The Blog Hop

The Blog Hop.
Thanks to, Amanda Buxton, for thinking I am interesting enough to be in her blog hop.

What am I working on right now?

I am making the editorial changes to my mystery/thriller Tattered Wings.
It is the story of a young boy who kills and why he feels it is necessary.
All through the story are bits of the lives affected by this boy's actions.
Do we make killers or are then born?

How does my writing process work?

Not like anyone else's from what I read.  I always get a kick out of how people say they write. They make their character list, they develop them, they get their scenes in their heads and off they go putting it all together.
This is how it works for me.
I can't sleep. An idea floats around in my head, then it starts beating against my forehead saying "Get up you lazy bum and write  this down because you won't remember it in the morning."
I drag myself out and transfer everything nagging in my brain on to a piece of paper.  I feel relieved and go back to bed. When I get up in the morning to go into my office. I am flabbergasted at what is on the paper. Here is a sample of what was in my head the other night when the idea for the Murders of Madison Hill came to me at 3:35 am.

“He's dead.”   

            “How do you know?”

            “Allen, you can't mistake dead!” Nate was poking the blue blob with a stick.

 “Come on Nate, I don’t like this. I keep thinkin’ he’s gonna move. Besides, if he’s dead we need to tell somebody.”

            “Allen, we aren't supposed to cut through the woods. Mom said next time we did, she’d  ground us.”

            “Jeez, Nate.  How can you think of that now?  If you don't go with me, I am going alone.”

            Nate didn’t move from his spot. He kept looking, prodding, and trying to turn the guy over, but he needed something bigger.

            It was an adult, and he looked horrible.  There was blood all over the leaves around him and the blue jogging suit he was wearing.  There was a definite whole in his head. The eye Nate could see  was open and foggy. Just as Nate began to turn toward Allen, he heard a rustling sound in the distance. It was rapidly getting closer. Nate pushed his little brother so hard he tripped. Reaching down he pulled the younger boy up, grabbed his hand,and ran toward the nearest clump of trees.  Pushing Allen down again, he threw himself on top, and clamping  his hand over his little brother's mouth, he whispered,  “Shut up. Don't move. Don't breathe.”

            Allen began to cry.

 

Hum, now I have Allen and Nate, where do I go from there? Honestly, I don't know but it will be interesting to find out. I am merely the writer and the thing inside of me that guides me lets me have all the fun.

 

What is the hardest part of writing?

 

Actually sitting down and writing. I seem to have a problem concentrating on it for very long. I like to read and walk around the farm. I visit the animals and pet the dogs. My woodshop calls my name because I like to build things. The only way it works for me it to go to the office first thing in the morning and write. I do most of my writing in my PJ's. If I get distracted early, it is a lost day.

 

What authors do I admire?

 

Mark Twain, Jeanette Walls, J.D. Robb, Joan Hess and anyone else you can spin a tale I can not figure out or that makes me laugh and holds my interest. 

Please stop by www.ambuxton.com and see what Amanda is doing. She is extremely talented.  Also. go by and see how Rob Myers does is at www.ignorramus.com

Law and Order.

 I would not want to be a law officer. The thought of walking up to a car, not knowing who or what is in it, is above my bravery level. Even worst would be to get a call and go to a house where a domestic quarrel is in progress. Nine times out of ten, the battered woman sides with the husband or boyfriend, after the anger subsides, and the officer becomes odd man out.
That being said, there is a lot to be learned from the Sheriff.

Let me say, it is my belief, that most people who commit a violent crime would do just about anything to take back that 15 minutes where they lost their temper or made a very bad decision.
I am not talking about serial killers or whackos. I am talking about the average joe who is 40 or 50 years old,and goes to work everyday. His life goes south after a divorce or another of life's missteps he can't handle. He begins to drink or starts doing drugs and his since of right and wrong jumps out the window.

Then there is the other type of criminal who believes the world owes him something. He breaks into cars to steal computers and stuff he is too lazy to earn because he wants drugs or whatever and he doesn't care how hard you worked for anything. How dare you drive a new car, live in a nice house with the lawn mowed and eat three meals a day while he was beaten and battered by a drunk uncaring father and a mother too scared to make a move. I am NOT defending this scenario.  I firmly believe some people are what they are because of the way they were raised and others are the way they are in spite of the way they were raised.

But, I am not telling you what I learned. So here is some of it.
Always treat the criminal with respect. It goes much easier when you want to talk to them to find out what actually happened. They will open up more to the guy who lets them smoke a cigarette and have a coke than the guy who pushes them around and treats them like scum.

