M. Saylor Billings's Blog, page 5
March 8, 2012
Cops, amateur sleuths find relatives of mysterious twins
Cops, amateur sleuths find relatives of mysterious twins
The link above relates a story of two elderly twins who cut themselves off from the world and eventually died. The police needed to contact next of kin but had no where to start because they were basically reclusive and only left each other as "next of kin."
I love this story. It is a sad demise of two elderly twin sisters, which should undoubtably not be overlooked or brushed aside - that's not what I like so much about it. BUT reading a bit further you find out that it was everyday people who jumped in and helped out.
The implications of this astound me. The first one being that there is a police department out there that cared enough to reach out for help. There are many of them as a matter of fact, yet many who still do not. (But that's another conversation.) The second only confirms what a bunch of rubber-neckers we all are! And thirdly, thank Goodness we are. Good for you amateur sleuths, well done!
Solving mysteries is often compared to putting together puzzles. It's a lot of logical sequencing and so on but one thing that always bothers me as a mystery/comedy writer is using murder and death in that puzzle. In real life it's such a touchy and difficult subject filled with religious, cultural, and emotional belief systems. It's just so easy, as a writer, to gloss over the grieving people attached to a victim. But the truth is most people are loved and missed deeply. Lives are affected in waves of loss. That's what is so interesting to me about this story.
These two elderly women shunned society together. It seems they voluntarily shut themselves off from the world. Of course the Mystery of the Mysterious Twins was solved by strangers. There was no one else. But why? Why would these two, entertainers no less, go to such lengths to not have anyone, not one soul be in contact with them. That, to me, is where the mystery lies.
The link above relates a story of two elderly twins who cut themselves off from the world and eventually died. The police needed to contact next of kin but had no where to start because they were basically reclusive and only left each other as "next of kin."
I love this story. It is a sad demise of two elderly twin sisters, which should undoubtably not be overlooked or brushed aside - that's not what I like so much about it. BUT reading a bit further you find out that it was everyday people who jumped in and helped out.
The implications of this astound me. The first one being that there is a police department out there that cared enough to reach out for help. There are many of them as a matter of fact, yet many who still do not. (But that's another conversation.) The second only confirms what a bunch of rubber-neckers we all are! And thirdly, thank Goodness we are. Good for you amateur sleuths, well done!
Solving mysteries is often compared to putting together puzzles. It's a lot of logical sequencing and so on but one thing that always bothers me as a mystery/comedy writer is using murder and death in that puzzle. In real life it's such a touchy and difficult subject filled with religious, cultural, and emotional belief systems. It's just so easy, as a writer, to gloss over the grieving people attached to a victim. But the truth is most people are loved and missed deeply. Lives are affected in waves of loss. That's what is so interesting to me about this story.
These two elderly women shunned society together. It seems they voluntarily shut themselves off from the world. Of course the Mystery of the Mysterious Twins was solved by strangers. There was no one else. But why? Why would these two, entertainers no less, go to such lengths to not have anyone, not one soul be in contact with them. That, to me, is where the mystery lies.
February 21, 2012
A Legend of Jane Fonda
Something unfortunate had happened. Something about a misunderstanding as to why she went to Vietnam like, during the Vietnam War. All that had happened before I was born and in true pre-teen understanding it's not like it really happened 'cause, like, it didn't happen to me. I knew her as the dorky secretary in 9 to 5, who said, "Hit the road buster, this is where you get off!" And "because you're a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot." Whatever that meant, it was funny cause the women all had dreams like that. But the friends of my parents we went to the 9 to 5 movie with kept calling her Hanoi Jane. Afterward I asked my parents about the "Hand-eye Jane" thing. My father said Jane Fonda has a big mouth and my mother said she was against the Vietnam war and that's why they called her names. I no longer liked those friends, they tell us not to call each other names and then they do it. That's called being a hippocrate and only doctors are suppose to do it.
