from La Bloga an Interview by Xanath Caraza with Juliana

Juliana Aragón Fatula’s, three books of poetry are Crazy Chicana in Catholic City (2nd edition), Red Canyon Falling on Churches, winner of the High Plains Book Award for Poetry 2016, (Conundrum Press), and a chapbook, The Road I Ride Bleeds (Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press). She has been anthologized as a poet in Open Windows III, El Tecolote, Trance, and broadcast on Colorado Public Radio’s Colorado Matters. She teaches writing workshops for Bridging Borders and Writers in the Schools and believes in the power of education to change lives. She is currently writing a mystery, The Colorado Sisters. 

Who is Juliana? 

That’s heavy. My mind goes crazy thinking of answers, but the truth is I’m a small-town girl, raised in a large family, very poor, but not as poor as my ancestors. My paternal great-grandfather was a Navajo sheep herder in Villa Nueva, New Mexico in a village outside of Santa Fe. My maternal Navajo great-grandfather was sold to the Gomez family in Alamosa, Colorado for food and a horse when he was four-years-old.

I was raised a Mexican-Americana, Mestiza, Mexica, Aztec in Southern Colorado. In the seventies, I marched with the Denver Brown Berets and heard the civil rights organizer, Corky Gonzales, speak as a political activist. I claimed the label Chicana, Xicana, Xicanx. I honor my indigenous roots, my mestizaje, my culture and history. I write about living between two worlds.

  

My beginning as a poet. I embrace my mestizaje and spirituality as a true American, indigenous. I remember where I come from. What’s the dicho, “How can we know where we’re going, until we know where we’ve been?”

I drove to Villa Nueva, New Mexico to gather stones and put my feet in the Pecos Rio. I met locals and heard their stories. I entered the church where my great-grandparents were married and my father baptized in 1917.

My father’s homeland, like mine in Southern Colorado; has the same trees, soil, grasses, herbal medicine, religion, language, culture. He landed in Tortilla Flats. My second book, Red Canyon Falling on Churches, comes from those cuentos, those stories, poemas. Born forty years apart: 1917 and 1957, we were both brown skinned, brown eyed, brown hair, mestizo nose, Navajo and Mexicano culture and language, religion and spirituality. My DNA is indigenous to this land.

I grew up with ten kids and one bike. We had to share. Growing up in Southern Colorado with grandparents from Villa Nueva, New Mexico and Alamosa, Colorado in el valle, I inherited brown skin, my last name, Aragón, my Spanglish, my culture and myths.

We never crossed the border, the border crossed us. My father migrated to Colorado from New Mexico when he was ten and went to work; he had brothers and sisters depending on him. My grandparents died very young and my father raised his siblings. He was a loved father figure. My mother was the strongest and most generous woman I ever knew. She grew up next to the river and rail road tracks in a shack with dirt floors. My parents taught me to give back to my community.

How do you define yourself as a poet?

 I define myself as a confessional poet and as a member of the Macondo Foundation I follow the mission statement: a community of poets, novelists, journalists, performance artists, and creative writers of all genres whose work is socially engaged. Their work and talents are part of a large task of community building and under-served communities through their writing.

I write about my truth, nature, addiction, creation stories with tricksters and desert creatures. I aim to make my audience laugh, cry, and dream. The first decade as a writer was an experiment. Now that I'm 'seasoned,' I teach writing workshops, write blogs on writing, conduct literary interviews, and review my favorite books. I feel like it's ok to call myself a writer now.

As a child, who first introduced you to reading?  Who guided you through your first readings?

I was introduced to reading by my older sister, Irena. She was ten years older than me and since our family was so large, she was given the responsibility to watch over me. She took me to the library for my books. I never imagined someday I would be a writer. My sister has been my guardian angel for my entire life. Even now she sends me blessings from heaven. I often wonder what her life could have been like if she had the same choices I had.

I was the first in my family to graduate college. She would have been incredibly proud of me as would my parents. They believed in me even when I lacked confidence in myself; they knew I had special talents and power to change things with an education. There’s nothing more powerful than an educated Chicana. I am Chicana Woman, hear me as I raise some hell.

How did you first become a poet?

I was born a poet. I have a very twisted sense of humor and sometimes strangers think I’m sonsa, but it’s just an act. I’m always acting. I’m odd. I’m mysterious. I’m curious. I’m telepathic. I’m psychic and psycho. Ja ja aja ja. I crack myself up when I get on a roll. I’m ridiculous and irreverent and righteous and rotten and refined and riddled with guilt. But my writing; my poems are my salvation. They are my medicine. I’ve been healed with the power of words.

My path has always been about beauty and truth. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but, I didn’t write poetry until I was fifty.  Ten years ago, I enrolled at Colorado State University-Pueblo, to become a Language Arts teacher in my hometown. I chose creative writing as my minor and began my introduction to Ethnic Literature. I read poetry by the icons, Sandra Cisneros, Joy Harjo, Leslie Marmon Silko, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Maya Angelou and many others, but it was the poems written by Chicanas that inspired me to write about my culture, language, and heritage. I grew in four years of Chicanx Literature, Ethnic Studies, Shakespeare, Creative Writing: Drama, Poetry, Fiction, and Non-Fiction Nature Writing.

Where were your first poems written?

If I’m honest they were written when I was in junior high school. I didn’t know how funny I used to be until my best prima/soul sister gave me the notes I passed to her every day in the halls at school. I was hilarious. It was like getting in a time machine and going back to my teens. I was wild and unconcerned about what anyone said about me. I wore what I wanted, I walked where I wanted to go, and I said what I wanted to say. I was the character from Crazy Chicana in Catholic City. I wrote in my journal every day. I was a young woman in love with being in love. I kept all the letters from my loved ones and when I read them now, I always cry tears of joy at the memories of them in my heart. I’ve been very blessed.

