Judith Post's Blog, page 67

Chapter 2

[image error](image from Pixabay)

Portents and Tattoos–2:

Festus took a swig of beer before saying, “You know I travel a few times a year for my job.”

I nodded, sipping my wine. “You write ads for small businesses and do online advertising for them, but once in a while, you have to meet with them to keep up to date.” The warlock was a whiz at clever campaigns and images.

“This time, I drove to a town east of here on the river, like we are,” he told us. “I met with the business owner and was ready to start home when I must have blacked out in my car. Thank Hecate I made it that far or I might have crumpled on the street. I don’t know how long I was out, but when I came to, I had the tattoo, and I’ve been having the same nightmare over and over again every night since it appeared.”

Raven scowled and looked my way. “Have you dealt with anything like this before, Hester?”

I shook my head. “Sounds more like Fae magic than ours.” I studied the dark ink, a Celt symbol. “May I touch your tattoo?” I asked Festus.

He rolled up his sleeve again, and I placed my hand on it. “I feel both Fae and witch magic.” Keeping my hand on the tattoo, I cast a spell, and suddenly, an image appeared in the air before us, a scene that played out as a movie.

We were seeing the images through someone else’s eyes. Whose, I couldn’t tell. But we were walking along a river bank, picking leaves and roots to brew for potions. We felt the sun on our backs, but the air was cool. Leaves were changing colors, and some had already fallen to the ground. Autumn. Late October maybe?

We could feel the seer’s thoughts and emotions. Whoever it was, was new to the area, surprised by how many varieties of plants grew there. She almost had her basket full when the sound of movements made her glance up. A swirl of spirits raced toward her and whirled around her like a gray tornado of dead souls. Wisps of faces flashed past her. I’d seen spirits like these before at the voodoo village across the river. I knew the spirits could do no harm, but this girl was frightened. She screamed, dropped her basket, and threw up her hands to defend herself. Then, she heard more movement behind her, but before she could turn, pain exploded in the back of her head and oblivion overtook her.

The scene ended for a moment of blank air, and then we felt her consciousness stir. The next images were fuzzy until her eyes focused better. A horrible headache made me press my hand to the back of my head. She teetered, unsteady, as she rose to look at her surroundings. Bars surrounded her. She was in a cage in what might be a basement. Gray, cement walls and a cement floor were lit by a lightbulb dangling in the center of the room.

She spoke a spell to unlock the cage door, but nothing happened. We felt her surprise and fear. She went to the door and shook it, chanting more spells. None of them worked. Trapped, terror raced through her. Then we heard footsteps coming down wooden stairs. Panic paralyzed her. She stared, holding her breath.

A tall, gaunt man shambled forward. He never blinked, his eyes glazed with no emotion behind them. His movements were jerky. He opened a small slot at the bottom of her door and slid a tray of food to her. Her stomach growled, and she realized she was starving. How long had she been unconscious?

She grabbed the bars with both hands and pleaded, “Please help me. Let me out of here.”

Unhearing, the man stood, turned, and walked back up the stairs.

The image dissolved, and Festus blinked, stirred, and gripped my hand. “That’s the dream. Every night. What does it mean?”

Wanda started crying. “Who was the girl in the cage? And what was that man?”

They all looked at me for an explanation.

“It’s not a dream. It’s a vision. I’m guessing the girl in the cage sent it to Festus using both of her magicks. She’s begging for help.”

“And the man?” Festus asked.

“An undead. Not the same as a zombie. I don’t know if they really exist. But I’ve seen corpses controlled by black magic. Not witch magic. Voodoo. The body’s spirit is gone. Free. But the shell it inhabited can be animated to walk and move.”

Festus rubbed his forehead. “When the dream ends, I wake up covered in sweat, smelling my own fear.”

“It’s her fear,” I said. “We could all feel it. The girl needs help.”

Raven ran a hand through his ebony hair, his tawny eyes pinched in distress. “Who is she? How do we find her?”

I bit my bottom lip, frustrated and upset. “I don’t know.”

Wanda wrung her hands, her voice pleading. “I feel sorry for the girl, but can you help my Festus? He’s afraid to go to sleep.”

I touched a finger to his forehead and chanted a spell. “I’ve let the tattoo know we’ve seen the vision. We understand it. We’ll try to help the girl, but we don’t know how.”

“What about the tattoo?” Wanda stared at it. “It’s still there.”

“It won’t leave until the girl’s free, but the dreams should stop now. As long as it’s untouched, Festus can sleep in peace.”

