcat. One person thought they were coyote tracks, and another, trying to be funny, thought they were left by aliens!
I compared the paw prints left in the dust on the front deck to online research, and to photos a friend sent me from a wood block she keeps for easy reference in her mountain home.
It was easy to rule out deer, elk, turkey, or badger.
Next, I could rule out a fox, coyote, or bear since our prints did not have evidence of claws. That left the cougar!
Long time-residents claimed they had not seen any cougars in the area, yet my research indicated that New Mexico has a cougar population of 3,494 that are eighteen months of age or older as of 2023¹.
Sadly, my research also revealed that cougars are considered recreational game animals in New Mexico, and at the current rate of hunting and trapping, they will soon be at risk. In 2019, the state did prohibit trapping of cougars in certain areas.
I fully understand that cougars and other wildcats can be dangerous to people, pets, other wildlife, and livestock. Yet, these are beautiful animals that need protection to prevent them from going extinct.
A friend asked me if I’d be putting cougars into a novel in the future. The truth is I don’t know if a cougar will ever appear in a Nikki Garcia mystery or not. The question is valid since I have included dogs, crows, and mules in previous mysteries. Whenever I’m writing a novel, if pets or wild animals add to the story, yes, I love incorporating them into the story. In the meantime, my husband and I will enjoy the deer, elk, coyote, turkey, and birds we see in this mountain retreat.
***
¹New Mexico Mountain Lion Foundation
About Kathryn
Kathryn Lane writes mystery and suspense novels usually set in foreign countries. In her award-winning Nikki Garcia Mystery Series, her protagonist is a private investigator based in Miami. Her latest publication is a coming-of-age novel, Stolen Diary, about a socially awkward math genius.
Kathryn’s early work life started out as a painter in oils. To earn a living, she became a certified public accountant and embarked on a career in international finance with Johnson & Johnson.
Two decades later, she left the corporate world to create mystery and suspense thrillers, drawing inspiration from her travels in over ninety countries as well as her life in Mexico, Australia, Argentina, and the United States.
She also dabbles in poetry, an activity she pursues during snippets of creative renewal. In the summer, Kathryn and her husband, Bob Hurt, escape the Texas heat for the mountains of northern New Mexico.
Photo credits:
Paw Prints in the Dust – photo by Kathryn Lane
Wood Block Paw Prints – photo by Sharon Sorensen
Cougar – CA-Jason-Klassi-08
¡AY, QUÉ LÀSTIMA!
/in Families, The Stiletto Gang, Uncategorized/by Linda RodriguezThe men—husbands, father-in-law, cousins—sat in the living room on the flower-covered couch and armchairs or sprawled on the shag carpet in front of the televised football game, beer cans in all hands. The only differences from the majority of living rooms across America were the brand of beer (Dos Equís or Carta Blanca), the painting of Our Lady of Guadalupe above the couch serenely presiding over the laughter and profanity, and the Spanish phrases casually sprinkled throughout the Midwestern English.
“First down! Yeah! Let’s do it again! ¡Otra vez!”
The women, not unlike those in my own father’s family, sat at the kitchen table and stood at stove and counters, preparing meals and gossiping about absent members of the extended family in the same flat Midwestern accents sparked with Spanish phrases. “¡Ay, qué lástima!” was the most frequent. What a shame, or what a mess, or what a tragedy. It was used in all three cases with only a change in tone and the context to indicate which.
Young newlywed with feminist ideas (after all, it was the beginning of 1970, a new age), I planted myself defiantly on that floral couch at my husband’s side. I had grown up playing football with my many brothers. I could yell for a field goal or first down with the best of them. I was going to be an equal, not shunted off to the kitchen to gossip with the women.
And other than a frown from my forbidding father-in-law (who, I was convinced, hated me anyway) and a raised eyebrow from one of my husband’s older cousins, I encountered no real resistance. Most of the younger generation thought it was cool. Oh, I knew the women in the kitchen were shaking their heads, clucking tongues, and whispering about me.
“What can you expect if Mike marries some half-breed Indian girl? ¡Ay, qué lástima!”