Then, I don't know how long after that, maybe a couple of summers, my mother got 'Physical, physical. Let me hear your body talk.' And that dorky secretary was in our living room in the morning saying something like, "Start with your feet, shoulder width apart and inhale…". Every morning I'd sit in the kitchen eating either, Cheerios, Co-Co Wheats, or a banana with peanut butter and listening to "Start with your feet, shoulder width apart and inhale…". I truly did not understand this. My mom had the waspy good looks of Morgan Fairchild and the upper-body strength of a blacksmith. (Honestly the woman is pushing 70 now and she could probably still bench press across the room me if I mouthed off to her – one more time!.) Finally, I walked into the living room. "Wow! Is that the woman from 9 to 5? She's so pretty."
And my mom said, "Get your ass back into the kitchen with that food! And if I see one Cheerio on the floor I'm going to throttle you." Which I also didn't understand because anything left on the floor was eaten either by the dog or sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, my father.
But anyway, A LONG time later I can still recite the words to the video, "Start with your feet, shoulder width apart and inhale…" all the way to the end where I imagine she was lying on the floor "feel your back touching the floor and imagine a string pulling you tall, now remember this when you stand up. Let's pull up slowly…."
I am now the same age as my mother was when she followed along with the Hand-eye Jane from 9 to 5. I am not massively overweight but getting thicker around the middle. Losing 15 pounds would not hurt me and would certainly make my knees feel a lot better. I have so very many choices: palates, Wii fit, biking (now called spinning), water aerobics, that thing with the big ball, drugs, the giant rubber bands, cardio, weights, drugs (I say this twice because considering how much of this crap is in the pharmacy aisles it bears a second mention.), netflix streaming has an entire section of fitness videos, yoga. Oh yoga, everyone does it. Our new rec center up the street has a lot of yoga classes for young and old and pregnant and athletes and pets.
But what do I do every morning? Close my eyes, listening to the memory, I start with my feet, shoulder width apart.
Then, I don't know how long after that, maybe a couple of summers, my mother got 'Physical, physical. Let me hear your body talk.' And that dorky secretary was in our living room in the morning saying something like, "Start with your feet, shoulder width apart and inhale…". Every morning I'd sit in the kitchen eating either, Cheerios, Co-Co Wheats, or a banana with peanut butter and listening to "Start with your feet, shoulder width apart and inhale…". I truly did not understand this. My mom had the waspy good looks of Morgan Fairchild and the upper-body strength of a blacksmith. (Honestly the woman is pushing 70 now and she could probably still bench press across the room me if I mouthed off to her – one more time!.) Finally, I walked into the living room. "Wow! Is that the woman from 9 to 5? She's so pretty."
And my mom said, "Get your ass back into the kitchen with that food! And if I see one Cheerio on the floor I'm going to throttle you." Which I also didn't understand because anything left on the floor was eaten either by the dog or sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, my father.
But anyway, A LONG time later I can still recite the words to the video, "Start with your feet, shoulder width apart and inhale…" all the way to the end where I imagine she was lying on the floor "feel your back touching the floor and imagine a string pulling you tall, now remember this when you stand up. Let's pull up slowly…."
I am now the same age as my mother was when she followed along with the Hand-eye Jane from 9 to 5. I am not massively overweight but getting thicker around the middle. Losing 15 pounds would not hurt me and would certainly make my knees feel a lot better. I have so very many choices: palates, Wii fit, biking (now called spinning), water aerobics, that thing with the big ball, drugs, the giant rubber bands, cardio, weights, drugs (I say this twice because considering how much of this crap is in the pharmacy aisles it bears a second mention.), netflix streaming has an entire section of fitness videos, yoga. Oh yoga, everyone does it. Our new rec center up the street has a lot of yoga classes for young and old and pregnant and athletes and pets.
But what do I do every morning? Close my eyes, listening to the memory, I start with my feet, shoulder width apart.
February 16, 2012
February is cRaZy month.
Every couple of months I come out of my writer's hole and make with the human interactions. Learning to work in solitude takes practice. I think the first thing you learn is human's need human interaction. For example, when I emerge out of the writer's hole, I'm careful about my verbal exchanges. Not every check out clerk needs to know I spent a week talking to imaginary characters and didn't shower or change out of my pajama's for 3 days. I save that glamorous lifestyle for my partner. Now some writers are old pro's at this, they've been doing it for 20 odd years they've got their writing schedules down to a science. They go into a room, first thing in the morning, shut the door and emerge four hours later and conduct the rest of their day. Or they have their day and at night they go into the room, shut the door, and come out a few hours later and go to bed. Either way - they've got it down, they are compartmentalized and they are bathed. I envy them. It's part of the reason I dislike the month of February. I think February should be called cRaZy MoNth. And I blame the weather, in part. Now I've never been a fan of the month of February, it's not May – with all the foliage blooming nor October with the crispy air nor even the "dog days of August". No, February is just there. Cold, wet and dreary, with an angst ridden pseudo-holiday hanging in the middle of it. Blaugh. February is the red headed step child of the calendar.
