Why I Write Mysteries

By Kay Kendall

I don’t give a fig how a car works. Or electricity. Or a computer. They all could be black boxes, as far as I’m concerned, inside which mysterious things happen. Poof! The car turns on. Poof! Electricity powers the air conditioner. Poof! The computer recalls everything you type into it. 

What I really care about is how people work. Why they do the things they do. I discovered this passion one teenaged summer when my boyfriend dumped me and I drooped into churlishness. After a week my mother tired of my moods and suggested I work at one of her charities. 

I began volunteering at the county’s psychiatric clinic, helping with rudimentary clerical tasks. As I typed up forms and patients’ reports, I was shocked to see so much pain appear on the pages. But later I was gratified to see the clinic’s psychiatric social worker help some of those patients whose woes I learned about. Sometimes they left our office with springier steps. I fancied I could see their anxieties and depression lift.

That same summer my favorite cousin began exhibiting behavioral problems. Merle was super bright but troubled. I never saw him act out or be mean to someone, but I began to hear stories.  I wanted to help him but didn’t have the skills. Ah-hah, I thought! I’d study psychology in college and become a psychiatric social worker so I could fix him.

Please note that I never aspired to be a psychologist or psychiatrist. Perhaps that was because I’d only seen a psychiatric social worker in action and therefore could imagine being one. Betty Friedan had just published The Feminine Mystique. I hadn’t read it, and it would be years before I became an ardent feminist. 

When I started college in the sixties, I loved all my classes—even for a short time geology and astronomy, subjects taken only to fulfill liberal arts distribution requirements. Much to my sorrow, however, psychology was a letdown, a huge bore. 

I wanted to learn about people. But all we studied were rats. While two friends in my class did manage to cope with rodentia behavior, I couldn’t.  These women went on to earn their doctorates in psychology and help countless people. For me, however, the gap between the actions of rats and people was too great a leap. I never took another course after Psych 101.

I toyed with various majors, but English literature was my mainstay. Fiction encompassed everything about humanity, and I’d always been a ferocious reader. Writing was a joy. After getting a graduate degree in history—real crimes that happened in the past, I now say—I fell back on writing and developed a solid career as a corporate communicator. However, I never felt I’d found my niche. My heart did not sing.

When I began writing fiction a decade ago, I finally responded to an inner compulsion. What I had to explore is why people do the things they do. Character development and plot are almost synonymous to me. It’s like attending another high school reunion and seeing old friends again after ten years. I’m reading the newest chapters in their lives. People are walking and ongoing stories. Curiosity drives me to learn everything I can and then fictionalize it—showing behavior and uncovering motives. 

The mystery comes in when good people do bad things. Each of us is a mysterious black box. Inside are so many factors all jumbled up—memories, desires, huge grievances. How can others hope to understand us? How can we hope to understand ourselves?

Yet still we try. We must try. Sadly, I never deciphered what made my cousin Merle derail. I was helpless to alter his sad trajectory. Alas, after living for years in a hospital for the criminally insane, he wandered off into a field while on furlough and simply lay down and died. He was forty.