Tears spilled down Wanda’s cheeks. “Thank you.” She came around the table to hug me.

“Can you do anything for the girl?” Festus asked.

“I’ll send birds to fly over the town and the area around it. If they see anything suspicious, they’ll report back to me. But I don’t have much hope. We have too little to go on.”

Clinging to each other, Festus and Wanda left. Once their car was out of sight, Raven and I walked into my front yard and I called for my birds.

Ravens, crows, and sparrows circled me and I sent them to the town Festus had visited. I doubted if any of them would return. We had no idea where the girl was, what kind of building she was in, unsure if she was even in a basement. There was little chance of finding her.

Raven tilted my chin and gave me a gentle kiss. “I’ll call every enforcer I know in that area, ask them to see if any other Fae or witches have gone missing. It might take us a while, but we’ll do all we can to find your witch.”

I nodded, not very hopeful, and we headed back toward the house. Light spilled from its many windows, making it glow. The Yule tree’s bulbs twinkled on our deep front porch, reds, greens, and golds. The scent of the pine drifted on the breeze. Such a cheerful scene, but it couldn’t diminish the fear I felt. Why had the captor taken this girl? What did he mean to do with her? It was bad enough when witches used black magic, but when voodoo was involved, I was deeply afraid for this young girl.

Chapter 1

Okay, I missed Muddy River.  Yes, I’m working on another mystery.  Yes, I don’t have much time.  But…what can I say?  I just miss magic sometimes.  And I miss putting up chapters and stories.  So, I’m back at it, but I don’t have any for sure schedule for Hester and Raven.  I’m just going to write about them in-between other stuff, when I have time.  And I wanted to set a story for them in December that has Christmas merriment in it.  Well, as merry as you can get when magic goes awry.  Anyway, here’s the first chapter.  I hope you enjoy it.

Tattoos & Portents   (Muddy River Mystery #4)  by Judi Lynn

 

 

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Chapter 1

Snow blanketed Muddy River. Raven was working from home today. As our town’s enforcer, December was a slow month for him. Paranormal, local crime didn’t pick up near holidays, and wandering rogues weren’t attracted to such a remote area of Indiana during the cold seasons. I, on the other hand, had to hold the interest of restless students who were more interested in sugar plums and presents than learning a new spell.

Claws and I decided to trek across the street and down the long drive that led to my witches’ school rather than drive. Strike’s sister, Odifa, who’d begun co-teaching with me, would be at Muddy River’s public school this entire month, teaching her type of magic to the young Faes who attended there. Since she and her husband had settled near Amulet Avenue, a small enclave of fellow Faes, she’d learned that young Faes’ training was sadly lacking.

As I left the house, Raven gave me a long, lingering kiss that would keep me warmer than my long, black skirt and knee-high boots, but then my fire demon was always a hot commodity. To teach, I always wore a flowing, black skirt, boots, and a snug, black T-shirt. I thought it gave the mind set I wanted the students to feel. Raven thought it was sexy, but he’s a fire demon, and you how demons are. They radiate sex.

Claws wasn’t much of a fan of snow, but my ocelot bravely tagged beside me as we waded through an inch of it to the school. I waved my hand before we reached the door to unlock it and start the heat.

My first chore, each day, was to write the lessons I meant to cover on the board. This was a one-room school with first graders through seniors in high school. By the time my young witches graduated, they had to learn to read and write, as well as do math, spells, and potions. We had a lot to cover. And after battling Murlyn and his coven, I’d changed my entire teaching schedule to cover more defensive spells and chants and to teach them sooner. Young witches were safe here, but outside of Muddy River, there were those who’d prey on them to steal their magic.

Pre-teens were especially vulnerable, so I’d started including chants to create protective shields and wards in their lessons. I even began teaching combat skills at the beginning of high school instead of waiting for their last year. When they’d graduate and leave this building, they could take their personal grimoires with them, and every spell that they’d written would be theirs to call upon. I included anti-aging spells in the book, as well as potions to clear complexions and make their hair shine, as well as spells to make their witches’ gardens grow longer and be more bountiful.

As always, from the first day they stepped into my school until the last, I taught them the dangers of the dark arts. On this day, I was teaching the young students a spell to clean any room. Their mothers would appreciate me for that. And for the older students, I was teaching them how to whip energy into a lasso to loop over an opponent.