So why did I give up my place in front of the TV and under Our Lady’s protective gaze to spend decades of my life in the steamy kitchen, patting out tortillas and clucking my tongue at the latest escapades of Manny, the drunkard second cousin once-removed (“Of course, he’s still a primo. His mother and grandfather are, aren’t they?”) and the no-good mujeriego that poor Lupe married (“¡Ay, qué lástima!”)?
I simply grew up enough to understand that the conversations in the kitchen were more than just gossip. There was always some of that, of course, but on the whole, what was taking place was of greater importance. That kitchen, as were so many, was the central hub of the web that was la familia, embracing not only distant blood relatives but godparents and godchildren, as well as in-laws of in-laws. In that kitchen, behavior was examined and evaluated, true, but usually through the lens of the good of the entire family. And the verdicts would later pass to husbands over meals or in bed back in their own homes.
“Jacinto needs to lighten up on that oldest boy of his. If Chuy can get a scholarship, why shouldn’t he go to college? One of his brothers can take over the shop.”
Over the years, as I added my own children to that family web of relationships, I learned to value the women’s kitchen-talk in a different way. Raised through my adolescence in the ultimate-individualist WASP world of my mother’s family after the divorce, I had made that competitive ethos my own, but this other way of granting importance to the good of the family and the community resonated with my early memories of my Cherokee grandmother and my father’s people. American society outside would always push the concept of each individual for himself or herself, but there was a place as well for these older ways, ways of considering la familia, the group, the tribe, trying to keep it strong and thriving, and trying to keep each member linked to everyone else in a web of love, loyalty, and concern.
Those children I gave to the family web are grown now. With so many of their second- and third-generation peers, they’ve moved away and live on the furthest fringes of the web. Like the tias who taught me to make tamales and enchiladas, along with more important things, I pull them back in as much as I can, reminding them of their obligations and ties to the family, nagging my youngest to call his prima who lives in his college town.
“But, Mom, I don’t know her! She’s not going to want to hear from me.”
“She’s Aunt Mary from Chicago’s oldest boy’s granddaughter. She’s family. Of course, she’ll want to hear from you. A friendly face in a town where she’s a stranger and brand new? Just give her a call.”
I see the same attitudes of wanting to ignore or forget family ties other than the immediate in others of my children’s generation. The media are full of voices telling Latinos to assimilate, but that’s something they’ve been doing quite successfully for as long as they’ve had the chance. The trick is to do that without losing the cultural and familial richness that is their inheritance, is in fact one of the many gifts Latinos have to offer Anglo America. That family closeness and consideration for the welfare of the community that is the extended family web has long disappeared from much of the Anglo American culture. If Latinos were to assimilate that… “¡Ay, qué lástima!”
Linda Rodriguez’s 13th book, Unpapered: Writers Consider Native American Identity and Cultural Belonging, was published in May 2023. She also edited Woven Voices: 3 Generations of Puertorriqueña Poets Look at Their American Lives, The World Is One Place: Native American Poets Visit the Middle East, The Fish That Got Away: The Sixth Guppy Anthology, Fishy Business: The Fifth Guppy Anthology, and other anthologies.
Dark Sister: Poems was a finalist for the Oklahoma Book Award. Her three earlier Skeet Bannion mystery novels—Every Hidden Fear, Every Broken Trust, Every Last Secret—and earlier books of poetry—Skin Hunger and Heart’s Migration—received critical recognition and awards, such as St. Martin’s Press/Malice Domestic Best First Novel, International Latino Book Award, Latina Book Club Best Book of 2014, Midwest Voices & Visions, Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award, Thorpe Menn Award, and Ragdale and Macondo fellowships. She also published Plotting the Character-Driven Novel, based on her popular workshop. Her short story, “The Good Neighbor,” published in Kansas City Noir, was optioned for film.
Rodriguez is past chair of the AWP Indigenous Writer’s Caucus, past president of Border Crimes chapter of Sisters in Crime, founding board member of Latino Writers Collective and The Writers Place, and a member of International Thriller Writers, Native Writers Circle of the Americas, Wordcraft Circle of Native American Writers and Storytellers, and Kansas City Cherokee Community. Learn more about her at http://lindarodriguezwrites.blogspot.com or follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/rodriguez_linda or on Mastodon at https://mastodon.social/rodriguez_linda.