My first poems were published in the literary magazine at CSU-Pueblo, The Hungry Eye, and on the webpage for CSU Pueblo’s Hispanic Cultural Experience: A Collection of Poetry, Essays, and Short Stories from Pueblo, Colorado. These poems began as performance pieces for the Denver Indian Thespians and Su Teatro in 1992. Those stories morphed into poems.

When did you start to publish?  And, what impact did seeing your first publications have on you?

I published in literary magazines in college, won poetry contests, and published several poems in anthologies. Several of those poems were later published in my first book of poetry, Crazy Chicana in Catholic City. My first book of poems was published because of an independent study course I took with my mentor, David Keplinger. Never did I imagine the publisher would send me a contract and publish my manuscript, but I gained confidence with each publication and grew to be a prolific writer.

My first book arrived on my doorstep; I realized how much hard work I put into it and how taking risks had proved successful.  I decided to write my second manuscript, Red Canyon Falling on Churches. My publisher, Caleb Seeling and editor, Sonya Unrein, at Conundrum Press in Denver promoted my books, arranged readings, and gave me a voice. Being published changed my perception of myself and gave me courage to help other beginning writers. It gave me the incentive to teach writing workshops to at-risk-youth, like the Bridging Borders Workshops I teach in Pueblo.

Do you have any favorite poems by other authors?  Or stanzas?  Could you share some verses along with your reflection of what drew you toward that poem/those stanzas?

Maya Angelou inspired me with “Phenomenal Woman.” One of my favorite verses:

Now you understand/Just why my head’s not bowed. /I don’t shout or jump about/Or have to talk real loud. /When you see, me passing, /It ought to make you proud.

“And Still I Rise”, and “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” and her quote is engrained in my head, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

An essay written by Gloria Anzaldúa, “Linguistic Terrorism” awoke in me a rebellious voice. “...We are your linguistic nightmare, your linguistic aberration, your linguistic mestizaje, the subject of your bruja. Because we speak with tongues of fire we are culturally crucified. Racial1y, cultural1y, and linguistically somas huerfanos - we speak an orphan tongue.

“Chicanas who grew up speaking Chicano Spanish have internalized the belief that we speak poor Spanish. It is illegitimate, a bastard language. And because we internalize how our language has been used against us by the dominant culture, we use our language differences against each other.”

Shakespeare changed the way I write, “We know what we are, but know not what we might be.”

A letter I received from Sandra Cisneros last year after she read my second book, Red Canyon Falling on Churches, changed my life in small and big ways; she wrote to me, “…Think what light you are transmitting to others as you walk your own path. A lantern leading others on their path. This is sacred work. May you always be this light. Abrazos.” Sandra.  I cried when I read that line. She moved me. I changed. I grew. She inspired me to work with other writers.

I was invited to join The Stiletto Gang, a group of women writers on a mission to bring mystery, romance, humor, and high heels to the world; and Women Who Write the Rockies, literary women writing in the shadow of the Rockies: a community of like-minded women sharing news, readings, publications, and reviews. I’m learning from these women how to write for an internet audience on these websites. I’m enjoying the blog experience and reaching a new group of readers who might not otherwise ever know my work.

What is a day of creative writing like for you?  Where do you write?  How often?

It’s midnight and I’m in my kitchen writing, listening to Bob Marley. My muse refuses to let me sleep during full moons. It’s a red moon tonight. I’ve tried staying in bed but I toss and toss until I get up and go to work.

My writing space: I love writing in hotel rooms, coffee shops, in my back yard, in the wilderness in my twenty-four-foot camper. My husband, Vince, and I go camping in the Colorado wilderness with our Border Collie, Big Bad Baby Boy Bear. My husband hikes with Bear and gives me my space to write or read.

I write in my back yard under the grape arbor, and my sun/moon room are also favorites spots. I have my Chicana Garden with fruit trees, ivy and wood vine climbing the fences. The backyard is filled with birdhouses, bird baths, bird feeders. The wind blows the twenty-five chimes for each year we’ve been married, and birds sing along. It’s a magical place. Colorado fresh air and sunshine, even on winter days. I make a fire in the woodstove, heat up the porch, brew some chai, read a book, and watch the snow fall.

If I'm real lucky, I escape to the mountains and the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains and the Continental Divide. Up there, no phones, cell service, television, nosy neighbors or worries. I write, read, nap, eat, sleep, wander through fields of wildflowers. Watch the fish jump in the lake. And I write and write and write and write. I’m hypnotized. I fall into a pattern of waking and writing and writing until I can't keep my eyes open every night. I feel like a writer. I feel productive. I feel fierce.

When do you know when a poem is ready to be read?

I always read my work out loud. Sometimes I record it and listen to it playback several times. I ask friends if I can try a poem out on them for their reaction. I read their body language. Sometimes it’s positive feedback, sometimes, not so much. If I hear the poem and it sounds like music, if it has the power to move someone to laugh or cry, if it makes me want to perform it on stage in front of an audience, I know in my heart it’s ready.

Could you describe your activities as poet?

I won the High Plains Book Award for poetry, 2016, in Billings Montana. My husband and I drove to Montana with an invitation as a finalist. I met some great poets and writers and fell in love with Billings. If I hadn’t won the prize, I still would have come out a winner because of the experience. It elevated me to a new high. The feedback from the judges allowed me to accept that I am an award-winning poet.

I had just had knee replacement surgery; however, I didn’t let that stop me from attending and when I won, I dropped my cane and danced up on stage like a lunatic. The audience laughed at my enthusiasm and cheered for my first win as a published poet.