By the end of the day, magic was flying everywhere in the room. I’d cast spells and wards to ensure none of it backfired or went amiss. No harm could come to anyone here. The students were so excited, practicing their craft, that they grumbled when I sent a wind to disperse all of their spells and sent them home for the day. I waved a hand to straighten the room, then started to the foyer to tug on my heavy long coat.

I was surprised to see Wanda and Festus, leaning against the wall, waiting for me. I was fond of the her and her husband. Between the two of them, they had only a modicum of magic. They lived in the suburbs of Muddy River, along with other supernaturals who were only one-eighth or less paranormal. They felt more comfortable among their own.

No mortals were allowed here. My coven and I had set up wards to keep them out, and the Fae had cast an illusion spell to hide Muddy River from them. But even a tiny remnant of magic made anyone welcome among us, and our wards protected them. Raven and I often ran into Wanda and Festus when we went to Derek’s bar in town. We thought of them as friends.

I smiled. “Hello! What brings you here?”

Wanda’s worried face made my cheerful greeting sputter. She glanced at her husband and said, “Festus needs help.”

Wanda was part vampire, and Festus was part warlock with even less magic than his wife. I studied him. Dark circles hinted at sleepless nights. “What happened?”

“Go ahead. Show her.” Wanda nudged him.

Festus rolled up the shirt sleeve on his left arm, and I stared. A complicated, Celt tattoo covered most of his left arm.

“When did you get that?” I’d never noticed it before.

Festus rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “I don’t know. I don’t even remember getting it.”

Was our friend a fainter? “Did the tattoo artist knock you out so you wouldn’t feel the needle?”

“I didn’t go to a tattoo parlor. All I remember is getting in my car to drive to my next town, then I woke up and the tattoo was on my arm.”

Festus traveled for his business. He left the wards of Muddy River. I didn’t like the sound of this tattoo. I glanced at our yellow, Victorian house across the street. Raven was home. “Why don’t you come to our house, get comfortable, and we’ll talk about it?”

“Hop in the car and I’ll drive you there.” Festus waited while I waved to lock up the building and loaded Claws in the backseat beside me. My familiar went everywhere with me. No enemies could enter Muddy River, but when I was out and about, he never left my side. It was a five-minute ride to the house, and when I walked in with Festus and Wanda, Raven looked surprised.

“Festus has a problem,” I told him.

With a nod, he led us to the kitchen and went to the refrigerator to grab drinks. Once settled at our wooden, work table, he said, “Start at the beginning and don’t leave out anything.”

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Festus took a swig of beer before saying, “You know I travel a few times a year for my job.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tattoos & Portents

(Muddy River Mystery #4)

by

 

Judi Lynn

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

Snow blanketed Muddy River. Raven was working from home today. As our town’s enforcer, December was a slow month for him. Paranormal, local crime didn’t pick up near holidays, and wandering rogues weren’t attracted to such a remote area of Indiana during the cold seasons. I, on the other hand, had to hold the interest of restless students who were more interested in sugar plums and presents than learning a new spell.

Claws and I decided to trek across the street and down the long drive that led to my witches’ school rather than drive. Strike’s sister, Odifa, who’d begun co-teaching with me, would be at Muddy River’s public school this entire month, teaching her type of magic to the young Faes who attended there. Since she and her husband had settled near Amulet Avenue, a small enclave of fellow Faes, she’d learned that young Faes’ training was sadly lacking.

As I left the house, Raven gave me a long, lingering kiss that would keep me warmer than my long, black skirt and knee-high boots, but then my fire demon was always a hot commodity. To teach, I always wore a flowing, black skirt, boots, and a snug, black T-shirt. I thought it gave the mind set I wanted the students to feel. Raven thought it was sexy, but he’s a fire demon, and you how demons are. They radiate sex.

Claws wasn’t much of a fan of snow, but my ocelot bravely tagged beside me as we waded through an inch of it to the school. I waved my hand before we reached the door to unlock it and start the heat.

My first chore, each day, was to write the lessons I meant to cover on the board. This was a one-room school with first graders through seniors in high school. By the time my young witches graduated, they had to learn to read and write, as well as do math, spells, and potions. We had a lot to cover. And after battling Murlyn and his coven, I’d changed my entire teaching schedule to cover more defensive spells and chants and to teach them sooner. Young witches were safe here, but outside of Muddy River, there were those who’d prey on them to steal their magic.