"Look here's June and July the twins of youthful summer-time, such a joy to so many children. Oh and February just walked in, such shifty eyes. So sad, don't turn your back on it."
But more to my point, February is the month when cabin fever starts setting in. Through the years I've noticed that people start getting really weird around the 10th of February. They start talking about inappropriate subjects with strangers. Feel the need to impose their opinions on anyone who will listen. Diabolical plans are made for when it warms up.
My opinion of February has not changed over the years. I used to bear down for the month and wait for it to pass. Frustrated every few years, unsure if it's 28 or 29 days of misery. But not anymore, see I realized that I can't cure what is wrong with February. It is systemic. Now, I am out there listening, taking notes, riding public transit, chatting to the shop owners. Not so much in judgment but in understanding watching the crazy take hold and collecting enough funny to fill 50 books – which in itself is a little bit crazy.
"Look here's June and July the twins of youthful summer-time, such a joy to so many children. Oh and February just walked in, such shifty eyes. So sad, don't turn your back on it."
But more to my point, February is the month when cabin fever starts setting in. Through the years I've noticed that people start getting really weird around the 10th of February. They start talking about inappropriate subjects with strangers. Feel the need to impose their opinions on anyone who will listen. Diabolical plans are made for when it warms up.
My opinion of February has not changed over the years. I used to bear down for the month and wait for it to pass. Frustrated every few years, unsure if it's 28 or 29 days of misery. But not anymore, see I realized that I can't cure what is wrong with February. It is systemic. Now, I am out there listening, taking notes, riding public transit, chatting to the shop owners. Not so much in judgment but in understanding watching the crazy take hold and collecting enough funny to fill 50 books – which in itself is a little bit crazy.
February 8, 2012
Casting the books
Who would play the lead characters in the movie production of The O Line Mysteries?
As the author of the books and producer of the podcasts that is such a difficult question. Imagining people playing the lead roles is very difficult because when I write the books now I actually hear the people who read for the roles in the podcast. If I ever turn the books into audiobooks they would be read by Nina, who played Annie. I can't imagine anyone else doing that.
But okay the casting. Well Michael would have to be a young Jackie Chan. Not so much with the martial arts but with nearly all Jackie Chan movies he finds himself in an unbelievable situation and he translates that 'holy crap!' feeling so well. And that ability would be so important for that role.
Tim would have to be an 'average joe' think Sean Astin.
I see Annie as perhaps Pauley Perrette, from NCIS, with auburn hair.
And Lorna would have to be played by Heather Graham or someone who can do comedy as well as she. I think she is a very under-utilized actress.
Lorna's sister, Tessa, I think Ali Wentworth would work well, or someone with her sensibilities.
And Sally would be someone like Rosalind Chao or China Chow.
Aisha Tyler or Debra Wilson would play Roberta Fitzgerald.
The rest of the cast would all be character actors and actresses.
By the way, I'm still working on the short story I mentioned earlier so stay tuned.
As the author of the books and producer of the podcasts that is such a difficult question. Imagining people playing the lead roles is very difficult because when I write the books now I actually hear the people who read for the roles in the podcast. If I ever turn the books into audiobooks they would be read by Nina, who played Annie. I can't imagine anyone else doing that.
But okay the casting. Well Michael would have to be a young Jackie Chan. Not so much with the martial arts but with nearly all Jackie Chan movies he finds himself in an unbelievable situation and he translates that 'holy crap!' feeling so well. And that ability would be so important for that role.
Tim would have to be an 'average joe' think Sean Astin.
I see Annie as perhaps Pauley Perrette, from NCIS, with auburn hair.
And Lorna would have to be played by Heather Graham or someone who can do comedy as well as she. I think she is a very under-utilized actress.