The faster you can get a suspect isolated and get him to talk, the more likely you are to get the true story. The longer they sit alone or with someone else involved in the crime, the more time they have to think about what they can say to justify what they did and make it seem not as bad as it is.

One man I met should have been protected by the Castle Law. The law says if you are in your home and someone comes in to harm you, you can shoot them and not be charged with a crime.
In this case, the intruders came in, harassed the home owner.  He had a gun on is coffee table.
Dumb, it think. Anyway, the situation was defused and the guys left but the homeowner was so angry he followed them out and got into a scuffle with one of the men. Subsequently, someone was shot and now the man is charged with murder.

Another man shot a guy in the eye because he "didn't respect" a pick-up truck he borrowed several years before and since then the man let it fester and fester until when the guy came to his house he shot and killed him.

Anyway, we didn't have much to do the night I rode with the Sheriff. We helped a motorist who was stranded on the highway and patrolled. I heard lots of war stories and how people make a bad situation worse by lying and saying things that just could not have happened.
I plan on incorporating these stories into my next novel.

Any law officer who reads this will probably think I am being simplistic or off the mark, but comments are always welcome and discussions are good for the soul.

The Sheriff, The Farmer's Market and Metaphysics

I live a diverse life. This week I rode with the Sheriff on Friday night to pick his brain for a book I am writing. On Saturday I read my book to children at an outdoor farmer's market and in the afternoon I went to a picnic put on by the School of Metaphysics and toured their new school in Springfield.

To further complicate matters, I am unable to tell you which I liked best.  I learned all kinds of ways to kill people when I rode with the Sheriff and talked to two murderers, more on that in another blog.

I met a young seven year old boy on Saturday, named Patrick, whose vocabulary was better than most of the people I talk to all week.  Later at the same reading, I met two brothers aged nine and eleven who could intelligently discuss their favorite authors and books and genre. They were so knowledgeable I found myself writing down their recommendations and telling them about Sharon Keeling Davis' book which they are now eagerly awaiting.

When I left the farmer's market I motored over to Phelps Grove Park and sat in on a talk about metaphysics. The subject has always fascinated me..  I am currently reading a three book Summer of Enlightenment Series. Do I seem enlightened?

Don't you dare answer that.

I was going to use all of these events to explain why I haven't been updating my blog, then I realized this was a reason TO update.

Moore, Oklahoma. My heart bleeds for your loss.

the sky clear and bright
the sun shares her light

clouds gather quickly
the sky dark and sickly

our children  safe at school
life can be so cruel

homes now like erector sets
Moore ,OK, as bad as it gets.

as a fellow American
I will do all I can.

however I can't make a mother smile
or fix devastation mile after mile.

know we are thinking of you
and all you must still do.

Blessings and light to those who are hurting and devastated today. My heart breaks for you.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom

 Happy Mother's Day
 The sun rises

it sets

the rain comes

and then the sun

winter

spring

summer

fall

am I making the most of it all.

Some days are long

and scary

some are short

and blurry

some are sunny and bright

and everything is my world is right.

Other days I can't figure

it out.

Just want to run away

or sit in the dark

Then a thought occurs to me

how precious this day can be

Surely there is something

memorable

It could not have all been miserable

Then I smile at something small

I wonder how I could be sad at all.

I remember something my dear mother said.

Keep your feet on the ground,

Your eyes to the heavens and your face in the sun.

Happy Mother's day mom.

It has been twenty seven years since I saw you last

I try never to dwell in the past,

but I love you now as I always did.

And I will always be your kid.

The baby of the family.

Ruth Ethelyn Rench.

Died July 18, 1986

Age 64.

missed so much

There's a snake in the house! Help!!

My youngest daughter called to tell me about a snake that found its way into her kitchen and it reminded me of my own snake story.

I went to the garage to retrieve a soft sided cooler to take on a treasure hunting day I was planning.
It was on a shelf over my head so I reached up and took hold of one of its straps. As I pulled it toward me a four foot black snake slid down my neck, down my arm and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. From there he slithered, at high speed , into the kitchen where he scooted sideways toward the living room.
He acted like I was after him instead of trying to retreat.

Now, I know a four foot snake  is small in the black snake family tree, but this guy was fat.  He hadn't skipped a meal in awhile. I knew why we didn't have mice in the garage.

Did I mention the hair was standing up on the back of my neck?  I am prettified of snakes. I remember when I was a kid, we petted one at the St. Louis Zoo.  They are dry and smooth and don't feel anything like they look.  I don't care. I don't like them.