Pre-teens were especially vulnerable, so I’d started including chants to create protective shields and wards in their lessons. I even began teaching combat skills at the beginning of high school instead of waiting for their last year. When they’d graduate and leave this building, they could take their personal grimoires with them, and every spell that they’d written would be theirs to call upon. I included anti-aging spells in the book, as well as potions to clear complexions and make their hair shine, as well as spells to make their witches’ gardens grow longer and be more bountiful.

As always, from the first day they stepped into my school until the last, I taught them the dangers of the dark arts. On this day, I was teaching the young students a spell to clean any room. Their mothers would appreciate me for that. And for the older students, I was teaching them how to whip energy into a lasso to loop over an opponent.

By the end of the day, magic was flying everywhere in the room. I’d cast spells and wards to ensure none of it backfired or went amiss. No harm could come to anyone here. The students were so excited, practicing their craft, that they grumbled when I sent a wind to disperse all of their spells and sent them home for the day. I waved a hand to straighten the room, then started to the foyer to tug on my heavy long coat.

I was surprised to see Wanda and Festus, leaning against the wall, waiting for me. I was fond of the her and her husband. Between the two of them, they had only a modicum of magic. They lived in the suburbs of Muddy River, along with other supernaturals who were only one-eighth or less paranormal. They felt more comfortable among their own.

No mortals were allowed here. My coven and I had set up wards to keep them out, and the Fae had cast an illusion spell to hide Muddy River from them. But even a tiny remnant of magic made anyone welcome among us, and our wards protected them. Raven and I often ran into Wanda and Festus when we went to Derek’s bar in town. We thought of them as friends.

I smiled. “Hello! What brings you here?”

Wanda’s worried face made my cheerful greeting sputter. She glanced at her husband and said, “Festus needs help.”

Wanda was part vampire, and Festus was part warlock with even less magic than his wife. I studied him. Dark circles hinted at sleepless nights. “What happened?”

“Go ahead. Show her.” Wanda nudged him.

Festus rolled up the shirt sleeve on his left arm, and I stared. A complicated, Celt tattoo covered most of his left arm.

“When did you get that?” I’d never noticed it before.

Festus rubbed a hand over his unshaven face. “I don’t know. I don’t even remember getting it.”

Was our friend a fainter? “Did the tattoo artist knock you out so you wouldn’t feel the needle?”

“I didn’t go to a tattoo parlor. All I remember is getting in my car to drive to my next town, then I woke up and the tattoo was on my arm.”

Festus traveled for his business. He left the wards of Muddy River. I didn’t like the sound of this tattoo. I glanced at our yellow, Victorian house across the street. Raven was home. “Why don’t you come to our house, get comfortable, and we’ll talk about it?”

“Hop in the car and I’ll drive you there.” Festus waited while I waved to lock up the building and loaded Claws in the backseat beside me. My familiar went everywhere with me. No enemies could enter Muddy River, but when I was out and about, he never left my side. It was a five-minute ride to the house, and when I walked in with Festus and Wanda, Raven looked surprised.

“Festus has a problem,” I told him.

With a nod, he led us to the kitchen and went to the refrigerator to grab drinks. Once settled at our wooden, work table, he said, “Start at the beginning and don’t leave out anything.”

 

 

 

 

Everyone Needs a Ralph

After DH retired, we started meeting a group of old friends at Wrigley Field Bar and Grill every other Tuesday.  DH knew them all through high school.  I met them once I “married into the group.”  Regardless, we’ve known each other for a long time, and there’s nothing like enjoying old, dear friends.

When I decided to write a fixer-upper, cozy mystery series, I asked Ralph if I could ask him questions about flipping old houses.  He’d bought houses to fix to rent for a while, and I can’t even begin to list all of the upgrades he’s done to his own house–big  projects that involve earth movers and building cement holding walls.  The man knows his stuff, and he’s meticulous.  Everything is done right.

He asked me about my series, and when I explained that each time Jazzi, Jerod, and Ansel buy a house to flip, they somehow get involved in a murder, he nodded and said, “Do you need ideas for that?”

“For the murders?” I asked.

“You see, I was working on this one house, and every day, at the same time, this old man walked past it until I started to look for him.  And suddenly, he didn’t come.  And I worried about him.”  That idea became the basis for The Body in the Wetlands.