As a mystery author, though, I can put characters into extreme peril and see how they react. Can they sort out their own complicated lives? Can they figure out who has done what vile thing to whom? Solving the puzzles of people living only on pages (or in E files) is now my full-time job. After I figure out one set of interconnecting lives, then I go on to develop another set, another, and another. This is a job I relish.

~~~~~~~



Author Kay Kendall

Want to read the first 20 pages of Kay Kendall’s second mystery, RANY DAY WOMEN? Go to her website http://www.austinstarr.com/ That book won two awards at the Killer Nashville conference in August 2016—for best mystery/crime and also for best book. Her first novel about Austin Starr‘s sleuthing, DESOLATION ROW, was a finalist for best mystery at Killer Nashville in 2014. Visit Kay on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/KayKendallAuthor

 

Playing the Glad Game

Playing the Glad Game by Debra H. Goldstein

I was thinking about having a pity party.  After months of constant travel promoting Should Have Played Poker: a Carrie Martin and the Mah Jongg Players Mystery (Five Star, a div. of Cengage – 2016), it seemed ironic that when my schedule allowed for two-three months of personal time hanging out doing whatever I pleased, I’m now on enforced downtime.  My posterior tendon deteriorated causing my arch to collapse, the tendon to shred, and the ligaments to loosen. The remedy – what ended up being a more extensive surgery than originally planned to rebuild the arch.  It included moving my heel, breaking a bone in the top of my foot, transferring a tendon, and debriding the damaged tendons. 

When I was a child, one of my favorite movies was Pollyanna. Stealing from the movie/book, I’ve decided to play the “Glad Game” rather than having my pity party.  So, here goes:

1)    I’m glad I am in the hands of a skilled surgeon.

2)    I’m glad I turned my ankle in June (the straw that broke the camel’s back) or I would probably have been at a stage where a return to normal couldn’t have been achieved.

3)    I’m glad because I will be non-weight bearing for six weeks followed by months of extensive therapy that I can use a scooter or a walker as an alternative to crutches, which I absolutely can’t use. 

4)    I’m glad I have a loving and supportive husband.

5)    I’m glad I have children who love and care for me so much that all offered to alter their schedules to be there in any way I need.

6)    I’m glad that besides my husband and children, we have been helped by a wonderful system of caregivers.

7)    I’m glad I have friends who sat in the hospital with my husband, helped him get me home, lent us medical equipment, offered to help with my mundane chores, and set up a schedule to bring dinners for the next few weeks.

8)    I’m glad that I will have an opportunity to clear my head and concentrate on my writing and my personal reading.

9)    I’m glad that in two weeks, when I finish wearing a splint wrapped in an ace bandage that accommodates swelling, I will be able to honor my youngest grand-daughter’s wish by picking a purple cast.

Finally, I am glad to have you in my life reading my books, enjoying my short stories, following my Stiletto Gag and It’s Not Always a Mystery blogs, being a friend on my author Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/DebraHGoldsteinAuthor/ ) and regularly checking my website (www.DebraHGoldstein.com). My cup runneth over with gratitude --- what are you glad for?

Dystopian Games

By Bethany Maines

You’re stuck in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean with 8 strangers and no food or water, who do you eat first?

Dystopian novels have held a prominent place on our National reading lists for the last few years and while I occasionally enjoy a jaunt into the horrific futures that we could create for ourselves they don’t really speak to me.  To me they frequently seem like the ultimate lifeboat game. While occasionally it’s fun to work through the logic of how to survive in a treacherous situation, the real answer to any lifeboat game is to not get stuck in the lifeboat in the first place. 

I was reminded of this principle recently when I visited a conference for my day job (graphic design). The conference was for public works personnel (AKA everyone who keeps your city functioning) and their lunch speaker spoke on how their department had handled an earthquake.  From personnel rotation, calling in reinforcements, clearing roadways, reviewing housing safety, clean up – this department moved swiftly with the goal of maintaining safety and returning their town to normal in the shortest amount of time possible (and they did a great job).  But having just read a dystopian novel I was struck by the realization that not one person in the room was thinking… “Bob, I’d eat Bob.”  They weren’t playing the game – they were strategizing about how to not get stuck on the lifeboat.

All of this led to four thoughts.  One – I’m incredibly grateful for our public works personnel.  From sewer maintenance, to bridge engineers, to water management, they deserve more recognition than they get.  Two - All of you great public employees are screwing up a perfectly good dystopian plot line RIGHT NOW.   We’re not supposed to be coming together to overcome a natural disaster and working for the common good!  Come on, people.  Where is the divisive hatred and the reaching for the shotguns? That’s it; I’m breaking out the zombies.  Bob is going to be dinner if I have to have three plot contrivances before breakfast.  Three – We as society need to invest more in infrastructure.  And four – Because we don’t invest more in infrastructure we all need to have 3 days to 2 weeks of supplies on hand depending on where you live.  Be prepared. Don’t let a dystopian novel happen to you.

