Fire Star Press: The Book Tour: Episode Ten

Fire Star Press: The Book Tour: Episode Ten: Episode Ten: Along the Road      The bus is crowded, and the driver is a mean bitter man of biting humor and short temper: at the...

The Book Tour: Episode Ten

Episode Ten: Along the Road

     The bus is crowded, and the driver is a mean bitter man of biting humor and short temper: at the first stop, I notice he buys a book on handguns.

I have to share a seat with a blond woman: chewed-looking hair, a scarred nose, a slightly soiled, fringed leather jacket. She ignores me for a long while, perhaps irritated by this forced promiscuity, but at one of the many stops during the chilly night, we find ourselves standing together — I’m stretching my legs; she’s chain-smoking, stocking up on nicotine — and suddenly she’s chatty.

“I’m a nervous wreck because I’m angry.” Her name is Sherry, she’s forty-seven years old. Hers is a deep whiskey voice, warm, charming.

She’s on her way back to Arizona where she once lived, to get her son out of jail. “He was arrested along with my ex-boyfriend — he’s less than a year older than my son. They were both caught manufacturing and selling speed. The police went into the house and took away all the furniture, everything single thing because they claimed it was all bought with the proceeds of drug money, but that’s not true. It all belonged to me, and I want it back. The only things they didn’t get, is my collection of knives and my jewelry. I left those at a friend’s house, and I sent her money to ship it all back to me, but she never did. So now I have to check that out, too.”

“I’ll be giving that son of mine a piece of my mind,” she says once we’re back on the bus. She wants to sound stern, but her eyes express pure maternal adoration. “Believe me, when I get through with him, he’ll never do that again. Right now they’re keeping him in the county jail, not in prison, but there are fourteen people in a cell for six, and he was beaten up so badly by some Mexicans, his hand was broken in two places. But you know what? He probably asked for it: he has a big mouth.”

Yes, of course she knew they were selling drugs, that’s why she left. “My ex-boyfriend? He’ll get at least ten years.” She doesn’t seem to consider that her son might not fare any better, even after adding (as though it’s an afterthought) that the two of them were also making bombs: the ex worked in a mine and had access to “materials.”

Neither shocked nor condemning, perhaps she is even proud of them. “I’ve led a pretty wild life, but what I’m gonna do now, is put that son of mine on a bus, and ship him to my ex-husband. He’s already raising my youngest son.”

There are, obviously, important details missing in this narrative.

             

Sherry has traveled all over Montana, and enjoys sharing the bits of information she’s picked up along the way: not surprisingly, all of it is pretty grim. She tells me about the Unabomber, Theodore John Kaczynski, responsible for sixteen mail bombs that killed three people and injured 23 before being denounced by his brother. A brilliant mathematician, a radical environmentalist opposed to modern technology, Kaczynski tried to get his academic essays published. But when they were rejected by two universities, he manufactured and delivered his first mail bomb. His victims were professors, the owner of a computer store, an advertising executive, airline company employees, and any other person he considered responsible for the wrongs of the industrial complex.

As we pass Butte, Sherry mentions the Berkeley Pit, a former open-pit copper mine now filled with more than 40 billion gallons of acidic water, heavy metals, and toxic chemicals that include copper, iron, arsenic, cadmium, zinc, and sulfuric acid. She laughs: “The Pit is now one of the only places in the world where you can go and pay to see toxic waste.” One mile long by half a mile wide, over 1,780 feet deep, in aerial photos, it is a huge black splotch.

“My present boyfriend told me all about it. He works twelve hours a day as a mine mechanic, so he knows.”

“Twelve hours?” Something like that is impossible in Europe these days.

“Sure, twelve hours a day is a lot, but many people work more. Folks out here are resigned to working all their lives.”

She had been married, “to a man who beat me up every time he was drunk. I was with him for twenty-eight years — ever since I was fifteen-years-old. Sure, I kept on dreaming about leaving, but dreaming about it is easier than actually doing it. Everyone around us knew what was going on, but no one helped, and anyway I always lied about everything. What else could I do? I was shit scared. Besides, beatings were all I’d ever known. But that isn’t the real reason I finally left: It was because I worked as a waitress for over twenty years, but my husband never worked at all. When I finally did leave him, he held a gun on me in the middle of town while the police tried to talk him out of killing me. I had to get a restraining order on him. Now he’s fine, though. He’s living in Seattle and doing a great job of raising our sixteen-year-old. I sent the kid up there when I went off with the ex-boyfriend, the guy who just got busted.