Bouchercon 2023
/in Convention, Drus Book Musings/by Dru Ann Loveby Dru Ann Love
This week I’ll be in San Diego attending Bouchercon. It is a special occasion as I am Fan Guest of Honor. I was already Fan Guest of Honor at Malice in 2022 and Left Coast Crime earlier this year.
All three events were packed with obligation as being Fan Guest of Honor and I relished them. One of the things we had to partake in was an interview or an activity and we had to attend the banquet. There were other events that we had to partake in, but I can’t recall.
For Malice, Kristopher Zgorski of BOLO Books fame, penned my article for the program book. Heather Webber, wrote my article for Left Coast Crime program book. And Eleanor Cawood Jones wrote my article for Bouchercon.
I don’t think I did an activity for Malice, but for Left Coast Crime, with the help of Michael G. Mueller, I had a pub quiz based on Tucson and prior to getting on stage the helm the question, Michael and I did a little “western” skit with horses. We had a great time setting it up and then doing the skit.
For Bouchercon, I will be interviewed by Kristopher. Nervous, you betcha. But it should be fun.
If you are attending Bouchercon, you can find me at the 7:30am panel on Saturday, I’m moderating “Dru Ann and Friends, Talking About Books” and on Friday at 10:20am being interviewed by Kris. I will also be at the banquet. Oh I did submit something for the auction. But mostly I’ll be around, as much as I can with a scooter and my support cane.
I will find a corner and dub it “Dru’s corner.”
Will I see you there?
The Lights in Our Eyes
/in T.K. Thorne/by TK ThorneOne of my cherished and vivid memories is a sweltering summer night in my hometown of Montgomery, Alabama. Although I was too young for a driver’s license, my father—never one to let little rules stop him—was teaching me to drive. Out of the darkness ahead, a bright headlight beamed directly into my eyes, blinding me.
“I can’t see!” I shouted, certain I was going to wreck the car and kill us both.
His calm voice at my side said, “Focus on the white line on the shoulder of the road.”
To my great relief, eyeing that line kept me on the road and eased my panic. Even now, whenever I lose sight of the road from oncoming headlights or a heavy fog or storm, I remember his voice and look for that line.
That brings me to a strange something I’ve been mulling about—the fact that, although I wanted to be a writer most of my life, I never had any interest in writing about American history, much less the civil rights era, even though my family played a role in it (a subject for another post) or perhaps because of that.
Wonder Woman was my childhood hero. Science fiction enthralled me as a young person (Heinlein, Asimov, Herbert). Then epic fantasy (Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia, Dune) took hold of my imagination.
I confess that I still watch Marvel superhero movies.
Ancient history was interesting, even as a youth, because it was pretty much epic fantasy, particularly the pantheon of the Greek, Roman, and Norse gods. Where do you think the comic book heroes came from?
Thor, the “real” mythic Norse god of Thunder. Or Superman? (Hercules, anyone?)
There is a surface answer to why I wrote two civil rights era histories. In brief, a former Birmingham police officer/FBI analyst and a retired FBI agent asked me to write one of them. And four men who’d lived through the era in Birmingham and had sat for decades with the frustration of knowing important stories had been forgotten or never told, asked me to write the second.
That’s the simple explanation.
But the first book took four years and the second one, eight years. That’s a dozen years of my life. Kind of a long time for a didn’t-really-mean-to-go-there project.
One ought to self-examine.
Looking back on my life at this point, I have come to understand this: Curiosity is a major driving force of my psyche.
After contending with me in his 10th grade confirmation class, my rabbi wrote a poem in the form of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” only the refrain was not a raven quoting, “Nevermore,” but young Teresa asking, “Why?”
I suppose I should be flattered that I merited a poem from my rabbi. My chutzpah to debate with him on God’s existence as a fifteen-year-old must have simultaneously frustrated and bemused him.
Where did that chutzpah come from?
Hmm. In large part, methinks, my dad.
How fortunate I was that my father welcomed a rousing discussion at the dinner table and beamed with pride on the rare occasion I won a philosophical point. He taught me to always question the status quo and to look for alternative solutions to problems.