***

Bethany Maines is the author of the Carrie Mae Mysteries, Wild Waters, Tales from the City of Destiny and An Unseen Current.  You can also view the Carrie Mae youtube video or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.

Gratitude Inspired by a Psychopath

By AB Plum

Some time ago, The Stiletto Gang Bloggers gave two thumbs up to the idea of choosing a subject to blog about every month. We also agreed that if the idea didn’t grab us, we could write about something that did.

In the past, I’ve written on and off-topic. This month’s theme, “gratitude” really grabs me. So thanks, Bethany, for the reminder . . . and challenge.

Challenge, because I’ve scheduled Book 2, The Lost Days in my psychological thriller MisFit Series for release the day after Thanksgiving. I am, from time to time questioning my sanity on this decision as well as the decision to write the whole dark, disturbing series.

Focus on gratitude gives me pause to rethink. 

Eleven-year-old Michael Romanov, the character at the center of the series, is a psychopath. We all have childhoods, right?

Michael feels no sense of attunement with anyone . . . except, perhaps, a thread-thin regard for his only friend, Dimitri. Dimitri is the one person with whom Michael has ever experienced any familiarity. Their real affinity is their differentness not just from their peers but from the human tribe.

Michael claims his mother rejected him at birth. How is that possible? What could he have done to deserve her refusal to express affection toward him? Praise him? Touch him? 

Ultimately, gratitude boils down to social connection. Michael feels only resentment toward his bullying brother. His father’s too frequent business trips allow no time for bonding—if his father even cared.

Uber-smart and handsome. Michael has no visible physical deformities. He lives a life of privilege. Yet he finds nothing for which to feel grateful since no one acts on his behalf. No one offers him protection from his brother’s intimidation or his mother’s neglect. He is a misfit. An outcast by those who should include him in their circle.

Although this character is a creation of my imagination, I’ve met people with varying degrees of his alienation and lack of gratitude. Like you, I’ve read about young men (almost always men) with dark hearts who kill innocents—often children. Regret doesn’t come up on their radar.

When I meet these people or read about them, I am grateful for a mother who taught me to read early. Who did her best to encourage my curiosity. To protect me if I followed that curiosity to extremes. To love me with all my imperfections.

Michael’s mother is the antithesis of mine, but in the case of psychopaths, I don’t think ‘blame-the-mother’ peels back all the layers of the onion. In Michael’s case, I know as the author that brain damage plays a significant part in his inability to retrieve emotional memories—the basis for learning from mistakes. Additionally, he teeters on the edge of puberty—a period when the brain becomes a huge chemical cauldron.

Nature and nurture (none in his case) intermingle to wire his brain differently. No surprise he feels no empathic connection with others.

So, I am grateful after writing these six books to realize there exist humans whose full stories I will never know fully. Mostly, I am thankful for a healthy brain. I give thanks every day for friends and families and memories and stories that keep me from jumping that divide Michael crosses.

Here’s an excerpt from The Lost Years:

The sun’s eerie summer glow disoriented me as much as the headache hammering my skull. Or maybe my confusion came from the man seated next to me, his foot placed at the top of Dimitri’s spine. I gritted my teeth. Dimitri lay crumpled face down in the space behind the driver’s seat. His legs were folded under him like a penitent waiting for absolution.

The man in the front seat turned and flashed a mouthful of piano-white teeth. His piercing blue eyes glittered. I stared. Without the baseball cap, his copper-colored hair glowed in the golden evening light.

He laughed as if I’d said something funny. “For a boy who killed his mother three months ago, you have a face that borders on transparent.”

“You-you’re not American.”

“And you’re not Finnish—despite your mother.”

Involuntarily, I snorted.

Nostrils flaring, he cuffed my right temple with his knuckles. “I already know what you think of your mother.”

My ears rang. Involuntarily, my fingers flexed and twitched as if I’d been electrocuted. I wanted to hit him. Smash his face. Kick his Finnish teeth down his throat.

“We are going to see,” he said, “just how tough you are.”

****

Scary comic books, nineteenth century American literature (especially Poe, Hawthorne, and James), plus every genre in-between have influenced AB’s writing. Teaching adolescent boys and working with high-testosterone Silicon Valley tekkies opened up new insights into neuroanatomy and behavioral psychology. She lives in the shadow of Google, writes and walks daily. She participates in a brain-building aerobic dance class three times a week.

This link takes you to The Early Years on Amazon.

The Four Fs of November