I came up with an idea for book 3, because I could picture a dump truck backing up to a driveway, and when it spilled gravel from its tilted bed, a body flew out, too.  (The Body in the Gravel).  Book 4 grew out of a bunch of small images that flitted around in my head–a slashed up couch and ransacked house, an old lady raising a grandson who always got in trouble, and a few ex-cons.  They finally came together as the The Body in the Apartment.  But I was playing around with different scenarios for book 5 when Ralph said, “I was talking to this woman who found a  box, and when she opened it, it was full of a person’s treasured things.”  He listed some of them for me, and the idea intrigued me so much, I pictured a girl’s room that hadn’t been disturbed for years.  And when Jazzi opens the girl’s hope chest, she finds grade school pictures, swim ribbons, tennis trophies, and journals.  And those led to The Body From the Past.

I know what I want book six to be:  The Body in the Beauty Parlor.  After all, Jazzi’s mom and sister own a salon.  I’m thinking of stashing a body in the hair wash chair with Olivia’s scissors in the woman’s chest.  Sounds fun to me:)

But when I sat across from Ralph last Tuesday, he said, “What kind of house are they fixing in your next book?”

“A Dutch Colonial in an old, established neighborhood full of well-kept homes.”

He nodded, but a half hour after we got home, he called.  “What if that neighborhood had a lot that sat empty for years, and suddenly, a house builder buys it to build a home of his own?  Everyone resents it because the lot was the unofficial neighborhood park and kids played ball there.  The house he’s building won’t fit the style of the neighborhood.  And what if, when the man’s on a ladder working on the house frame, someone pushes it, and he falls and dies?”

That could happen.  It would work.

“Or what if there’s a guy who buys a house in that neighborhood who works on cars?  And in a few weeks, car parts and junk cars pile up in his front and back yard?  It’s an old neighborhood with a weak neighborhood association.  And no one knows how to make him clean up his property and take care of it…until a cold day, when he runs a hose from the exhaust of the car he’s working on to the garage door and outside, but someone plugs that hose, and the fumes kill him?”

Even better!  I love it.  I can’t use it in my next book, but I’m going to use it somewhere.  The thing is, don’t you wish you had a friend like Ralph?  It’s sort of intriguing that our old, dear friend not only can give me fixer-upper ideas, but he can think of as many ways to murder someone as I can.  Maybe we’re kindred spirits:)

May many ideas flow to you, and happy writing!

Something New

Okay, I have to admit, I’m getting tired of snippets, and I’d guess you must be too by now.  It seemed like a great idea when I thought of it, but the truth is, I can only write so fast and I can’t keep up with them.  All the ones I’ve shared are still on my Snippets Pages, but I’m fizzling.  I’m not going to be writing a new Muddy River for quite a while.  Instead, I’m letting myself play around with a new mystery this month, and then I have to get serious and write my 6th Jazzi book.

I didn’t do anything but have fun over the weekend.  My grandson, Tyler, married his Emily, and our family met in Indy to celebrate with him.  His mom, Holly, lives there, too, but Robyn and Scott flew in from Florida and John’s brother came from Oakland.  A lot of the neighborhood kids who spent a lot of time at our house and Tyler’s school friends who visited here drove in, too.  DH and I met Emily’s family for the first time, and they were warm, friendly people.  We had a Wonderful Time!  DH and I love to dance, so we spent most of the night on the dance floor with our daughters and neighborhood kids.  So did Ty and Emily.  Way Too Much Fun!

Anyway, I’m back to work today, and I thought I’d share the start of my new Lux Mystery.  The whole thing might change before I finish the entire manuscript, but this is what I have for now:

A Lux Mystery

What was taking the freaking gate so long to open? I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel of my yellow Bentley Mulsanne—the love of my life—but it didn’t hurry the process one bit. Why I listened to Keon and bought a house in a gated community in Summit City was beyond me, but he’d insisted with my name and money, I’d be safer. Bullocks! I’d been safe enough living in a condo in Chicago.

I’d promised Gabbie that I’d meet her at Chop’s wine bar at six. In the old days, back when she was poor and we went out to eat, I always picked up the tab. She’d fussed about it at first, but I finally told her that if she didn’t let me pay, I’d quit bumming meals with her family, and I’d be the poorer for it.

Her dad had always insisted that their kids be home for supper and that I was welcome at their table. My parents, on the other hand, barely knew what I was about.  They were beneficent assholes–pardon the language–but it’s true. If I ate at home, I sat at the huge dining room table, served exquisite food on fine china, by myself. The servants fussed over me, but it wasn’t the same.

I loved Mom and Dad, but they spent as little time with me as possible. They gave me anything and everything I could possibly want or need except their time. That’s how I got my name—Luxury Milton Millhouse. “A child’s a luxury I can’t afford,” my mother often told her friends. So they traveled and partied and paid others to care for me.