“But you know what? I’ve heard worse stories than mine. A couple of months ago, I was on a bus where there was a woman of around 18 with three kids. She’d just gotten out of the hospital and was too weak to carry the two babies, so I did it for her. Her husband had stabbed her sixteen times and she survived. Now she was on the run and terrified. The police hadn’t found her husband — he was still on the loose. And on TV, there was a woman who was shot by her husband. When I hear stories like that, I think about how easy my own life has been.”

In her own way, she is a good storyteller, and she certainly has charm. “These days, I buy antique china in garage sales and sell it on eBay. I do well, make good money, and my new boyfriend is really good to me. Things are great. Now it’s my turn to be taken care of. I’m not madly in love with him. It’s hard to learn to trust again, but he’s the one who forked out the money for this trip to Arizona.”

            People are starting to look strange in this part of the world. There are cowboy hats galore, and crazy eyes, staring fatties with Mr. Clean looks and sneers, doubtful muttering characters with greasy long hair and knit caps. Sherry is getting twitchy, too. “I could do with a Tequila. What I like, is hanging around bars.” I notice her hands are trembling.

Of course, drinking is strictly forbidden on Greyhound buses: if a driver catches a whiff of alcohol, you are not allowed to continue on. But Sherry knows how to get around people, and our next driver is an easy man with a twinkle in his eye. During a one-hour layover, Sherry actually manages to convince him to drive us over to a nearby bar and restaurant where he’s planning to have dinner.

“Okay. I’ll take you with me. But you’ll have one drink, that’s it.” Sherry nods gratefully. And once we are seated in the noisy crowded dining space where smells are tempting, Sherry gulps down her drink as though it were water.

“I’ll be retiring in six years,” the driver tells us. “I know exactly what I’m going to do, too. My family came over from Prussia back in 1910. They took a train to Dakota and built themselves a house of stone, straw, and mud, right out there on the prairie. It’s a historic building, and it’s still standing today. Now it belongs to me because I just inherited it. And, out there on that prairie, that’s where you’ll find me.”

“I know what I want, too,” says Sherry. Her smile is dreamy, optimistic. “Once I get my son straightened out, I’ll start living. Maybe my new boyfriend and me will buy a trailer, start traveling around. That’s what I’ve always wanted to do. My boyfriend does too. My ex-husband hated that idea.”

“Do you think you’ll miss being on the road?” I ask the driver.

“Might. You meet some odd people when you drive a bus. Some good ones, too. And you sure see some pretty strange things.”

“Such as?”

“Well, once there was a couple having sex right there, on the back seat of the bus.”

“Really? What did you do?”

“What did I do? Hell! I watched them in the mirror. I had a great time, and I didn’t even have to pay a quarter.”

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com and http://www:jill-culiner.com and on my podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

New Release - Wild Wind (Banyon Pride Series Book 1) by Donna L. Stephens

Olivia Faren is devastated when she discovers her fiancé and her best friend have a secret—they’re having an affair behind her back. Olivia can’t leave the city fast enough, longing for the peace she hopes to find in the Arkansas country farmhouse she’s inherited. Though the house has seen better days, Olivia is determined to make it a home for herself, and also for the baby she’s carrying—a secret of her own. They’ll make it just fine without any man in their lives.

But then Rain Banyon, powerful half-Cherokee owner of the Rocking B Ranch, focuses his silver gaze on her, and suddenly she’s not sure of anything anymore. Although Rain mesmerizes her, he’s much too handsome and daring to be trusted. With her world turned upside down, giving her heart to this Casanova rancher would wreak even more havoc on her peace of mind.

Threatened by her ex-fiancé’s obsession with her, Olivia tries to let him know she’s no longer interested, but he’s determined to hold on—no matter the cost to him, Olivia, or their unborn child. Can Rain be the man to protect her and keep her safe from this WILD WIND?

EXCERPT:

     “Who are you?” She tried to turn her head toward the gravelly voice, but even that brought pain in her neck. His features weren’t clear in the dim light.

     “Rain Banyon. I live near here. Happened to be behind you and saw that deer jump out in front of you. Watched your car go off the road.” He moved the flashlight to her face. “Are you in pain?”

     “Some…when I move.” Her voice came out hoarse.