It gave me confidence to submit a third manuscript, a memoir of poems: Gathering Momentum. It’s unpublished but I’m proud to have finished it; it was the most difficult thing I ever wrote. I included my Mother’s recipes so they would never be forgotten. I’m preserving my family’s histories.

I love performing and maybe that’s why I didn’t begin writing until I was in my fifties. I was having too much fun being on stage. My writing began as a performance artist. I wrote short cuentos about my family. Some sad, some funny, some tragic, some hopeful. I never felt like a poet. I felt like a storyteller.

In the nineties, I worked with Su Teatro in Denver, Colorado. I learned the tradition of taking the word to the people. I became very active in the Chicano community. Su Teatro organized and attended protests carrying picket signs; Justice for Janitors, Amnesty International, and of course the United Farm Workers. We sang protest songs; they had Aztec dancers in full regalia. One time we drove from Denver to Pueblo, Colorado and joined the American Indian Movement to protest Columbus Day.

 

In 1995, I joined the Latin Locomotions, Sherry Coca Candelaria and Manuel Roybal, Sr. from Su Teatro. We traveled to the Persian Gulf to perform for the troops. We toured five weeks and entertained in Sicily, the Azores, Diego Garcia, and the United Arab Emirates. It was my first time out of the country. I dreamed of traveling all my life and now I was being loaded on cargo planes and flying across the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Persian Gulf, and the Indian Ocean.  The Department of Defense paid me to sing, dance, and tell stories for Hispanic Awareness in the Military.

What’s something that helped to shape your outlook to life?

The good and bad experiences molded me in to a strong, independent, out-spoken woman who is fearless. I’ve faced hard times and remained a survivor, never a victim. As a teenager, I was headed for prison or death.  I was loud, rebellious, a tomboy; many of my closest friends I grew up with are dead from their lifestyle choices.

I chose to have a baby at fifteen, drop out of high-school, go to work and thanks to Planned Parenthood, I raised my son as a single parent and had pre-natal healthcare. My son is in his early forties; I turn sixty this year. Having access to healthcare through Planned Parenthood changed me. It shaped my future.

With an education, I became independent with a job and a steady income. I worked for many decades in Denver and climbed the corporate ladder. I was not corporate material. I’m a performance artist. I wanted more than a job and a desk. I never gave up on that dream. I made it happen. Pure will power.

I returned to school and graduated from Colorado State University – Pueblo in 2008 and became an educated Chicana. My son claims I should have a Ph.D. because I’ve been going to school his entire life. That’s not a fact; but it is true.  Not an alternative fact, but a truth.  I love learning and I am a lifelong learner. I love teaching and I teach my students to love learning.

My son gave me a purpose and made me rock steady. I became focused and escaped the cycle of poverty. My husband would say, “We’re poor, but we have love and kindness in us.”  We’ve both been sober for twenty-seven years. We support each other; we are best friends.

Could you comment on your life as a cultural activist?

I’m extremely proud of my activism with at-risk-teens. I’ve taught hundreds of students in Southern Colorado through the Writers in the Schools Program with Colorado Humanities. Some are in high school and college now. I remain close with many of them through social media. Gotta love Facebook, que no? Sometimes they ask me for advice. They lovingly call me, Mama Fatula. I don’t have grandchildren, so I gave all the love inside me to my students. Many of them hugged me every day. I listened to them. Some of them needed more than a teacher. I mentored many students who bravely walked out of the closet and into the sunshine as proud members of the LGBTQ community. I’m so proud of them. I’m proud of the students who invited me to their high school graduation. They’re in college now; they are the future of this country. They changed me. They taught me more than I taught them.

I tell my students about my first protest.  I led the first-sit in to protest the school’s policy of forbidding the female students to wear blue jeans. In 1852, Emma Snodgrass was arrested for wearing pants. Women protested until women were allowed to wear pants. When I tell my students this they are shocked.

In 1972, my fellow female students protested to wear blue jeans instead of pantsuits. I lead the female students and they followed me; I didn’t know then I was leading. Today, I understand the power of being able to express myself and communicate my reality through spoken word.

What project/s are you working on that you would like to share?

I’m a storyteller; and a very good listener. I’m writing my first murder mystery because I love a challenge. I’ve been writing The Colorado Sisters for the last year.  I wanted to see what else there was inside my head. Turns out there’s plenty. But getting up every day and making something out of nothing takes dedication, work, and talent.  I learned that you can’t write a book, if you don’t sit down and write.

I’m creative and weave stories and characters like a movie inside my head. I love writing dialogue and using humor in my writing to curb the edge of the murder, the nitty gritty of the story, the dark secrets we all have, the criminal element of detective work, and finally the investigative work can’t be just evidence, testimony, and undercover work; there must be balance with the characters’ lives because in real life, we have up and down days and have funny things happen all around us, if we pay attention.

What advice do you have for other poets?

My good friend, Manuel, always says, “Everywhere you go; there you are.” Never forget that bit of wisdom. It might save your life someday. Surround yourself with smart, talented, generous people like Manuel, who have a social conscience and are activists. My writing gives me a voice and a medium to reach people. It’s the same for my writer friends. Read lots of books and write lots of poems and then read books about writing poems and write poems and read books written by poets you admire and then write more poems.

One piece of advice, don’t ever change your voice or your truth to make someone else happy. Don’t change a word if you feel it is your truth. You’re not writing for you parents, siblings, partner, children. Write for yourself and write the kind of poems you want to read. And attend lots of book readings, writing conferences and writing workshops, and network with everyone you meet. Keep those connections current through social media. Share your story with new writers and encourage them to write from the heart not the head.