I know you think I am going to tell the story of how I picked that sucker up by the tail and through him outside, right? NOT.

I called for help.  I was going to have to do something quickly before a dog or cat came into the room or he slithered himself sideways into a floor duct , at which time I would have to move out until he was found. Believe me, there is no house big enough for me and a snake.

My roomy came in and had the brilliant idea we get the broom and dust pan. She said we could put the broom over him to hold him still and then scoop him up into the dust pan and throw him outside.

It was a great idea but the execution was difficult.  First of all, he didn't want to be picked up.  Next, he was unpredictable. It is hard to tell which way something that is moving sideways is going to go next.
Eventually, she got the broom on him tight enough he stop moving ( or he was worn out). Then she was able to get him into the dust pan.  He was so big she couldn't lift the pan with one hand and hold the broom with the other.  I was forced to help.

I chose holding the broom.  I was not putting my hand on that dust pan within three inches of the snake.
Now that he was contained.  All we had to to was get him out the door, down the back steps and across the yard away from the the outside dog.

Good thing we didn't have pressing plans because this was no easy deed.

Anyway, it has been about a year since my adventure with Blacky and I have never gone into the garage for anything that I am not on the lookout for his family.

Ah, the joys of country living.

A Day on the Mountain

A Day on the Mountain.

I bowed my head and kept walking. When the sound in my ears became deafening, I stopped and leaned against a tree so as not to fall back down the steep mountain. When the sound of beating drums softened like they were moving further away from me, I started walking again. I took a second to glance back the way I'd come. It was nearly straight up. The walk was treacherous, but it seemed like such a good idea when I began.

It was another one of those things I felt I must do to cleanse my soul so I could go on to next part of my life. The part after marriage. Is a marriage lasting twenty-five years, before it breaks up, considered a failure. I felt it was. I had mothered two wonderful girls, raised them and got them through college before I left. The drums were getting closer again now. The sound so rhythmic and loud I felt it was going to take over my body and brain. Again I stopped. And again after several minutes of leaning on the nearest tree, it was gone. Whatever was following me was unnerving, yet I wasn't afraid of it. My goal had been to write down all of the good and bad of my marriage and then climb to the top of a glacier pack in the Black Hills and bury it. Cathartic I thought.

For months before the trip I walked mile after mile up and down hills, but nothing prepared me for the high altitude of the mountains. I was making my way slowly up Lover's Loop, a five mile path to the top of the mountain and back. The day before I had walked a different walk and felt like I was in a New York subway because of all of the people I met on the way. Today I picked a more treacherous route hoping not to be in such a crowd. I had been walking for four hours and no one passed me nor did I hear anything but those drums.

So my dilemma was both good and bad. I was going to be alone to sit at the top of the glacier and read my story, and find a place to bury it for eternity. Yet the downside was if there was anything of danger up on the mountain, I was destined to meet it by myself.

I learned early in my walk that the air was thin and I would have to keep my head down to keep from becoming dizzy from the exertion of the climb. Every twenty or thirty feet was a huge pine tree. I was able to go from tree to tree to rest. As I rested I would look up and plot my course to the next tree so I could rest again. I was not yet fifty, but the thinner the air became, the older I felt.

After doing the drum, no drum thing for over an hour I realized it was my own heart beating in my ears. I should have been amused at my own deceit, yet now that I knew, I stopped at every tree to give myself the rest I needed.

So here I am, trudging up the mountain side hour after hour with my head down when I run into a tree. Oh my goodness, it wasn't a tree, it was a massive two thousand pound buffalo. He was grazing in the tree line and I hadn't seen him. I tried not to panic as I scampered back down two trees and hid behind one. Peeking around the tree, I looked at him to see how mad he was I had run into him, but he was still grazing as though he didn't know I was there. Because of his massive size, I was probably a mere gnat to him.

I stayed in my hiding place behind the study pine and watched him as he leisurely ate , making his way further and further toward the other side of the glacier until I felt safe enough to go on with my plans.

All in all, the walk up the mountain took six hours. I read my history once more and took my camping shovel out of my pack. I couldn't make a deep hole in the rocky soil, so I buried my story under a big pile of pine needles and rocks. After making the area look as natural as I could, I went on feeling lighter and happier than I had in years.

The trip down the mountain took less than and hour and I was forced to walk from side to side and tree to tree to keep from sliding down on my backside. When I got there, my friends were waiting to tell about their adventures and I felt I would never be able to admit I thought my own heart beat was made by drums or that I ran smack into the side of a buffalo. But I did tell my story and we all laughed at each others adventures.

It ended up to be quite a vacation, in more ways than one.