It hurt. It still does sometimes, but I got over it.

Keon, Gabbie’s older brother, used to tease me and call me poor, little rich girl.

“Does that make you a rich, little poor boy?” I’d counter. His parents both worked and struggled to keep a roof over their five kids’ heads, but what they lacked in money, they made up for with love. Gabbie and I would never have met except Gabbie was so damned smart, she earned a scholarship to the ritzy private school my parents sent me to. Once we discovered each other in second grade, we became inseparable.

 

Hope you like Lux.  Any opinions or feedback is welcome:)

Weddings

We’re driving to Indy on Friday…again.  This time, it’s to celebrate.  My grandson and his Emily are getting married on Saturday, Nov. 9.  My daughter’s bought a long, navy blue dress to be mother of the groom.  And my second daughter, Robyn, and her husband are flying in from Florida to attend.  DH’s brother is flying back again from Oakland and staying the weekend.  And even the wonderful neighbor girl who grew up across the street from us, and Holly’s BFF, is coming from Detroit with her husband and three boys.  It’s going to be a wonderful time.  So I’m writing this post early, because I’ll be packing tomorrow night.

I have more weddings in my Jazzi series than I ever meant to write.  But my characters are all at that age when boy meets girl and both are ready to settle down.  Jazzi and Ansel get married in book 3, The Body in the Gravel, even though she doesn’t buy the dress until the last minute.  She’s too busy trying to solve a murder.  There’s a double wedding in book 4, The Body in the Apartment.  And since I threw two more people together in that book, there’s another wedding in book 5, The Body in the Past, but it’s an out of town, hurry up and get it done type event.

My wedding to DH was like that.  He’d just gotten out of the army three days before we drove to the minister’s house with a few family members and friends, and made living together legal, because we’d dated long enough.  Tyler and Emily are doing it right–the rehearsal dinner, wedding, and reception with dancing.  She’s wearing a gorgeous gown.  Jazzi and Ansel catered their own reception, cooking the food and tying the knot in their living room.  My second daughter skipped all of that.  She and Scott took off for Vegas and had everyone watch them get married on video, then they had one heck of a good time.

The next step for Jazzi, I guess, is married life and eventually kids.  That’s part of the cycle, too.  Jerod, her cousin, has already started his family, but Jazzi’s not ready for diapers and cribs yet.  I’m not sure when and how I’ll deal with that.  It’s too soon to go there.  Do you have any favorite mysteries dealing with a young mother and kids?  The only one that comes to my mind is Jenna Bennett’s Savannah Martin series.  But until babies wake Jazzi and Ansel in the middle of the night, I have ideas for lots more mysteries for them to solve.

If you’re pounding your way through NaNo, hang in there!  And for every writer out there, happy writing!

High School

I just turned in the manuscript for my fifth Jazzi Zanders mystery–The Body in the Past.  I beat my deadline–Nov. 4–and it feels good.

In this book, Jazzi is trying to find out what happened to a young girl who died in the house she, Ansel, and Jerod are flipping.  Someone pushed her off her family’s balcony at a party to celebrate her being named class valedictorian.

Jazzi learns that people resented Jessica’s successes.  She had four smart, fun best friends, but school wasn’t a happy place for her.  Neither was her home.  She was the class brain, beautiful and talented, good at everything she did, but that only made Lila, Nadia, and others despise her more.  Part way through the book, I have Jazzi say, “Who knew high school kids could be so cruel?”  But then people told me just how cruel they could be.

I was mostly oblivious during high school.  I loved my teachers.  I loved my classes.  I was one of the class brains with my nose in a book–sheltered and self-conscious, not particularly social.  I lived in my own head more often than not.  I had a few good friends, and that was enough to keep me happy.  I avoided boys.  I walked into the girls’ restroom and found girls crying too often because their boyfriends had dumped them to trust the opposite sex.   Maybe if I had a brother, I would have understood boys better, but I had two sisters.  As it was, I listened to guys have burping contests in Latin class and smack talk with each other in Geometry and decided I could live without them.

A couple of people teased me, calling me Beanpole because I just grew taller every year, but I didn’t really care, so they stopped.  Most people were nice to me.  A few popular girls even invited to me parties, but I had no social skills and little interest, so that dwindled.