Remember you can’t please everyone; and not everyone will like you, or your poems. But for those who do appreciate your writing, you tell them how much their feedback feeds your soul. You meet your readers and audience and share your stories about how you became a writer. You teach poetry writing workshops to others and encourage young and old to write, write, write.

What else would you like to share?

I have fears: I’m afraid of drowning. I’m scared of la Llorona and el Cucuy, I’m afraid of the future under a misogynist, xenophobic, racist, President and cabinet. I’m frightened by the racism that exists in our country. And finally, I’m afraid of Climate Change and the future of our Mother Earth. However, I have faith in the young people; I have faith, and like Maya Angelou sings, “And still I rise.”

Cross Genre

by Bethany Maines

Cross-genre.  You’ll hear the term a lot in writing circles.  But what is it?  It’s book that melds the elements of more than one genre together.  Books are coded by something known as a BISAC code that allows libraries to appropriately shelve a book and search engines to find it.  The list is extensive and usually books can have two BISAC codes.  (You can check out the list for fiction here: bisg.org/page/Fiction But be warned—it’s extensive!)

My forthcoming book Shark’s Hunt, book #3 of the Shark Santoyo Crime Series, can appropriately be filed under FIC031010 FICTION / Thrillers / Crime, but it’s possible that it could be filed under FIC027260 FICTION / Romance / Action & Adventure or FIC022000 FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General.    Or I could just go for a broad category and label it: FIC044000 FICTION / Women.  Am I the only one who finds it odd that women are a category of fiction?  There isn’t a category for Men.  Or is all fiction assumed to be men’s fiction and we need to let people know that this book over here is just for women? Seems odd, but we’ll just leave that one alone for now.

But beyond the BISAC codes, which while useful, are not the end all definition of a book, there is marketing and that’s where things get persnickety.  An author and a marketer need to be able to tell and sell someone on a book in 30 seconds or less. 

The Shark Santoyo Crime Series is a witty, romantic saga about a violent suburban underworld. Shark Santoyo and Peregrine Hays are the Romeo and Juliet of the criminal set and they are determined to find justice, revenge, and true love. There’s just an entire mob and a few dirty FBI agents in the way.

So from my “elevator pitch” you should know that there’s going to be violence, romance, crime, and a touch of humor.  But all of those things are hard to encompass in a single book description and a cover.   Which is why you’ll see cross-genre books “pushed” toward one genre.  There’s a girl in the book – make it sexy on the cover!  Don’t mention the humor – humor doesn’t sell!  On the other hand, when a book succeeds you’ll hear people knowingly say, “Well, it’s really cross-genre.”  Of
course, it’s cross-genre! No book is ever one thing entirely. It’s as though an author just can’t win. 

On the other hand, if you think cross-genre witty, romantic saga about a violent suburban underworld sounds fun, then check out Shark’s Instinct and Shark’s Bite and pre-order Shark’s Hunt today.

***

Bethany Maines is the author of the Carrie Mae Mystery Series, San Juan Islands Mysteries, Shark Santoyo Crime Series, and numerous short stories. When she's not traveling to exotic lands, or kicking some serious butt with her fourth degree black belt in karate, she can be found chasing her daughter or glued to the computer working on her next novel. You can also catch up with her on YouTube, Twitter and Facebook.

Something Rotten in Denmark

By AB Plum

Smell is one of the least used elements in writing fiction. Interestingly, many scientists believe smell is our most primitive sense and can instantly generate deep memories and emotions.

Capturing smells, however, is hard. Yet, in nearly every book I’ve written, I try to tap into smell as a portal into characters’ pasts and into their feelings.

Since I like a challenge, I decided to introduce smell very early in my latest WIP. My goal is to show a strong conflict between the Main Character and her lover. He’s addicted to popcorn--the more butter, the better. She, having popped a ton in the vintage popper she gave him as a birthday gift years ago, fights gagging on the buttery fragrance. Well, she thinks stink.

So, why did I choose popcorn over grilled steak? Or baking brownies? Or fresh roses? Or just-squeezed lemons? Or dirty socks? Or cologne? Or Brussel sprouts? Or millions of other smells?

Answer? From my own memories of weekly trips to my great-grandmother’s house. Spring, summer, winter, or fall, almost as soon as my mother, sister and I arrived, Grannie went to the kitchen and popped a huge pan of popcorn. Sprawled on the floor on my stomach, I ate, listened to the grownups gossip, and felt so loved because Grannie never forgot to make this just-for-me treat.

The fragrance of corn popping brings an instant collage of me and my five siblings scarfing popcorn in front of the TV on Saturday nights. Squabbling over where to set the pan. Claiming, as the oldest kid, the right to hold the pan and mete out servings. Crunching the “old maids.” Feeling comforted by the ritual of using the special pan, having patience while the oil melted, measuring the popcorn, shaking the contents, and then pouring it into the bowl and topping with butter. TV without popcorn? A big waste of time. (I like to think I learned a few life lessons).

Today, a good book is my favorite popcorn-side dish. I’d rather eat cardboard than eat air-popped corn. Same for packaged, pre-popped corn sold in supermarkets. Movie-popcorn--well, the fragrance of the corn popping--ranks as near edible because of all the memories of going to matinees and spending my dime on the tender, fluffy kernels.  (I know the earth is round, and I know that modern movies no longer use the Iowa-grown, hybrid stuff I grew up on).

As for storage, we always kept our unpopped corn in five-pound coffee cans. Still do. Moisture, doncha know? And OBTW, yellow is the popcorn of true aficionados. 