By Kimberly Jayne

November is my favorite color. And it's also the combination of family, fun, football, and the Frustration 50. Let me explain.

Family, of course, because of Thanksgiving gatherings; there's nothing I love more than being with my family members and feasting and fullness—usually too-fullness. Fun because it's my favorite season, and while the painted canopies flicker in the sunlight and blanket the ground with fall magnificence, I can rejoice in jeans, boots, and sweaters—what I call finery. November is also for football. Woot! And FF for Fantasy Football, fall's double whammy.

Finally, there's the Frustration 50, because NaNoWriMo. If you know what that is, I feel your shuddering from here. If not, let me fill you in. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, and it dares us to write a novel of 50,000 words November 1–30. That's 1,667 words a day for 30 days, yo.

Close to half a million people are participating in NaNoWriMo this year, and across America people are gathering in coffee shops and online to discuss words and stories—and their frustrations at trying to meet this demanding word count in so little time. And I'm one of them.

It's haaaaaard! After the first week, I'm reluctant to announce how behind I am in words and how overflowing I am in caffeine. I knew I would be (and as the saying goes, if you think you will, you're right!). Hey, I have the complications of a day job that eats up 10 hours of my day, including travel, and the foils of after-hours fatigue because of said day job, so achieving the daily 1,667 word count precisely defines "challenge" in the dictionary. Feeling my Frustration 50 reference now?

As of today, I should have written 11,669 words. I'm not even close. I'm at about 4,000. But they are 4,000 words I didn't have before, so I'm not a complete failure. If I keep at it, I surely will finish in record time the last two episodes of my dark fantasy Demonesse: Avarus. And I'm determined to finish because it's my favorite time of year, I'm happiest and most motivated in November, and I'm up for a dare.

November is also for foolish, but that's a whole other post.

What about you? Are you braving the challenge of NaNoWriMo?
__________________________________________

Kimberly Jayne writes humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica, and dark fantasy. Her latest foray into a dark fantasy released in episodes is as much an adventure as the writing itself. You can check her out on Amazon. Find out more about her at ReadKimberly.

Books by Kimberly Jayne:

Take My Husband, Please: An Unconventional Romantic Comedy
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 1
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 2
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 3
All the Innuendo, Half the Fact: Reflections of a Fragrant Liar

 

Turning to Other Writers for Inspiration

by Linda Rodriguez

Periodically, I get a little burned-out from working too long and hard without a break. I start to face resistance when I sit down to write. I have developed several techniques for dealing with this, but the first one I always try—and one that usually works—is to turn to what other writers have written about the trials and tribulations of writing.

So I look at what other writers have written about resistance, about finding themselves reluctant to sit down and write, even when that's what they most want to do. Many writers have written about this topic because this state is one that every writer finds herself or himself in sooner or later. As I go down the long list of writers who have written about this miserable place to find yourself, the first thing I encounter is a very wise statement from science fiction writer, Kameron Hurley.

"If I quit now I will soon go back to where I started. And when I started, I was desperate to get to where I am now." – Kameron Hurley

I realize, as I read, that the problem at bottom is always fear, no matter what else is also involved. Yes, I'm tired and need a little break and some recreational reading or activity that will help restore and replenish my well of creativity, but always, lurking for moments of exhaustion and weakness, is the writer's bane, fear. And I find a great writer there before me, as well.

"The work is greater than my fear." –Audre Lord

So, for the next time you find yourself burned-out and exhausted and coming up empty when you sit down to write here are more helpful quotations from writers about the process.

“Discipline is simply remembering what you want.” – Judith Claire Mitchell

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.” – Louis L'Amour

“Work is the only answer.” –Ray Bradbury

"A word after a word after a word is power."–Margaret Atwood

"The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.” — Terry Pratchett

“The most important thing about art is to work. Nothing else matters except sitting down every day and trying. ,,, This is the other secret that real artists know and wannabe writers don’t. When we sit down each day and do our work, power concentrates around us." – Steven Pressfield

Have you got some favorite quotations from writers that help you in such a situation?