High school wasn’t the best years of my life, but it wasn’t my worst years either.  And people have told me some horror stories.  Vicious, back-biting girls who teamed up to make a friend’s life miserable.  Boys spread rumors that another friend being “easy” when they didn’t get lucky.  Boys got bullied.  Between hormones and self-esteem, high school was rough for some people.  They didn’t fit in.  They thought they never would.  They didn’t blossom until they graduated and found their place in the larger world, in a place where there were different types of people with wider interests.

In my story, Jessica couldn’t wait to move away and go to college.  But she never got the chance.  Someone gave her a push and she fell to her death before she could spread her wings to fly.

Was high school good to you?  Did you dream about writing even then?  When did the writing bug bite you?  And if you’re gearing up for NaNoWriMo this November–this Friday–good luck!  And happy writing.

Free

Just wanted to let you know that I made MIXING IT UP WITH MORTALS free from Oct. 28-Nov. 1. https://amzn.to/2WzehJi  

I’m starting a new type of mystery series, and I’m excited about it, but I still have a few ideas for Raven and Hester that I meant to squash, but they keep bubbling around inside my head, so I’ll probably have to sneak them into my writing off and on.   In the meantime, in this story, Raven and Hester are trying to find a rogue incubus who works as a hitman for mortals.  If you haven’t tried it, it makes for a great Halloween story:)

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Some Things Don’t Work

A while ago, when I had extra time to write between contracts, I decided to self-publish some supernatural mysteries because I enjoy writing them so much.  I knew it was a bit of a risk since urban fantasy is still pretty glutted, but I’d seen some paranormal witch mysteries that were doing well on Amazon and thought it was worth a try.  I had a lot of fun writing them, but I’ve given them a decent shot, and they’re still dead in the water.  I can’t get them off the ground.  So I came to a crossroads.  Do I keep writing them and hope the fifth or sixth one clicks, or do I admit defeat and try something new?

My agent loved the urban fantasies I wrote forever ago but got one rejection after another because no one was buying UF anymore.  I spent a lot of years trying to sell stories that no matter how well done, no one wanted to buy.  And I don’t want to do that again.  So this time, I’m throwing the towel in early.  Right or wrong, I’ve learned the hard way that some things are easier to sell than others.  So I felt sorry for myself, licked my wounded pride for a day, and then sat down and started to work on something different.  I don’t want to write a second cozy series.  I know a lot of writers juggle two or more of them, but I’d have too much trouble trying to keep track of which is which if they were that much alike.  I mean, cozies have some similarities.  If I’m going to do a second series, it has to be different enough from Jazzi to help me find balance between the two.

I’m sharing this, not to garner sympathy, but because when I like writing something, that’s what I want to write.  I don’t want to change or go in a different direction.  But I’ve found that I need to.  When my agent asked me to try to write a romance, I didn’t want to.  I’d never considered it.  Ever.  The plot points felt weird to me–hurt feelings and misunderstandings instead of attacks and battles.  The thing is, I learned a lot by writing the Mill Pond series.  I had to concentrate on character more than plot, and my tacklebox of writing tools grew richer for it.  I took some of those tools with me when my editor asked if I’d like to try my hand at a mystery.

This might sound crazy to you, but if you’re writing really well but your work won’t sell, maybe you should try something outside your comfort zone.  There’s so much to writing that we can’t control.  If editors decide a market is tight or dead, soon it will be, because they won’t buy anything in that genre.  If the market really is glutted, it’s even hard to find readers if you self-publish.  There are just too many things for them to choose from.  Markets come and go.  Literary fiction, I’m told, is a hard sell right now.  Sometimes, selling comes down to a current preference.  It’s harder to sell writing in present tense  now because there’s a bias against it.  Some editors prefer third person, single POV, over first person.  Some of that depends on what genre you write in, but I’ve read reviews where readers prefer third over first.  That doesn’t mean what you write won’t sell, but it means it will be harder.

For now, I’m going to try something new.  A straight mystery instead of a supernatural.  And I’m writing it in first person.  Then I’ll see what happens.  But it doesn’t hurt to flex your writing muscles and experiment a little.  You can start with something short and go from there.  Maybe try a one-hour read.  Play with a new genre, a different style.  But it’s hard to put your best into something, over and over again, know that it’s good (and I’m not just talking ego or confidence here, but comments from critique partners and editors or agents), and keep getting rejections.  When that happens, it might not have anything to do with how well you write, but a lot to do with what you write.  But let’s face it.  In writing, there’s no one right answer, and what works for one person doesn’t work for someone else.  But I’m ready to try to tilt the odds in my favor instead of against me.  So wish me luck.  And good luck to you and whatever you’re working on and Happy Writing!