What about you? What’s your favorite smell? What memories and feelings does the smell evoke?

**** AB Plum, aka Barbara Plum, writes dark psychological thrillers and whodunnits, along with light paranormal romance in Silicon Valley. A bowl of popcorn often sits next to her computer for inspiration.

It's a Small World

IT’S A SMALL WORLD by Debra H. Goldstein

Recently, I had the privilege of being a panelist at Murder in the Magic City (Birmingham, Alabama) and Murder on the Menu (Wetumpka, Alabama). Both are excellent small regional mystery events.

Murder in the Magic City, spearheaded by author Margaret Fenton, is held at the Homewood Public Library each year on a Saturday in February. It usually draws about one hundred attendees (the capacity of the room) to hear two keynote speakers and three to four panels of other authors. This

year, the keynoters were Sue Ann Jaffarian and Lee Goldberg. The panel authors were J.D. Allen, Stella Bixby, V.M. Burns, Emily Carpenter, Steven Cooper, Matt Coyle, Hank Early, Angie Gallion, Tony Kappes, Leigh Perry (Toni L.P. Kelner), Linda Sands, Jason B. Sheffield, Carrie Smith, Christopher Swann, and me.

On Sunday, the entire group of authors caravanned to Wetumpka for the F.O.W.L. fundraising luncheon, Murder on the Menu. F.O.W.L, the sponsor, is an acronym for Friends of the Wetumpka Library. Held in Wetumpka’s Civic Center, it is a joy for the authors – not only were we served a delicious lunch began, but again we had an audience who were delighted to interact with us at their lunch tables and to listen to our panels. Of course, the most entertaining panel was Lee Goldberg and Sue Ann Jaffarian. As we learned, they often have been featured together and their wit, humor and genuine respect for each other was evident.

During the weekend, the authors had an opportunity to get to know each other. I personally found Sue Ann Jaffarian’s personal story to be the most interesting. Not only is she an acclaimed author, but since retiring after forty years as a paralegal, she has been traveling the country in Novella, an RV. She records her journey on Facebook, bi-monthly on Babble ‘n Blog and through a nightly blog or journal entry she posts at https://www.patreon.com/Sueannjaffarian.  This latter blog is followed by many, including fellow RV lovers.

That’s where the small world comes in.  While I was at the conference, I received an e-mail from a friend asking if I’d met Sue Ann and what she was like. My reply was “yes” and “lovely.” My friend, who owns the same kind of RV as Sue Ann (disclaimer: my friend lives in a house most of the time unlike Sue Ann), explained that she follows Sue Ann’s nightly blog and that she is a huge fan.

I shared the e-mails with Sue Ann, who immediately checked and saw they were online friends. That evening, in her blog post, Sue Ann gave a shout-out to the weekend and my friend, by name, observing what a small world it is. I agree.

Where Do We Get Our Ideas?

by Sparkle Abbey

People often ask authors where their ideas for particular books come from. And though it's quite different from author to author, one thing we've discovered from hanging out with other authors is that most have no problem coming up with ideas for stories. In fact, most of us have far more ideas than we'll ever have the time to write. Story ideas are everywhere.

Writers are innately curious and so a news story, a magazine article, even an obituary can spark a thought that turns into a possibility. The writer imagination is off and running and wondering what if. The news of the day may be a big fire at a local business. It could have been faulty electrical wiring, but the writer wonders what if it wasn't. What if there's more to the story? What if the fire was actually a cover-up?

Also writers are by nature observers. Yes, that's us sitting quietly in the corner of the room or the park. That couple holding hands while their body language says there's something else going on. What's their story? The three girls in a whispered conversation whose foreheads are almost touching. What secrets are they sharing? The elderly woman with her purse clutched tightly on her lap who keeps checking her watch. Who is she waiting for? And the guy in a dark suit that looks oddly out of place. He's too quiet. Is he an undercover cop? Perhaps a spy?

Or wait maybe the elderly woman is the spy. Would that be a great twist? The guy in the dark suit could be headed to a job interview. We imagine the three teen-aged girls in ten years. Will they still be friends? Still sharing secrets? What if they lose touch with each other? What if they don't?

See how it works? There is drama everywhere, and secrets, and stories. As writers we are sponges for the bit and pieces that are story sparks. We get to bring those stories to life and give them twists and change them around. Ideas are everywhere. 

Now that you know how it works, the only thing to remember is when you're having a conversation with a writer, and they get that far-away look, that there is a good chance they have spotted a potential story across the room and they're already coming up with ideas. Or the other possibility is that something you've said has been the spark, and you're the story idea.

Writers, is this how it works for you? Have you come across an interesting story spark that you've yet to write? Readers, how about you? Have you come across an idea that you thought would make a great story?

Do tell...


Sparkle Abbey is actually two people, Mary Lee Woods aka Mary Lee Ashford and Anita Carter, who write the national best-selling Pampered Pets cozy mystery series. They are friends as well as neighbors so they often get together and plot ways to commit murder. (But don't tell the neighbors.) They love to hear from readers and can be found on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest, their favorite social media sites. 

Their most recent book is The Dogfather, the tenth book in the Pampered Pets series.

Also, if you want to make sure you get updates, sign up for their newsletter via the SparkleAbbey.com website.

Clicking Our Heels: animal Lover? Our Pets Over the Years

Clicking Our Heels – Animal lover? Our Pets Over the Years.

Monthly Clicking Our Heels Giveaway:

To enter for a chance to win the first three books of the Sparkle Abbey series or AB Plum's The Boy Nobody Wanted (2 winners will be selected this month) comment below on the blog. Good luck and happy reading! -- winner will be announced next Wednesday on The Stiletto Gang Facebook page - https://www.facebook.com/stilettogang 

Paula Gail Benson – Yes, I grew up with dogs and cats, all of them dear to me. My and work and travel keep me from having pets now, but I miss them.