So, curiosity and the desire to tell an important story drove me to accept the challenge of writing those histories. Puzzling out a timeline and uncovering the unexpected kept me working on Last Chance for Justice— law enforcement’s behind-the-scenes tales of the investigation, trial, and conviction in the1963 Birmingham church bombing that killed four young girls and changed history.
Counterbalancing the long haul of writing Behind the Magic Curtain: Secrets, Spies, and Unsung White Allies of Birmingham’s Civil Rights Days was the joy of learning overlooked facts and ironies about a time and people that has influenced my present.
But I never considered that anything much would come of the books other than my finishing them. After all, the tomes already written on the period overflowed my own bookshelf, and those represented only a partial offering of what others had penned.
When I woke from the “coma” of writing/researching, I found, to my genuine shock, that those books were relevant. How could that be? This was history. Gone. Past.
Nope.
Faulkner said, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
And Pulitzer prize-winning Alabama journalist, John Archibald, recently observed: “We’re moving forward fast. Right back to the past.”
It’s dizzying. Terrifying.
The world I have always thought of as a safe and forward-moving current carrying us toward more freedoms, more opportunities for all . . . is . . . .
At risk. Imperiled.
Where is Superman when you need him?
The headlights of oncoming nightmares are screaming in my eyes.
How do we move forward in this chaos?
I hear my father’s voice through time, as though I am still a young girl, panicked and overwhelmed.
“Just focus on the white line.”
Focus on where you are going. Write the stories you must write. Write the truths you must tell.
Thank you, Daddy.
T.K. Thorne writes about what moves her, following a flight path of curiosity, reflection, and imagination.
Juliana Chacha de Cochiti, New Mexico de la cruz Aragón Fatula
/in Uncategorized/by Juliana Aragon FatulaDear Reader,
Fall 2023 has neared and it’s time to prepare for harvest. This year I made the choice not to have a vegetable garden. Climate Change has changed how we grow our gardens and try to conserve water during the scorching heat of summer.
My flowers are protected by an electric fence because deer herds roam through our yard and eat whatever they want. I had to plant deer-resistant perennials but the grasshoppers showed up and wreaked havoc on everything. Gardening used to be relaxing and therapeutic. Today between the heat, deer, drought, and climate change cause our fruit trees to bloom too soon when it warms too early and then get hit by freezing weather destroying the blossoms and fruit.
Change is good. I changed. I changed from a person who had no goals, to a woman with amazing goals to improve herself and others around her. When I was young I was tough and rebellious. I walked a razer-thin line teetering between law-abiding and loving criminals who did not abide by the laws. I had a human flaw. I wanted to be loved and I wanted a bad boy. I found several in my lifetime. Never a good fit they wanted a woman to keep them warm at night and I wanted a man to worship me.
In 1990, I finally met a man capable of loving and worshipping me the way I always wanted. The catch he wanted a woman to be an outdoorsman/woman. He wanted a woman to climb mountains, fish from boats on lakes, and hunt deer, elk, moose, and bear, but I like vegetables. He wanted a wife who would love his work ethic. I wanted a man who would rather be with me than hunting. We came to an agreement. He’d do his fishing, hunting, scouting, killing, and wild game as many times as he wanted. He’d leave me alone to write.
So he left this morning at midnight to hunt Wyoming for a month and a half and I rolled out the projects I’ve been putting off until I could have peace and quiet and solitude.
My husband calls and checks on me, but I am capable of taking care of myself. I look forward to my alone time to do whatever I want. My friends ask how do you do it. Don’t you get lonely? Not really. I have my novel’s characters to keep me busy. My characters enter my world and play out their lives in scenes in my head like a movie. I see what they are wearing, hear the music they listen to, smell the food they eat, and feel their heartbeats when they are excited, frightened, or depressed. My characters speak to me in my head and tell me their stories. I love my characters.
I’ve decided my mystery romance novel is a trilogy. I am finishing the first book before starting the second but I’m torn between wanting to start the next book and waiting patiently to submit and publish this first novel. I envision my characters growing older and traveling through time into a future filled with chaos.
My editor finished critiquing my first novel and sent me the revisions and suggestions. I quickly realized that I had a lot of work to do on my mystery romance. So I’m going to digest her suggestions. They are all great ones. She’s a professional and did an amazing job on editing. I’m going to work on another manuscript that’s been gathering dust and let this one steep for a few months.