 

Do you have a 2019 favorite mystery?

Hi, everyone!  My publicist sent me a note to drum up votes for favorite mysteries for 2019.  If you have a book you’d like to recommend, here’s the info.  The votes need to be in by Nov. 1st:

The editors at Suspense Magazine are getting ready for their December “Best of 2019” issue. They ask that you please tell your fans to nominate you for the issue—fans can email them their vote at reviews@suspensemagazine.com.

Here’s the email that Suspense Magazine uses—

All:

It’s that time again, where we need to begin the process of building our December “Best of” issue. This issue takes more preparation and is all the better due to the assistance of the team and our fan base. While we know that it is difficult to choose the “Best of 2019” books for each category prior to the end of the year, we rely on you to get the right books. Over the next three weeks, we’d like you to send us your list of your favorites in the following categories:

Cozy
Thriller/Suspense (includes all books not in other categories listed)
Debut Author
Romantic Suspense
Horror
Urban Fantasy/Paranormal
Historical Fiction
Anthology
YA
True Crime

For those who are new to this process or those who need reminders:

Must be a 2019 new release.
Please don’t recommend yourself.
Your list should include any fabulous and worthy book.
If you don’t have a recommendation for a category, please skip or note in your response.
Return your votes by November 1st so we can get to work on our end.

Thank you for your participation! Please copy reviews@suspensemagazine.comon your responses for each category.

 

Little Things That Make me Happy

John’s brother is staying with us this week.  He only flies into Fort Wayne a couple times a year, so it’s always nice to see him and catch up.  This time, we’re doing whatever strikes our fancy, and it’s been really nice.  We went to the new River Promenade and walked the entire park, then ended up at Barnes and Noble.  It’s a personal sin to walk out of that building with no books, so….   what can I say?  We bought a few.  One of them was a new bird book because my old one finally fell apart and died.

My bird feeders make me happy.  We have a crabapple tree that blooms right outside one of our side windows, and we have four birdfeeders and suet hanging there.  I have more sparrows than anyone needs, nuthatches, chickadees, tufted titmice, blue jays, cardinals, finches, three different kinds of woodpeckers, and sometimes wrens.  I throw peanuts under the tree, and we have fox squirrels and black squirrels,and too many chipmunks.  We have more, but they’re not regulars, but I love watching them.  Our new neighbor across the street, who’s a super nice man, put up a birdfeeder station in his front yard.  He owns a construction company and built it himself.  It’s huge.   It makes our feeders look second-rate, but my birds still come.  There are enough to share.  And that makes me happy.

Friends and family make me happy, but I’m really blessed with friends who care about my writing.  And that’s wonderful.  I’ve heard writers who don’t get much support.  I’ve never had that problem.  My friends have always told me it was just a matter of time before I sold books.  They tell me often that they believe in me.  Sometimes, they believe in me more than I do.  How lucky can a girl get?  And I belong to a writers’ group who critique each other AND offer encouragement and support.  And I’ve known some of them for so long, they’re extra special to me.  And their opinions matter.  A lot.  So when ANY of us finds success, it makes me happy.

Reviews make me happy.  Not ALL reviews.  There are always a few that make me wince, want to paint my forehead with ashes, and sulk, but MOST reviews.  The ones who say the series just keeps getting better make my day.  And this time, for the first time, a reader told me that she read the recipe I put at the end of my book and went right out and bought the ingredients she needed to make the steak tips over buttered noodles, and she LOVED them.  BLISS!

When a writer I respect and admire reads one of my books and gives it a great review, it’s AWESOME!  Reading really well done books makes me happy.  Reading favorite authors who deliver lifts my evenings.

When one of my daughters or grandsons call to talk about anything, it makes me happy.  And spending time with my DH, who to this day thinks he got lucky when he met me (silly man) makes me happy.

And yes, if you read this list, you know that I count myself a pretty fortunate person.  So do I have a skip in my step and hum a happy tune when I walk?  Heck no.  I’m still the borderline grumpy person I’ve always been, because it’s in my nature.  And as much as I love writing, some days I curse it and fuss.  Because life’s like that.  I guess the Universe doesn’t want us to get bored by making things too easy.  But for right now, I’m spending time playing and having fun, and I’m feeling pretty happy:)

Hope you are, too.  Happy writing, all!