Have you heard about this contest. Court TV is sponsoring a crime writing contest. Submit your entry and if you win, Harper Collins might publish your book.
You can't win if you don't enter.
http://getpublished.courttv.com/?link=mycrimenovel
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Did He Know Then?
Who is this guy? It’s Donald Rumsfeld from his days at Princeton. Did he know then that he would be at the center of such a whirlwind of debate? Did he know then that he would be the longest running Defense Secretary or that so many people would be happy to see him leave?
They say he tried to resign twice before and the President refused to accept it. Instead, Rumsfeld is invited to leave directly after an election that already had this town reeling. You can't buy a ticket to this kind of drama.
What will he do now? Retire to a life of fishing and golf? Or will he still be in the background giving “sage” advice like Jim Baker and the guy who is replacing him now…
If you didn't cast a vote in this election you missed out on being a part of something really big, really world changing. It may feel like a normal day, like everything is the same as it was, but its not. We may not know just how profound the changes are yet. Rumsfeld leaving is just the first sign that something major has taken place here. But much more will change now. Hopefully, most of what changes will be for the better.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Frame by Frame - exerpt from Chapter 2
I looked up and Brigadier General Hank Paterson, the camp commander was headed toward me, his aide Major Keith Griffin in tow. I stood up and went to parade rest; my feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind my back at the waist, my eyes directed straight ahead. General Paterson stopped just inches from me, clearly invading my space and using his six foot three inches and 290 pound bulk to intimidate me. I wondered why he thought that was necessary.
“I’m sorry to hear about your soldier, Sergeant Harper,” he said. There were lots of people around and he used his command voice, like he wanted everyone in the room to hear, and they did. They all stopped what they were doing and watched us.
“Thank you, sir” I said.
“I considered Delbert one of my soldiers, you understand. She was your soldier but she was still under my care and part of my Army family.”
I wasn’t going to point out that he had gotten his family member’s name wrong.
“Yes, sir.” I said.
“A good leader is one who brings everyone home unharmed,” he bellowed.
So was he blaming me for this somehow?
“Yes, sir,” I repeated, hoping this wasn’t going to go on too much longer.
He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed until it hurt. It might have looked like a comforting gesture, but it wasn’t at all. He was hurting me and I could see in his eyes that he meant to inflict pain.
“We’re going to find who did this thing, Harper. And I expect your full cooperation in this.” He kept squeezing. There was no question that something aggressive was going on here, and I had no idea what to think. I shifted my eyes quickly to Major Griffin to see if he understood what was going on but he was staring at his clipboard. I figured he was avoiding my eyes on purpose. I gritted my teeth, not wanting Paterson to know that I was about to scream in pain.
“No one wants this killer more then I do, General. No one.”
He kept the pressure on for a few seconds more, staring me down and waiting for me to blink. I didn’t. Finally he released the pressure, smiled and patted my shoulder in what I’m sure looked like a casual gesture.
“Good, Sergeant Harper. Very good.” And he looked around the room at everyone watching.
“Carry on,” he commanded and strode way, his little officer minion following behind.
I stayed at parade rest, watching him leave then released my hands from behind my back. My left shoulder was screaming, and my arm felt numb. I shook it out and rolled my shoulder and wondered what the hell that was all about.
I should have said something about his interview the next day with the Washington Post. I should have told him that by tomorrow morning the Post may have gotten the news that a soldier in the camp had been murdered and how we should handle it with the press. But my shoulder hurt too much and I was pissed that it hurt and I figured Colonel McCallen could deal with the General when he arrived, and I hoped that would be soon.
“I’m sorry to hear about your soldier, Sergeant Harper,” he said. There were lots of people around and he used his command voice, like he wanted everyone in the room to hear, and they did. They all stopped what they were doing and watched us.
“Thank you, sir” I said.
“I considered Delbert one of my soldiers, you understand. She was your soldier but she was still under my care and part of my Army family.”
I wasn’t going to point out that he had gotten his family member’s name wrong.
“Yes, sir.” I said.
“A good leader is one who brings everyone home unharmed,” he bellowed.
So was he blaming me for this somehow?
“Yes, sir,” I repeated, hoping this wasn’t going to go on too much longer.
He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed until it hurt. It might have looked like a comforting gesture, but it wasn’t at all. He was hurting me and I could see in his eyes that he meant to inflict pain.
“We’re going to find who did this thing, Harper. And I expect your full cooperation in this.” He kept squeezing. There was no question that something aggressive was going on here, and I had no idea what to think. I shifted my eyes quickly to Major Griffin to see if he understood what was going on but he was staring at his clipboard. I figured he was avoiding my eyes on purpose. I gritted my teeth, not wanting Paterson to know that I was about to scream in pain.
“No one wants this killer more then I do, General. No one.”
He kept the pressure on for a few seconds more, staring me down and waiting for me to blink. I didn’t. Finally he released the pressure, smiled and patted my shoulder in what I’m sure looked like a casual gesture.
“Good, Sergeant Harper. Very good.” And he looked around the room at everyone watching.
“Carry on,” he commanded and strode way, his little officer minion following behind.
I stayed at parade rest, watching him leave then released my hands from behind my back. My left shoulder was screaming, and my arm felt numb. I shook it out and rolled my shoulder and wondered what the hell that was all about.
I should have said something about his interview the next day with the Washington Post. I should have told him that by tomorrow morning the Post may have gotten the news that a soldier in the camp had been murdered and how we should handle it with the press. But my shoulder hurt too much and I was pissed that it hurt and I figured Colonel McCallen could deal with the General when he arrived, and I hoped that would be soon.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Vote to Write or Write to Vote
Did John Kerry insult American Soldiers?
The hullabaloo about insults to American soldiers has two sides that will never come to an agreement. You either think he intended to insult the intellectual ability of the American soldier, or you think the opposition is using his verbal gaff to make pathetic political points.
American soldiers are dying so that Iraqi and Afghani civilians can vote. The greatest insult to American soldiers would be if Americans take that right we have grown accustomed to for granted. If the right to cast a free and fare vote is worth dying for, then each and every one of us needs to exercise the vote that is inherent in being an American citizen.
If you don’t plan to vote on Tuesday, you’re a loser. If you plan to vote the wrong way, then
you’re a loser.
What’s the right way? Well…to put it simply, MY WAY.
But seriously, it would be great if you voted my way. But, no matter how you vote, just vote.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
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.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 27, 2006
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.
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.
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.
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