In October, I’m headed to Albuquerque, New Mexico to lead a writing workshop with a couple of amazing women. I’ll dive into my mystery m.s. and get busy with the revisions. I’m looking forward to time away from home and the beauty of New Mexico. On the road trip from Colorado, I plan to visit my ancestors’ birth and burial pueblos and document and photograph the sites for a genealogy project I’m working on. I’ll tell you more about it when it gets closer, but it is called Native Bound Unbound and is an amazing opportunity to do DNA testing and trace my indigenous roots back in time to the 1700s. The path may lead me to write a non-fiction book on my ancestors and the struggles they encountered during the Indian Wars, the Mexican-American Wars the Civil War, and all the wars afterward. Keep checking the blog for more info on my amazing life tracing my Navajo, Ute, and Pueblo ancestors from New Mexico Territory to my Colorado home in Southern Colorado.
Thank you for reading my posts have a great end of summer and see you in September.
Juliana Aragón Fatula, a 2022 Corn Mother, women who have earned accolades for community activism and creative endeavors is the author of: Crazy Chicana in Catholic City, Red Canyon Falling on Churches, winner of the High Plains Book Award for Poetry 2016, and a chapbook: The Road I Ride Bleeds, and a member of Colorado Alliance of Latino Mentors and Authors, and Macondo, “a community of accomplished writers…whose bonds reflect the care and generosity of its membership.” She mentors Bridging Borders, a Teen Leadership Program for girls. No justice no peace.
RIP, Mac
/in audiobooks, Author Life, Cozy Mysteries, Give Away, life, Lois Winston, Mystery, The Stiletto Gang/by Lois WinstonSometimes, there are no warning signs, no odd symptoms that crop up which would make us suspect something is not quite right. Such was not the case with Mac. Nothing made me question his health, nothing that would lead me to seek out the services of an expert. One moment, he was fine; the next he wasn’t. Worse yet, he failed to respond to all my efforts to make him well.
This all happened three weeks ago. Mac and I had been in a deeply committed relationship for ten years. I wasn’t ready to let him go. So I picked up the phone and scheduled an appointment for a full diagnostic workup. Surely, whatever the problem, something would make him better.
After arriving, I was asked about his prior symptoms. When I said he’d had none, the diagnostician showed surprise. She rattled off a series of the usual suspects, to which I answered in the negative for each one. She shook her head in disbelief. I suspect she thought I was too ignorant to recognize obvious signs of impending illness. I ignored her condescension. I needed her expertise to heal Mac.
When I asked what she thought might be the problem, she offered possible afflictions, some with remedies but others that were fatal. I crossed my fingers as she spent the next hour and a half performing a litany of tests to determine why Mac had suddenly become comatose.
The test results confirmed my worst fears. Mac had suffered a catastrophic failure. Both his hard drive and battery were dead.
I think the ratio of computer years to human years must be greater than that of dog years to human years. However, even if it’s the same, that would have made Mac seventy years old. Ancient as far as my millennial diagnostician was concerned, but I’m at the stage of my life where I no longer consider seventy old. Still, I suppose ten years is considered ancient for a computer, even one as stalwart as Mac had been.
Mac had served me well. During our time together, we’d written nine novels, five novellas, several short stories, one nonfiction book, and countless blog posts. We’d edited two multi-author promotional charity cookbooks and two multi-author box sets.
However, it was time to lay Mac to rest, sending him off to the big Apple in the sky. RIP, Mac. But really, after all we’ve been through together, he couldn’t have died a day earlier before the weekend state sales tax holiday ended?
~*~
USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. Learn more about Lois and her books at her website www.loiswinston.com where you can also sign up for her newsletter and follow her on various social media sites.
Ten Stories That Worried My Mother by Winona Kent
/in Guest Blogger/by Sydney Leigh/ Lynn McPhersonI’m excited to welcome Winona Kent to the blog today. I served on the board of Crime Writers of Canada with Winona. She is a great writer and has a super new anthology out. Read on to hear more about it…
TEN STORIES THAT WORRIED MY MOTHER by Winona Kent
Earlier this year I decided to release an anthology of short stories. I had two reasons: the first was that I had a few personal appearances coming up, and I wanted something new to sell. I was halfway through my next novel and I was pretty certain it wasn’t going to be ready in time. The second was that I realized I’m mostly only known for my long fiction…and that I actually do have a background in short story-writing! But, for various reasons, very few people know about that. And I really did want to share those stories with my current readers.
