Furry friends and inspiration

Okay, so I have a soft spot for a furry animal. He looks mean and he can be if his bowl is empty, but most of the time he's just a big softy.

What he hates is to see me writing. He climbs in my lap, whines, rubs against me knocking my fingers off the keyboard. He's just a big, spoiled, knucklehead.

On the other hand, he's pretty darn cute.

Characters are people too.

Chances are, if you’ve ever allowed friends or family to read your fiction, they’ve wondered if one of your characters were based on them.

I sent a close friend a copy of my novel and she immediately assumed the person who was murdered—described as a relatively empty headed, annoying person—was herself. I had based the murder victim on someone I knew, but it wasn’t my close friend and I was surprised that she would see herself in the character.

I’ve also had family members ask me, “When did that happen to you?” Of course, the event may have loosely happened to me or to someone I knew, but I’m always shocked that people, knowing they’re reading a novel, assume that I’m writing a journal rather then a complete work of fiction.

One of the novels I’m working on is about three sisters, murder and an abusive father. I have two sisters who I know will assume the characters are all about them. My father, who will never read the book unless and until it’s published, will without a doubt, assume the story is all about him. He will be furious. He will also be wrong.

Part of my enjoyment in writing is to create things that I haven’t seen, to shape a world that I can control and to meet people I don’t know. I take a little bit of this, a little bit of that and mix it together to hopefully create something enjoyable to read. Parts of me, parts of my friends, parts of the truth and parts of what never would or could happen. I use it all.

And if anyone did ask me, “Is that character me?” and it was-- I’d quickly and easily lie.

Wanna Hear the Truth?

Do you just want to have your ego stroked or do you want to hear the truth? If you give someone one of your stories to read do you only want to hear that it’s great? Or do you want to know that you’ve switched POVs a zillion times, that your descriptions are cliché or that your plot is full of holes?

Criticism is not always easy to take but I’d rather hear that my plot is full of holes then to go around thinking I’ve written something brilliant when its crap. Unfortunately, most people who are willing to read your work are less likely to say they don’t like it because they don’t want to hurt your feelings. Personally, I’d rather have my feelings hurt then to not know that the work sucks. Hurt my feelings already. Tell me it’s boring. Tell me it’s unlikely. Tell me you were annoyed reading the junk.

The Lethal Frame - a Mystery Chapter 1

In Bosnia, we can and will succeed because our mission is clear and limited and our troops are strong and very well prepared. But my fellow Americans, no deployment of American troops is risk free, and this one may well involve casualties. There may be accidents in the field or incidents with people who have not gn up theirive hatred. I will take every measure possible to minimize these risks, but we must be prepared for that possibility.
President Bill Clinton November 27, 1995


Looking back on it now, it’s hard to believe how long it took me to realize she was dead.

I opened the door of the trailer, kicking my boots against the outside wall trying to knock off some of the thick, gooey mud. I stepped inside and glanced to my left where her cot is tucked next to the wall. That’s when I saw her feet, my eyes drawn to her toes with the bright pink polish. I recognized the color since it was the same color on my toes, the polish I had let her borrow a few days before. You have to do something to make yourself feel like a woman when you wear combat boots everyday.

As soon as I saw her feet I got pissed off. I thought she was asleep. She knew that if I ever caught her napping in the middle of the day, she would catch hell.

“Get your ass up, Delray,” I grumbled.

I didn’t raise my voice or anything. Just said it like I meant it and assumed she would scramble up and make an excuse.

I went to the edit desk and hefted my Betacam onto the table, pushing aside the keyboard and mouse and propping the tripod against the wall. I pulled my Kevlar helmet off without undoing the chin strap and had that momentary feeling of floating that happens each time the helmet weight is removed from my head. With my right hand, I pulled the M16 from where it was slung over my back and stuck it into the weapons rack by the door. With my left hand, ripped the Velcro closure of my flak vest open and just let the damn thing slide down my arms onto the floor with a hollow thud. I felt the immediate cold shock of the air-conditioned coolness of the trailer hitting my sweat soaked BDU jacket, and I took my first unencumbered breath.
My video editing equipment and Delray’s graphics computers were the reasons we rated an air-conditioned trailer. It was one of the perks of our jobs.

By this time, with all the noise and commotion in the trailer, I figured she would have been up and working on a good story for why she had been lazing around. But when I looked toward her rack, her feet hadn’t moved. Then I was really pissed.

“Damn it, Delray. Get yer ass up!”

I took a step toward her cot and realized in an instant that she wasn’t ever getting up.

Most of her body had been hidden by the make-shift closet she had fashioned from old wooden crates. When I moved closer, I had my first look at her face. I almost didn’t recognize her. Her entire face was bloated and grayish white, except for her lips, which were blue. She didn’t look at all human, almost like a freaky mannequin with short bleached blond hair spiked wildly around her head. Her eyes bulged open and had little red dots of blood throughout the whites. She wore her PT uniform, the one we are issued for physical training sessions, a grey hooded sweatshirt jacket. and grey sweatpants. Her shower shoes, cheap black flip-flops, were kicked to the end of the cot, her towel stuck underneath her body. She lay on top of her sleeping bag but it was bunched up at the end of the cot, as if she had been kicking and fighting. Her hands were at her throat and I immediately saw the blood and flesh and gunk under her fingernails. Many of her nails were broken. She had been clawing at her throat in a desperate attempt to stop what killed her.

A yellow safety reflector belt, issued as part of our PT uniform, was knotted impossibly tight around her throat. Usually we wear the belt draped diagonally over the right shoulder and then clipped on the left side at the waist. Delray wore the belt like a tourniquet, cutting off her blood, her breath, her life.

I stood there for what seemed like hours but was probably just seconds, staring at her. Gentle rain tinkled against the roof. I heard a group of people outside, one laughing loudly and several others joining in. I wanted to shout at them to shut up, didn’t they know what had happened here? But obviously, no one knew. My pulse slammed through my veins. I must have been holding my breath, because when I finally did inhale, I got a strong whiff of urine and realized she must have pissed herself in the struggle.

That’s when it finally registered that Virginia had been murdered.