Lorna's sister, Tessa, I think Ali Wentworth would work well, or someone with her sensibilities.
And Sally would be someone like Rosalind Chao or China Chow.
Aisha Tyler or Debra Wilson would play Roberta Fitzgerald.
The rest of the cast would all be character actors and actresses.
By the way, I'm still working on the short story I mentioned earlier so stay tuned.
January 30, 2012
NEW Page added
To your left of this blog entry you'll see the new page I added, called Podcast Show Script. I added The Art Show script (#14), which was eventually called Robbed by Numbers in the podcast. It is close to verbatim to the show that aired (except where the actors took welcomed liberties from the written word). SO if you have a the page opened parents beware the bad words are bleeped in the show but written out in the script.
I chose to use this particular script because was a challenging show to edit. If you read through it you will see in Act 2 Scene 4, Lorna returns to the art class and except for one line she doesn't speak. But the challenge was to "show" Lorna's presence without having her speak. If you listen to the show, you'll hear how this was done. Using this sound effect I was able not only to "show" Lorna but I could also give her "reactions" to what was being said to her.
In the coming weeks I'm going to be writing that show into a short story, which I will add as another page on the blog. I chose this script again, this time because of the varied characters involved and because it falls almost perfectly into the definition of the "cozy" genre. I don't think it is the funniest script by far or the easiest to "translate" over into a short story, but it can give a lot of examples for the script to page.
As a matter of fact, I don't completely remember writing the show in the first place. But I do remember it was getting close to Christmas time and I was very much looking forward to a break in the production. I can only imagine that I was having a little burn out in the script writing and probably thought, "I have an idea. I just won't have the main character talk at all!" Then in the editing I probably sat there at 3 am wondering what the heck I was thinking in the first place, not having the main character speak! Now what do I do?
Funny, how things turn out.
I chose to use this particular script because was a challenging show to edit. If you read through it you will see in Act 2 Scene 4, Lorna returns to the art class and except for one line she doesn't speak. But the challenge was to "show" Lorna's presence without having her speak. If you listen to the show, you'll hear how this was done. Using this sound effect I was able not only to "show" Lorna but I could also give her "reactions" to what was being said to her.
In the coming weeks I'm going to be writing that show into a short story, which I will add as another page on the blog. I chose this script again, this time because of the varied characters involved and because it falls almost perfectly into the definition of the "cozy" genre. I don't think it is the funniest script by far or the easiest to "translate" over into a short story, but it can give a lot of examples for the script to page.
As a matter of fact, I don't completely remember writing the show in the first place. But I do remember it was getting close to Christmas time and I was very much looking forward to a break in the production. I can only imagine that I was having a little burn out in the script writing and probably thought, "I have an idea. I just won't have the main character talk at all!" Then in the editing I probably sat there at 3 am wondering what the heck I was thinking in the first place, not having the main character speak! Now what do I do?
Funny, how things turn out.
January 23, 2012
Follow up to New York Times
I was really glad to see Jennifer Weiner follow up on this 2010 revelation. You can read the whole article here
The basic run down is this: back in the summer of 2010 Ms. Weiner and several other female writers lifted the veil on the inequality (male vs. female) of the New York Times in their coverage of reviewing books. They did this, I might add, at their own peril. Just like so many whistle blowers who've come before them, they faced a horrific backlash of ire towards female writers. How dare they point out the obvious?
Now in January of 2012 she is looking back on the coverage of 2011. And to no ones surprise the New York Times has barely budged toward equality in their coverage. But bless her heart, she's still there pointing out the obvious. I give Jennifer and the other writers full on kudo's and stand behind them in their pursuit.
So now that they have pointed out the obvious and watched the full year reaction. (which was nominal) What do you do about that? Why keep giving the New York Times book review so much weight? What if everyone said, 'No thanks, I'd rather you didn't print my review'; what if we stopped blurbing them on the back of the books; what if we stopped buying into their book review; what if we stopped getting their newspaper; what if we give our audience an alternative to their reviews. Perhaps start a syndicated column for local newspapers. I'm not talking about The Minneapolis Star Tribune, but the real local: Crawley Hole, California's Pea Pecker Tribune.