Judy Penz Sheluk – I love animals. As far as pets, I’ve had 5 dogs: a Golden mix as a kid, and four Golden Retrievers as an adult. My current Golden, Leroy Jethro “Gibbs” is three.

J.M. Phillippe – I am definitely an animal lover. My cat Oscar (who passed away last year) was always the first to hear about all my plots and ideas. I think writers do better when they have an animal to talk things out to.

Debra H. Goldstein – After having had guppies and gold fish, my first serious pets were three turtles who I named Turk, Durk, and Lurk. Lord Silver Mist (Misty), a toy poodle and Casey (a bichon fries) won my heart and ruled the roost later.

Bethany Maines – I do love animals, but I’ve only had 2 dogs in my life. When I was a kid we had Chips, the Chocolate Lab. And now we have Kato the Rottweiler mix. Kato is such an adorable guy and such a big mama’s boy that I don’t know what I will do when it’s time to say goodbye. I think that’s why I haven’t had more pets – I’m afraid to sign up for the heartbreak.

Kay Kendall – I’m wildly allergic to cats, although I have survived living with a few during my early

married years. As I’ve aged, my allergies have worsened so bye-bye kitty cats. I was raised with dogs and find them more congenial anyway. I was horse crazy as a kid but couldn’t have a horse because I was allergic to their danger and hay. For the last two decades my husband and I have rescued abandoned house rabbits. Turs out I am also allergic to them too so gradually he has taken over their care. Bottom line, to me my house would not be home unless there was one dog and at least one bunny in it.

Cathy P. Perkins – I’ve always had dogs – love their antics, their unconditional love, and their simple joy in life.

Juliana Aragon Flatula – I love all animals but especially cats and dogs. I’ve had several pets and they live to be old pets and that is the saddest part of being a pet parent when you have to let them go.

Julie Mulhern – I love dogs and horses and have been fortunately to have both in my life. I am currently catering to the needs of a Weimaraner who takes all that is provided for him as his due.

Dru Ann Love – I love animals, but allergies dictate that I can’t have one in my home. We grew up with cats though.

AB Plum – My parents gave me my first dog at age 18 months. Losing a birthday-cocker spaniel gave me a story for my first university Creative Writing class (Too maudlin for the prof and earned me a C).

TK Thorne – Animals have always been part of my life - dogs, in particular, but also cats and horses,

at one time parakeets and fish. I really can’t imagine living without a dog. I believe dogs co-evolved with humans and that we affected each other. Without dogs in our development, we might be different (and worse – yes, really) creatures.

Shari Randall – When I was a little girl my family had three pets. We had a parakeet named Herbie – yes, he was named after we saw the movie, Herbie the Love Bug. After Herbie died in the middle of dinner one night, a neighborhood friend gave us an all black kitten my sister named, unimaginatively, John. John must have been a martyred king in another life – he suffered regally and without complaint three littles girls who loved to dress him up like a doll. Our last pet was a rescue mutt named Teddy, a high energy Weimaraner mix. He was a little too high energy for my mom, however, and went to live on a farm. I love cats especially, but my children have allergies, so we haven’t had any pets in years.

Linda Rodriguez – I have had dogs and cats for most of my life, always rescue animals since I have been out on my own. When I was a small child, I also had rabbits, a mynah bird, an ocelot, and a Komodo dragon as pets, because my father was into exotic animals. The mynah bird and ocelot were fine, but the Komodo dragon was vicious. I still have a soft spot for him, though, because I’m an inveterate animal lover.

It starts with a premise...

By Judy Penz Sheluk

People often ask me where I get my ideas and I always tell them "from life." That may sound trite, but it's true. And while every author, and every book, follows a different path, I will tell you this secret: It all starts with a premise. Here's another secret: there's no such thing as a unique premise. There are, however, different ways to spin the same premise. In other words, the "secret sauce" is the spin.

Consider this example:

The premise behind my 2015 amateur sleuth mystery novel, The Hanged Man's Noose, is all too familiar story: A greedy developer comes to a small town with plans to build a mega-box store on the town’s historic Main Street, thereby threatening the livelihoods of the many independent shops and restaurants. I took that premise and said, “What if someone was willing to commit murder to stop it? But remember, there are no new ideas, just different ways to spin them. Here’s the synopsis for John Sandford’s Virgil Flowers suspense novel, Shock Wave (which I read long after writing Noose, in case you were wondering.)
 

The superstore chain PyeMart has its sights set on a Minnesota river town, but two very angry groups want to stop it: local merchants fearing for their businesses, and environmentalists, predicting ecological disaster. The protests don’t seem to be slowing the project, though, until someone decides to take matters into his own hands.


The first bomb goes off on the top floor of PyeMart's headquarters. The second one explodes at the construction site itself. The blasts are meant to inflict maximum damage — and they do. Who's behind the bombs, and how far will they go?
 

Okay then, what if we were to take the same premise and turn it into a Hallmark-type Christmas movie? The synopsis would go something like this:


When a ruthless, but handsome, developer comes to a small town with plans to build a mega-box store, the local shop owners band together to stop him, led by the beautiful and widowed owner of an indie bookstore started by her late husband many years before. 

In other words, it all starts with a premise. But then again, you already knew that, didn't you?

And now it's time for the inevitable Shameless Self Promotion. The Hanged Man's Noose is currently on a .99 e-book promo on Kindle, Kobo, Nook, Apple, and GooglePlay. That's a $4 savings -- so pitter patter, let's get at 'er because the sale ends March 10th. Seriously, do you want to miss it? I think not.