I chose the title Ten Stories That Worried My Mother largely because, well, she constantly worried about me being a writer. That’s a subject for a whole other blog—how to deal with a parent who brought you up not to attract attention to yourself, not to say anything that might reflect badly on you (or her, or the family), and most definitely not to write stories with interesting characters and situations, in case friends and relations might think it was about them.
Interestingly, I once took part in a creative writing workshop where the assignment was to write a story using only animals as characters, and the characters had to be based on us, ie, everyone in the workshop. None of us were able to recognize ourselves. Or each other, for that matter. Which convinced me that unless you use really specific character traits or situations that readily identify who you’re writing about, you’re probably on safe ground.
A few months before my mum died in 2021 (aged 95), I thought I might read one of my more recent stories to her aloud. Her eyesight was failing, and I really wanted to share it with her, especially because it had made the shortlist for the Crime Writers of Canada’s Awards of Excellence for Best Crime Novella. The story was “Salty Dog Blues.”
She listened patiently, but punctuated my narration with predictable Oh dear!‘s and Ohhhh‘s. I loved her dearly and I knew that would be her reaction, but I was determined to convince her (in my late 60’s!) that I really was a decent writer, after all.
When I finished, she said, “It’s very good.” I waited. I knew what was coming next. “But you can’t say those things about the cruise line your sister worked for! What if they come back and cause problems for her?”
I pointed out that the cruise line was called something else, and it didn’t have a current ship that was even remotely like the one in “Salty Dog Blues”, and that yes, I’d used my experiences sailing with my sister (who’d been a Captain’s Secretary) in the story’s details, but my sister hadn’t actually worked for them in a very long time and what, exactly, did she anticipate the problems might be?
She didn’t have an answer for that, of course. But my mother was, by nature, a worrier. And she wasn’t happy unless her thoughts were fueled by apprehension.
And so, of course, the title Ten Stories That Worried My Mother was strategically chosen to make her happy. And I’m certain she’s out there, somewhere—very proud of me—but fretting unnecessarily, and absolutely convinced someone in our family will think badly of her—or me—for writing it!
Regional representative, BC/YT, Crime Writers of Canada
Active Member, Sisters in Crime-Canada West
www.winonakent.com
Recognizing a Character’s Name in a Mystery Story
/in Mystery, Paula Gail Benson, Sherlock Holmes, Short Stories/by Paula Bensonby Paula Gail Benson
Barb Goffman, writer and editor extraordinaire
Barb Goffman, whose stories have been finalists for exactly forty national crime awards, will be celebrating two nominations at San Diego’s Bouchercon. Her story “Beauty and the Beyotch,” already the winner of the Agatha Award at Malice Domestic, is among those nominated for the Anthony and Macavity.
Originally written for a themed anthology about theatre, Barb liked the final version of the story so well that she decided to submit it to major publications where it might be seen by a larger readership. Published in Issue 29 of Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Barb describes the story as “a tale about three high school girls told from two perspectives about . . . the struggle to make their deepest desires come true. What happens when those dreams collide?”
The first time I read the story, I immediately recognized one of the character’s names: Elaine Naiman, who lives in Canada and is a friend I’ve met at Malice Domestic. When I approached Elaine about an interview, she mentioned that Barb had included another name in the story, that of Joni Jackson Langevoort.
Joni explained: “Both Elaine and I learned of this opportunity for a character name in one of Barb’s stories at the Malice Domestic live charity auction; Barb asked me for a donation to my favorite local animal charity (she knew my four rescue cats and one rescue pup!), and she would use my name in a story. I did that happily, to the rescue agency where I found my beloved pup Arthur. I said she was welcome to use my full name, but because so many in the mystery community know it, she might want to use my maiden name of Jackson. I didn’t ask for any input, I felt whatever Barb wrote would be fabulous! She is an amazing short story writer, truly. And I loved the story, was so excited when it won the Agatha and have voted for it for the Macavity and Anthony awards!”