     “Yeah. You may have a broken rib or two. The steering wheel’s bent some where it rubbed against your upper chest.” He touched her shoulder. “Lie still. We’ll get it checked out in the emergency room at Mercy Hospital in Fort Smith.”

     “I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Olivia’s voice trailed off, and she closed her eyes, a sense of doom closing in on her. She did need to go to the ER to make sure her baby was all right, even if she were just two months’ pregnant.

     She sighed. Her plan had been to wait awhile before tell­ing anyone in Mulberry about her pregnancy. Although it shouldn’t matter, her new teaching job might depend on her keeping her pregnancy a secret. And the longer she could wait before sharing her pregnancy the less chance of Matt, her ex-fiancé, finding out. She longed for stability for her baby, not the turmoil of having a womanizing father. Olivia hunched her shoulders and tried to stop shivering.

     

PROCESS, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

It’s always exciting to launch a new book, and Cosmic Cat is no exception. I had a woman rush up to my table at a book fair last weekend, point to the violet cover with the gray and white cat, and say, “Oh, you have the new one! I’ve been waiting!” That was a stellar moment, and one I will long remember, but strangely, for me the most exciting part of the writing journey is not the end but the beginning. For me, the first draft of a story is pure joy, with limitless possibilities and great potentials.


When it comes to writing, I am what they call a “pantser” as opposed to a “plotter.” That means, instead of making planning and outlining my story, I just write, “flying by the seat of my pants.” I have the title; I have the idea of what that will entail. I sit down at my laptop (which, by the way, is not connected to the internet) and begin.


I tend to hear the words in my head, as if I were reading, and I write them down. I visualize scenes as if they were a movie and describe them. I move ahead quickly, and without editing. I make notes — lots of notes — and color code things such as duplicated words or places I need to research. I push through from beginning to end, writing for hours each day. When I’m done, I sit back and get ready for the real work.


Fun and exciting as that first draft might be, there is a long way to go to make it a book. I revise several times before even my editor sees it, and then a few times more before it goes to press.



Cosmic Cat evolved out of my own love for sci-fi-fantasy and the conventions that have come out of that genre. Anyone who has attended a comic-con or Star Trek convention knows it as a world outside of the norm. The feeling of comradery that comes from being around people who love the same things we do; the sale items based on all our favorite characters; the panels on things that interest us; the guest stars who tell tales no one else may know. It’s a wonderland for people like me, and I wanted to put a little of that into a Crazy Cat Lady mystery.



I had the initial layout and a hint to the characters. Then came the “what if?” What if’s are essential to fiction writers. That’s where it all begins.



What if a cosplayer is murdered at a comic-con? And what if his name is Captain Cat and he is leader of a tribe? And what if the tribe has a vigilante faction, trying to save the world like their comic-book heroes? And what if...?



The main character of my series, Lynley Cannon, is a sixty-something cat shelter volunteer with many interests and a cat-like curiosity that won’t quit, so it’s easy to put her in all sorts of circumstances. Since she, herself, is a Trekkie, she fit right in with the comic-con crowd. She even has her own uniform!



To sum it up, the book you read in mere hours may have taken the writer and their team months and even years to create. Next time you read a book, think for a moment about what led up to that bundle of words that so excites your own imagination.

About COSMIC CAT, Crazy Cat Lady cozy mysteries #6:

When a superhero cosplayer falls to his death at a comic con, Lynley is left holding the bag— and a cat!
________________________________________

Who killed Captain Cat? His tribe wants to know.

When the Captain is murdered at Bridgetown Comic-con and philanthropist Esmae Westhouse is arrested for the crime, sixty-something cat shelter volunteer Lynley Cannon steps out of her comfort zone and dons her Star Trek uniform to expose the real killer.

A decade-spanning love triangle, a band of vigilante cosplayers, a shady pharmaceutical company, and an ancient black cat named Kitty tie into a puzzling plot that has Lynley running in all directions. The death of Captain Cat is only the beginning, and Lynley must stay one step ahead of a ruthless hit man if she is to make it out alive.