We’ve Been Here All Along: 13 Ways of Looking at Latinos in the Midwest

by

Linda Rodriguez

(This essay was just published in the anthology, Stranger in a Strange Land, which benefits the ACLU. Featuring Walter Koenig, Linda Rodriguez, Patricia Abbott, Teresa Roman, R.C. Barnes, James B. Nicola, Eric Beetner, Katherine Tomlinson, Heath Lowrance, Kimmy Dee, Mark Rogers, Sheikha A., Mark Hauer, Berkeley Hunt, Manuel Royal, Kathleen Alcalá, Christine Mathewson, Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw, Zoe Chang, and James L’Etoile. Wonderful reading! Makes a terrific gift, as well. Check it out. 

https://downandoutbooks.com/bookstore/rhatigan-tomlinson-strangers/?fbclid=IwAR0AKqAmm4dc4NeYa9tOs2S6my5xHOafecElT-i4BNhaIZqlBPCxv28llII )

We’ve Been Here All Along: 13 Ways of Looking at Latinos in the Midwest

1.

Here in the middle of the country’s heart, I live surrounded by the liquid names I love—Arredondo, Villalobos, Siquieros, Duarte, Espinoza. We are a secret pool in the middle of this dry, often drought-cursed Bible Belt, petitioners of La Virgen de Guadalupe and Tonantzin with tall flickering novena candles set out on household altars, devourers of caldo, horchata, albondigas with tongues that roll “r”s and hiss our “z”s, dark faces, eyes, hair among all these pale ones.

How did we come to be here in a land covered in ice half the year? How did we come to this place where no parrots fly free and flowers freeze to death? Surely it was not our doing.

2.

Though larger totals of Latinos were driven out of the border states during the Depression’s forced deportations, the usually isolated communities in the Midwest were hit the hardest—in some cases, losing over half their population overnight. Those remaining kept their heads down, hoping to avoid another violent outbreak. They made their children speak only English.

Though that had not mattered. Many of those shipped to Mexico were citizens who spoke English fluently and little, if any, Spanish.

The Midwestern communities became even more invisible. They just wanted to be left alone.

3.

         When Federales chased Pancho Villa and his soldados over the countryside in and out of the small farms and ranches and the dusty little towns that supported them, each side of the conflict when it stopped for a rest would force all the men and boys in a village or on a farm to join its army. Worn out from the constant warfare of Mexico of that time, those men and boys—and their families—wanted to be left in peace. They fled to cities where men in suits from the north offered them money if they would migrate to the land of gringos to work on railroads or in meatpacking plants. The old streets-of-gold promise, and it sounded much better than getting shot in one army or another. Taking their families, they moved north to Chicago, Kansas City, and Topeka.

4.

Ironically, when the U.S. entered World War II and needed cannon fodder, politicians remembered those English-speaking, American-citizen kids. They sent military recruiters south. Large numbers of boys, driven by force from their country to a land where they didn’t speak the language and never fit in, signed up to go to Europe and the Pacific to fight for the country they loved—even if it didn’t love them.

If you didn’t read about this in your school history books, don’t be surprised. Neither did I. This whole episode was like the internment of American citizens of Japanese descent in camps during World War II. After the paroxysm was over, we as a nation only wanted to forget what we had done.

5.

The oldest Latino community in Kansas City, Kansas, was built around an entire village removed from Michoacan and settled into broken-down boxcars beside the Kaw River. When I was younger, you could still see the boxcar origins of houses in the Oakland community of Topeka, Kansas, and the Argentine district in Kansas City, Kansas. Around the core of boxcar, wood siding was added. New rooms and additions were built over the years to make real homes.

Few of these houses have survived the past four decades, but I still remember them, always surrounded with luxuriant vegetable and flower gardens in the tiny yard space around the houses—an emphatic statement of a people who could indeed make silk purses out of sows’ ears or real two- or three-bedroom homes out of broken-down boxcars.

6.

In 2007, Kansas City, Missouri, had a new mayor. He had just appointed a very active member of the local Minutemen organization to Kansas City’s most powerful board. I found the local Minutemen chapter’s website and read a call to go door-to-door in Kansas City, demanding to see proof of citizenship or legal status and making “citizen’s arrests” where the occupant could not or would not show these. It was clear from the rhetoric on the website that these would not be random visits but would target homes with occupants who had Spanish last names.

I took this threat personally. So when my friend Freda asked me to come to an emergency press conference to show solidarity, I did. Leaders of Chicano/Latino civic organizations formed the Kansas City Latino Civil Rights Task Force to fight this appointment. We were sure this would all end quickly. We were wrong, of course. It took over six months of constant effort, national groups cancelling conventions in the city, and the cooperation of African American, Jewish, and Anglo groups. Along the way, something happened that I have still to forget.

After one meeting, my friend Tino of LULAC emailed me, “This is what the Minutemen want.” Attached was a documentary video. The black and white photos of Latino families being forced into crowded boxcars reminded me powerfully of similar photos of Jewish families being loaded onto trains in Nazi-occupied areas of Europe during the same years.

7.

When the Great Depression hit, citizens of Mexican ancestry made a great scapegoat. Demagogues, sounding much like people we hear over the airwaves today, blamed them and called for mass deportations. Groups of armed vigilantes, most supported by local, state, and federal government, beat and kidnapped men walking down the street to work or home, visited homes with threats of violence and arrest, and drove families out without any of their possessions. They forced huge numbers of people without any of their belongings or food or water into railroad boxcars where the doors were locked shut and the people eventually dumped out in Mexico. The elderly, babies and pregnant women, those already sick—physically or mentally—suffered the most, and many died along the way. Twenty-five children and adults died on just one of these trains on its trip to the border.