Elaine also was delighted with the outcome. She said: “Barb had a ‘Name a Character’ in an auction at Malice. I bid, but didn’t win. When I spoke to her, she told me if I made a donation to an animal charity, she’d put my name in a story. I didn’t say not to use my last name, so she used both. I didn’t have any input about the character, but I loved the story and was glad to be the ‘Beyotch.’ Usually, I’m a good person when I’m in a book.”
Joni Jackson Langevoort
I had the opportunity to ask Barb some additional questions about her story. Here are her answers:
The story idea came first. When I name a character after someone who wins naming rights at an auction (or, in this case, when two people I’m friends with bid for naming rights at an auction but lost, and I offered to name characters after them if they’d make a charitable donation), I try to use the name for an important character in the story. If the character is going to be a bad guy or a victim, I make sure to ask first if the person would mind that. Some people shudder at the idea. Others relish it.
That said, sometimes the real life person influences the character. In this case, Joni the character and Joni the person both have blond hair. I could have sworn I remembered Joni the person once having a cute pixie cut, so I gave Joni the character that hairdo. The real Joni subsequently told me I’d never seen her with that haircut. It’s a good thing I write fiction.
Elaine Naiman with a figure of Chris Pine at Rock of Ages Quarry where a Star Trek movie was shot. Elaine has photos with everyone!
“Beauty and the Beyotch” is told from only two points of view: Joni, a shy introvert, and Meryl, her new and more outgoing friend who is best friends with Elaine. Elaine views Joni as a strong rival for the starring role in the school play, which Elaine thinks is her due.
At first I’d thought about writing the story from the points of view of all three main characters (switching POV when scenes change), but I realized it wouldn’t work for the story I wanted to tell. When writing a crime story, you want to keep some things secret from the reader for part of the story—motives or thoughts or actions. Sometimes you can achieve that by having something happen between scenes or by having a character think something in a scene in which she’s not the POV character so the reader doesn’t see those thoughts. In the end, with this story, I thought it best to keep Elaine more removed from the reader. What we know of her comes only from what we see her do and say and what other characters think about her. We don’t see her thoughts.
Getting back to balance, it was a little difficult. Although I went back and forth, scene by scene, for most of the story (the story opens with a Joni scene; it’s followed with a Meryl scene, then a Joni scene, etc.), when I neared the end, storytelling needs dictated that the last three scenes be from Meryl’s perspective. The part of me that likes consistency remains bothered I didn’t have a Joni scene between Meryl’s final two, but I’m probably the only person who noticed or cared. Thankfully, I don’t think the story feels too weighted toward Meryl. If it did, that would have been a problem.
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Issue 29
When I was in high school, a group of girls—whom I thought were my friends—snubbed me publicly, telling me that I couldn’t sit with them at lunch anymore. It was mean and humiliating. I like to build my stories from emotions that readers can tap into. That helps make the characters—their thoughts and actions—more real and relatable. So when I decided to write a story involving high school girls, this is the memory that popped into my head, and that’s why there’s a scene in “Beauty and the Beyotch” based on that incident. When I was plotting the story, I thought about why that incident could have come about—not why the real-life girls did what they did but why my characters might act as those girls did that day and how I could build a crime story (and a coming-of-age story) around that memory. And I did.
Wow, yes. How could I not be? Three major award nominations for this story with one win (so far at least—fingers crossed!). I’ve heard from a bunch of readers who said they really enjoyed the story. One reader even named it his story of the week. That’s everything. I write to be read, and I write to entertain and make an impact. With “Beauty and the Beyotch,” I’ve achieved all three things. And I’ve been given the chance to reach even more readers with interviews like this, so thank you, Paula, for inviting me to do this.
Barb, Elaine, and Joni, many thanks to you all for recounting your experiences with “Beauty and the Beyotch.” For readers, if you haven’t had a chance yet, here’s a link for the story. I know you will truly enjoy it!
Designated Parking
/in Barbara J Eikmeier, Uncategorized/by Barbara EikmeierBy Barbara J Eikmeier
It’s back-to-school-time which means it’s time to paint the high school parking lot AGAIN. An annual tradition at our local high school, it’s a senior privilege.