Linda Rodriguez's book, Plotting the Character-Driven Novel, forthcoming Nov. 29, is based on her popular workshop. Every Family Doubt, her fourth mystery featuring Cherokee campus police chief, Skeet Bannion, is due in June, 2017. Her three earlier Skeet novels—Every Hidden Fear, Every Broken Trust, and Every Last Secret—and her books of poetry—Skin Hunger and Heart's Migration—have received critical recognition and awards, such as 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. Her short story, “The Good Neighbor,” published in the anthology, Kansas City Noir, has been optioned for film. Find her on the web at http://lindarodriguezwrites.blogspot.com.

Swooning for Strawberries with Special Guest Sharon Farrow

We (Sparkle Abbey) are thrilled to welcome our special guest, Sharon Farrow aka Sharon Pisacreta, to The Stiletto Gang today. We can't wait to hear more about Dying for Strawberries, the first book in her new Berry Basket series. Take it away, Sharon!

The fruity inspiration for my new Berry Basket series was twofold. First, I love all things berry. As someone on a continual diet, they’re my go-to healthy snack. Once the season for fresh berries has passed, I stock up on the frozen variety.  The winter months see me making a staggering number of breakfast berry smoothies in my NutriBullet. Second, I’m a big fan of The Blueberry Store in a nearby lakeshore town. Each time I visited the shop, I couldn’t help but think about creating a similar store for a fictional heroine who loves berries as much as I do. Only I decided to add every sort of berry and their related products to the store shelves, not simply blueberries. I also live in Michigan’s fruit belt. A berry business set here seemed an ideal premise for a cozy mystery series.

Since each book will feature a specific berry, I needed to figure out which berry should kick off the series. It took me about one minute to decide that strawberries should take center stage in my debut Berry Basket book Dying for Strawberries. A favorite since childhood, they are literally the first berry I remember. And I can trace my love of strawberries back to my paternal grandmother.

When I was little more than a toddler, we visited her home in Beacon, New York. As it was the depths of a Hudson River Valley winter, there were no fresh strawberries in the house. However, her kitchen table was draped each morning with a white tablecloth decorated with little red strawberries. I was fascinated by that tablecloth. Years later when I moved into my first apartment, I chose a wallpaper dotted with tiny strawberries for my kitchen. Although many years had passed since my visit to Beacon, the wallpaper seemed an exact match to my grandmother’s berry tablecloth.

Because of that tablecloth, I’ve long been drawn to anything strawberry related, including the Beatles’ song Strawberry Fields Forever. I own a strawberry charm bracelet – with earrings to match. My keys dangle from a red crystal strawberry key ring; I even bought a duplicate, in case this key ring breaks or is lost. But strawberry ice cream may top the list. My dad adored ice cream and often took my sister and me out for ice cream treats; his favorites were butter pecan and strawberry. I never warmed up to butter pecan, but for several years I refused any ice cream but strawberry. During one of several childhood bouts with tonsillitis, my mom served me strawberry ice cream throughout the day. It was almost worth the pain my tonsils were causing me.

While I enjoy the sweet taste of strawberries, another reason I have a fondness for them is due to its color. I love red. In college, I wore red clothing so often, other students  nicknamed me ‘The Lady in Red’. And yes, my all-time favorite shoes were a pair of red leather flats which I wore until they literally fell apart. After I graduated, one of the places I applied to for a job in my field of historical archaeology was the history museum in Portsmouth, New Hampshire called Strawbery Banke. It may have been for the best that they didn’t hire me. I don’t know if I ever would have overcome my frustration that the museum spelled their name with only one ‘r’.

 Although I’ve travelled to Europe several times, I haven’t yet visited Belgium. When I do, my Must See list includes the Musee de la Fraises de Wepion, aka the Strawberry Museum of Wepion. Strawberries are almost as big a deal in Belgium as tulips are in Holland. The strawberries grown in the region surrounding the town of Wepion are regarded as especially desirable. And, be still my strawberry loving heart, they also offer tours of Jardin des Petits Fruits, a 35-acre garden filled with fruits, both local and exotic. With tastings included!

Of course, I also enjoy many other types of berries. I recently discovered how tasty cloudberry jam is. And I look forward to writing future stories that spotlight different berries: blackberries in Book Two and blueberries in Book Three.  But I am happy I was able to pay tribute to my favorite berry in Dying for Strawberries. While I wouldn’t actually die for this delicious fruit, I will admit that strawberries have brought me much pleasure since I first sat down before that tablecloth. Thanks, Grandma.

Sharon Farrow is the latest pen name of award winning author Sharon Pisacreta. Born and raised in Detroit, Michigan, Sharon has been a freelance writer since her twenties. Published in mystery, fantasy, and romance, Sharon currently writes The Berry Basket cozy mystery series. She is also one half of the writing team D.E. Ireland, who co-author the Agatha nominated Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins mysteries. Visit Sharon at sharonfarrowauthor.com, on Facebook www.facebook.come/SharonFarrowAuthor, or Twitter @SharonFarrowBB.

Back Cover Copy – Dying for Strawberries