Praise for Cosmic Cat: 

If you like to read Cozy Mysteries that involve cartloads of cats and action, I recommend Cosmic Cat by Mollie Hunt. If you are a cat lover/cat servant, do not miss this book!  — The Book Decoder 

...I would have sworn there was no way to include costumed vigilantes in a cozy and have it be anything but ridiculous. Yet, after reading this, my hat is off to the author for writing the plot into a cozy with skill and panache.  —I Read What You Write 

... this story moves along at a steady pace with a wide variety of unique characters throughout the story. Not to mention that we even get some kitties with their own personalities mixed in.  —Socrates Book Reviews 

The Comic Sans Experiment

It's the first of November so once again I will be participating in the annual madness that is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. I've written other posts about NaNoWriMo in the past but for those of you who aren't familiar with it, NaNo is when writers across the globe come together and cheer each other on as they attempt to write a 50,000 word novel during the month of November. It's both insane and fun. Yes, I understand that I may have a somewhat skewed interpretation of the word "fun" and yes, I know there are people out there who routinely write more than 50K words a month. NaNoWriMo isn't for them, it's for the rest of us.

However, this year I am going to change things up a bit. Recently, one of my friends shared a post on Facebook about how writing using the Comic Sans font can make you more productive. Screen shots of the post are shown below:

I even did an internet search on the phrase "does using Comic Sans make you more productive." The first page of results was nothing but article after article stating that yes, it does.

In a way, it makes sense. Times New Roman is very formal and is The Official Font of Everything. Editors and publishers want our manuscripts in Times New Roman (double-spaced, thank you very much) and, during my almost thirty-four years as an employee of the federal government, Times New Roman was a requirement for all of our official correspondence. I suspect the same is true for most private organizations as well. Comic Sans is a more laid-back font, the type of font willing to kick back and watch the games with you on the weekend. So, when we're typing in Times New Roman, as I am now, our subconscious knows that whatever we're working on, even a rough first draft, must be a Big Deal so we are mentally typing at attention, second-guessing each word and self-editing ourselves to the nth degree. To me, it seems only logical that using a less formal font such as Comic Sans let our subconscious know that hey, this isn't the be-all-end-all, it's okay to just relax, be creative, and let the words flow.

So, during this NaNoWriMo, I'm going to conduct The Comic Sans Experiment and see if it really helps me be more productive. If it does, I'll probably do all of my writing in Comic Sans from now on. After all, it's easy to change the font of a document before submitting it. I'll post an update on the outcome next month.

Have any of you tried using Comic Sans to improve your productivity?

Sign up for my newsletter here:  http://madmimi.com/signups/112968/join

Amazon Author Page:  http://amazon.com/author/isabellanorse

Website:  http://www.isabellanorse.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/IsabellaNorseAuthor/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorIzzy

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/isabellanorse/

Synchronicity by Michael E. Gonzales

I have been writing since before the turn of the century. My first manuscripts were saved on floppy disks (if you aren’t aware of 3.5-inch floppies, ask your parents).

I began writing after seeing a movie with my wife and commenting as we came out, “I believe I could have written a better story.”

She replied, “Yeah? Do it.”

After a time, wherein which I read a number of books on the art of writing, I came to enjoy the process. Exercising the mind, the imagination, even the research, editing, and rewriting.

As I look back to 2016, I marvel and my extreme good fortune to have been published.

Initially the thought of publishing my stories never even entered my mind. When my wife encouraged me to make the attempt, I did. Sending query letters to publishers throughout the US and several in the UK.

No one would have considered it possible that I would, through a pure act of synchronicity, find a publisher right here in Oklahoma City.

I cannot possibly explain the euphoria I felt when signing that first contract. Nor the incredulity of seeing my name on the cover of my first published book.

I’ll never know how many people have read my stories, but if one person truly enjoyed one of them then I am ecstatic. I am fortunate to have received reviews both on Amazon and via email from many happy readers. I know you are all aware what a great pleasure it is to receive these.

So, on this all hallows eve, I sit not with visions of vampires and monsters on my mind, rather I bask in the glow of my small success with my stories of…monsters and vampires. I dream yet of adventures in space, explorers on Mars,

great battles among the stars,

and of witches and warlocks battling for supremacy and falling in love for their troubles.

I have my wife to thank for pushing me. And Jef, Michelle, Jessica, Cheryl, and countless friends who cheered me on.

Before me there opens a dark passage with countless twists and turns. There are pitfalls too, but also stairwells that can lead one to the stars, and beyond.  

Into that yawning maw I will proceed. I trust that good fortune precedes me, luck accompanies me, and hope that Carl Jung was right!

Happy Halloween, everyone.

Mike