8.

When my children were small, I would take them with me to the Westside, to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, where the grandmothers sold fresh tamales every Saturday to support the church. We would enter the cool basement where las Guadalupeñas would coo at Crystal and Niles en español. Crystal would respond by dancing around and laughing. Niles would try to hide his face in my pant legs, clinging tightly and crying until he pressed new creases. The old women would pack the still-steaming tamales, wrapped by the dozens in foil, into a paper bag and call out goodbyes to el niñito timido.

On the way to the car, I would promise if he stopped crying we would visit La Fama, the panadería, for Mexican bread. We picked out thick, sugary cookie flags and pan dulce, carrying them all in a paper bag that began to show grease spots from the sweet treats inside before we got home.

Or perhaps I would hold out the prospect of a visit to Sanchez Market for chicharrones, the real thing, large, bubbled, almost transparent from the deep-frying that made them so light and crunchy. While there, I would stock up on peppers and spices that couldn’t be found anywhere else in town as the kids relished their big chunks of fried pork rind.

Back then, we gathered around the church and food—at weddings, after funerals, for quinceañeras, after First Communions, and at fundraisers for American GI Forum, the organization founded by decorated, returning Latino World War II veteranos when the American Legion wouldn’t allow them to join.

Many women had a specialty food—tamales, enchiladas, mole, tostadas, arroz con pollo, sopa—that they were asked to bring. You always wanted to go if they had Lupe’s mole or Jennie’s enchiladas. They were better than you could get anywhere else unless you were lucky enough to belong to Lupe’s or Jennie’s family. But these women were generous and always shared with other families who were celebrating or mourning or just raising money for beloved causes.

9.

Many of those driven out in the 1930s were legal residents or citizens, naturalized and native-born. Children born and raised in this country were forced into a country they did not know with a language they did not know and often compelled to leave behind the birth certificates that proved their citizenship. Sixty percent of the 1.2 million people driven out of the country were citizens. Many of these families who were marched to the railroad cars and shipped out like so much freight owned their own homes and even had small businesses. All of this was forfeited to the mobs that kidnapped them and sent them out of the U.S.

10.

I listen for the broken truth that speaks of what’s been stolen, what’s been cracked and smashed. Bit by bit, I try to put together pieces, fragments of what was, stories for my children to live on. I refuse the blindness and forgetfulness that would render me acceptable in my country’s eyes, this country that lies about what it did to its indigenous roots, about who provides the necessary labor for all the luxury in which we live. Our comfortable lives are built on bones, and how we long to forget!

11.

Herbert Hoover never made a formal policy of forced deportation, but elements within his government, along with state and local governments, arranged for the railroad cars and gave approval to the vigilantes. In some cases, it was actually government agents who drove people out of their homes. At times, private institutions also financed deportation boxcars. For example, the archdiocese of Kansas City, Kansas, paid for boxcars to take families out of the city, many of whom had lived there and worshipped as faithful Catholics since before the turn of the century. In fact, in southern California, hundreds of families were rounded up in 1931 as they attended Catholic services on Ash Wednesday.

12.

In Kansas City, Missouri, and Kansas City, Kansas, we have a large Chicano population that has been in the area since the turn of the twentieth century with third-generation and fourth-generation adult U.S. citizens who speak primarily (and often only) English, have college educations, and work as professionals. We also have a large, newer population, deriving from Central and South America as much as from Mexico, as often as not completely indigenous with little or no Spanish, speaking Nahuatl, Quechua, Q'eqchi'.

I have often thought the great public horror evinced about this new wave of immigrants is due to their indigenous nature. The United States can hardly bear to see such large numbers of indigenous people as anything but threat when this country has worked so long and so hard at wiping out its own indigenous peoples through violence, disease, “education,” and the blood quantum rule the BIA has imposed on our indigenous nations that still endure.

My son Niles took a one-week European vacation. He flew home from London by way of Detroit. In Detroit, this non-Spanish-speaking, second-generation American citizen (on his father’s side), born and raised in Kansas City, Missouri, was held for over 24 hours by immigration authorities and refused entry into his own country, even though he had a passport. They were certain he was an illegal immigrant from Mexico trying to sneak into the U.S.

         Neither his valid documents nor his non-accented, perfectly colloquial English could outweigh his brown skin and Spanish last name. He was released and allowed to enter his own country only after his white boss confirmed over the telephone that he was a citizen and had been gainfully employed in a high-level professional position for seven years.

         To me, this is doubly galling because Niles is not only Chicano but also Cherokee and Choctaw. My children and I have several lines of ancestors who go back to the time before there was a United States of America. I have always since wondered just exactly how many illegal immigrants from Mexico named Niles have flown to England and toured the Continent before trying to sneak into the U.S. on a flight from London.

13.

People always are surprised to find Latinos in Kansas City—anywhere in the Midwest. We’re only supposed to congregate in Miami, New York, El Paso, Phoenix, and LA.

Sometimes I want to ask, “Who did you think picked all those fruits and vegetables from the breadbasket of the country? Who worked in the meatpacking hellholes, if not the Mexicans and Indians? Who kept the trains cleaned, painted, and running, if not the African Americans and Mexicans?”

Always the invisible poor, laborers doing the work no one else wanted. Now, it’s roofing and gardening, cleaning hotel rooms and offices at night.

We’ve been here a long time, long enough to lose our language sometimes, while we were gaining diplomas and degrees, but never to lose our culture completely. The newcomers make you nervous, afraid. But we’ve been here all along—you just never noticed.