With seasonal crowds flocking to its sandy beaches, lively downtown shops, and The Berry Basket, a berry emporium with something for everyone, the lakeshore village of Oriole Point is ripe for summer fun—and murder.

Much has changed for Marlee Jacob since she returned to Oriole Point, Michigan. Between running The Berry Basket, dodging local gossip, and whipping up strawberry muffins, smoothies, and margaritas to celebrate the town’s first annual Strawberry Moon Bash, the thirty-year-old hardly has time for her fiancé, let alone grim memories of her old life in New York . . .

But unfortunately for Marlee, Oriole Point is muddled with secrets of its own. First her friend Natasha disappears after an ominous dream. Next the seediest man in town threatens to crush her business. Then an unknown person nearly kills her on the night of the Bash. When she discovers a dead body, Marlee realizes she’ll have to foil a killer’s plot herself—before the past permanently stains her future.

My Chicana Garden Juliana Aragón Fatula, author of Crazy Chicana in Catholic City, Red Canyon Falling On Churches, and The Road I Ride Bleeds.

I’m home enjoying the hot gardening days of July; my back yard is an oasis. Some call it the Garden of Eden.  I call it my Chicana Garden. I sit in my sunroom/moon room and watch the birds as they dive bomb the grasshoppers. I have a clothes line next to one of the birdhouses.

A couple of bluebirds moved in this spring and they are busy feeding their young. When I hang laundry, the male attacks me. The female watches and guards the nest; the male hunts for food. We feed the birds and have two birdfeeders, but I’ve never seen the bluebirds eat there; they prefer to keep to themselves and prefer bugs, I guess.

I prefer to keep to myself too, I guess. I like it when my husband leaves for hunting trips and goes in the high country to find elk. He loves hunting. I love reading and writing.

So sometimes, I go away and leave home to write. I’ve stayed a weekend at a hotel in el valle and just written until I dropped. I’ve gone to writing conferences and workshops where my only job is to attend seminars by excellent master writers and to finish my manuscript.  

Some nights I toss and turn until I give up and sit down to write. I’m happiest when I’m allowed to write or read and no one bothers me. I quit answering my phone, texts, emails and concentrated on writing. I forgot to pay bills, I missed dentist appointments and alienated myself from my family and friends. I had to train them to leave a message if it’s important. They no longer pop in unexpected, expecting me to serve coffee and cookies. I meet them at the door and tell them I’m working.

My son says I’ve forgotten about him; not true. But he has forgiven me for neglecting to keep in touch. He’s going on 44 years old this year and I’m turning 60 next April. My life has been about him. Now it’s about me. Not my husband, not my son, not my mom, friends, me. Me. Me. Me.

I went to college in 2004. Graduated in 2008. I wrote and published two books of poetry and a chapbook since then. I’ve written my memoirs, Gathering Momentum and put it away for the time being. It was kind of depressing revisiting all of my haunts and ghosts. I decided to do what I love. I’m writing my first murder mystery.

At first, I was consumed. I did my first and probably last NANOWRIMO, national novel writing in a month, in November last year and jumpstarted my manuscript. I had to write 50,000 words or more in 30 days. I wrote morning, night, day, I wrote in my head while I was in the shower, while I was doing the laundry, cooking dinner, I wrote nonstop. I burned out. I had to take a break. So I began working on another project, my One Woman Show.

My idea is that if I just keep writing, I’ll retain my sanity. So much for that idea. I’ve gone mad several times in my drive to finish projects. But I finish. I am so close to finishing my novel, it hurts. I want to just go away and write and finish the story. 

So, I started printing sections and came up with seven sections in my manuscript. I revised part I, the intro to the characters, Atlanta, the Love Shack, the Owl Cigar Store, the crime scene, the homicide division, and it went quickly.

I’m working on section II, the investigation. This is where all of those nights reading mysteries and nights watching CSI comes in play. I had no idea that I have such a devious mind. I love leaving clues, dropping red herrings, and solving crimes.

I researched prostitution, genocide, murder. I enlisted the help of my transgender friends to guide me on the intricacies of creating a realistic character that was a transgender woman. I contacted a couple of friends from high school. One a detective, the other a criminal investigator for their expertise. I listened to hours of music and used it to motivate me. I went through a couple of printers and laptops.

The result of my hard work is that now I have a rough draft to polish. When I read through to revise and edit, I say to myself, “Who is a writer? Huh? Who has three books of poetry published? Huh? Me, that’s who.” Then I say, “This isn’t bad, but you don’t want it to be good; you want it to be great.”

My mentor Sandra Cisneros gives lots of great advice. She told me, tell great stories. She holds me to a higher standard than I had for myself. I thought I could skate being a good writer. Now, I know, I have to be a great writer, or why bother. I don’t want to be famous. I just want to die someday knowing I gave my best. I want to live forever in my words.