My children didn’t attend this school, so I’m strictly an observer of the annual changing of the guard in the school parking lot – a local citizen enjoying the show.
I notice the transition while exercising on the school track. It starts on a weekend. Dad’s and daughters, small groups of teen boys, and threesomes of giggling girls in short shorts and tank tops descend upon the asphalt. They arrive with rolls of blue masking tape, cans of paint, and rollers with long handles. They mask frames and roll the first color of paint. As the days go by the art emerges as the rising seniors personalize their private parking spots.
Designated parking spots are everywhere. CEOs and company presidents have them. On military posts the Solider of the Month has one. I once saw one near the door in a JC Penney’s parking lot for “Mother to be”. But aside from a formal sign, they aren’t decorated.
I’m not sure how the seniors get the privilege but in my mind it’s a fundraiser – auctioned to the highest bidder, the money deposited to the Grad Night fund.
What I haven’t sorted out is why the seniors choose their particular spots. Oh sure, those coveted places near the entrance to the school make sense. A senior can push the snooze button every morning then whip into his prime parking spot and still be in his seat before the tardy bell rings. It’s a rational that I would use myself, given the chance. But what puzzles me are the random spots in the middle of the parking lot. Or those on the outer edges furthest from the door. Why there?
Google Earth image
A day or two before school resumes the parking lot painting wraps up. The masking tape is peeled away leaving a sharp outline well within the official white lines.
The colors are vibrant: Hot pink, sunny yellow, Black and Red, Go Lions! The themes are as varied as the students themselves.
Football player’s numbers in bold block letters, favorite car brands, pop culture icons such as Pokemon and, new this year, Hi Barbie, and of course “Class of 2024” everywhere. The trending themes, popular colors, and school pride splashes across the parking lot in a sort of “controlled graffiti”.
I never actually see the students – they’re in class when I do my laps on their track, but I sure enjoy the way they share their passions with the world in the form of a decorated parking spot.
As the months pass the vibrant colors will soften until the week after graduation when the parking spots will be painted over with black paint, the dark rectangles creating a clean canvas for the next batch of rising seniors.
Does your community have a quirky annual tradition that amuses you?
Barbara J. Eikmeier is a quilter, writer, student of quilt history, and lover of small-town America. Raised on a dairy farm in California, she enjoys placing her characters in rural communities.
Discrimination against Left-Handed People? Really?
/in Donnell Ann Bell, The Stiletto Gang/by Donnell Ann BellAn article on the History of Left-handed People caught my eye yesterday and after reading it, I felt so strongly about it I decided to include it in today’s Stiletto Gang blog. The article states myriad ways left-handed people have been discriminated against, particularly before the 20th century. I’m right-handed and never realized (all right, paid attention) that a bias exists. One of the women I play pickleball with is lefthanded. Not only is she a darn good player she’s a brilliant seamstress. Before moving to Las Cruces, she owned an exercise studio. Her talents are many and varied.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering . . . Really? Discriminate against someone who is left-handed? What is it with human nature that makes society fear someone different? I could elaborate ad nauseam on this subject, but let’s stick to lefties for the time being. According to the article, ninety percent of the world is right-handed.
At one time teachers tried to re-train left-handed students to use their right hands. Incidentally, the article also said that left-handers had far more success in switching hands than right-handers. (As someone who broke her arm in 1979 and was forced to do everything with my left hand, I can attest this is a true statement). Experts also said that in some cases, children forced to vie away from using their dominant hand suffered learning disabilities, including dyslexia, stuttering, and other speech impediments.
Superstition abounds regarding people born left-handed. Everything from lower IQs, bad luck, cleanliness, to the belief that right-handed people are stronger and live longer than left-handed people. Many left-handed people become ambidextrous to offset a right-handed world where products (think scissors, computer input devices, video game controllers, knives, cameras, musical instruments, weapons, the list goes on.) In sports, a left-handed player is known as a Southpaw.
Yesterday, August 13, was International Left-hander’s Day. https://www.lefthandersday.com The website is designed to raise awareness of everyday issues that lefties face in a world designed for right-handers.
Here’s another link I found fascinating. International Left-Handers Day 2023: Check Here What’s Make Left-Handers Unique (msn.com)