The other REAL problem I have is with the reaction to the results reported. The reaction that was ignited back in 2010 said more about, no, it screamed more about the people screaming then the actual numbers reported. Obviously the Times doesn't give a rat's dingy what their content creator's (the female writers who provide them with books to review) think. With their marginal betterment of reviews they are basically saying, 'Shut up and sit down'. These woman who ignited this shit storm reaction weren't asking for 75% of the reviews, they weren't even asking for 55%. But the problem was they were asking and they had numbers to back it up.
Now then, another question we might ask is can women stick together and organize themselves enough to bring about a change? (The Times obviously aren't going to do it.) Can these whistle blowers, whom, make no mistake, I support fully, be pioneers? Now that they've faced the worst, blowing the whistle, can they make the next logical step?
The basic run down is this: back in the summer of 2010 Ms. Weiner and several other female writers lifted the veil on the inequality (male vs. female) of the New York Times in their coverage of reviewing books. They did this, I might add, at their own peril. Just like so many whistle blowers who've come before them, they faced a horrific backlash of ire towards female writers. How dare they point out the obvious?
Now in January of 2012 she is looking back on the coverage of 2011. And to no ones surprise the New York Times has barely budged toward equality in their coverage. But bless her heart, she's still there pointing out the obvious. I give Jennifer and the other writers full on kudo's and stand behind them in their pursuit.
So now that they have pointed out the obvious and watched the full year reaction. (which was nominal) What do you do about that? Why keep giving the New York Times book review so much weight? What if everyone said, 'No thanks, I'd rather you didn't print my review'; what if we stopped blurbing them on the back of the books; what if we stopped buying into their book review; what if we stopped getting their newspaper; what if we give our audience an alternative to their reviews. Perhaps start a syndicated column for local newspapers. I'm not talking about The Minneapolis Star Tribune, but the real local: Crawley Hole, California's Pea Pecker Tribune.
The other REAL problem I have is with the reaction to the results reported. The reaction that was ignited back in 2010 said more about, no, it screamed more about the people screaming then the actual numbers reported. Obviously the Times doesn't give a rat's dingy what their content creator's (the female writers who provide them with books to review) think. With their marginal betterment of reviews they are basically saying, 'Shut up and sit down'. These woman who ignited this shit storm reaction weren't asking for 75% of the reviews, they weren't even asking for 55%. But the problem was they were asking and they had numbers to back it up.
Now then, another question we might ask is can women stick together and organize themselves enough to bring about a change? (The Times obviously aren't going to do it.) Can these whistle blowers, whom, make no mistake, I support fully, be pioneers? Now that they've faced the worst, blowing the whistle, can they make the next logical step?
January 17, 2012
Ahhh input days
This is my favorite time. When I give myself a break from the writing and relax with some good books. I'm not one of those writers who can compartmentalize what they read and what they write. If I were to read, say, Alexander McCall Smith and then try to write my own characters dialogue I'd end up with Annie sounding like Precious from The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency and Lorna sounding like someone from 44 Scotland Street. This would be a frustrating disaster so I have my "input" days. Before I start outlining book 3 The Rot is Deep I've chose 4 books for myself.
In case you can't see that it's: Left Hand of Darkness. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Mandelbaum Gate. and F is for Fugitive. (Okay you shut up. I like Sue Grafton.)
It's quite a variety. But all very well written. I wasn't always very conscious about my input days, I read as much of anything and everything I could get my hands on. But as I get less and less of these days I'm more careful. I think maybe my input days are directly correlated to my output days (days spent writing and rewriting). And I no longer want to read things that are not as close to perfect in syntax, grammar, and story arc as they can be. It is an experiment, so we'll see.
In case you can't see that it's: Left Hand of Darkness. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Mandelbaum Gate. and F is for Fugitive. (Okay you shut up. I like Sue Grafton.)
It's quite a variety. But all very well written. I wasn't always very conscious about my input days, I read as much of anything and everything I could get my hands on. But as I get less and less of these days I'm more careful. I think maybe my input days are directly correlated to my output days (days spent writing and rewriting). And I no longer want to read things that are not as close to perfect in syntax, grammar, and story arc as they can be. It is an experiment, so we'll see.
January 13, 2012
A Friday the 13th Mystery of the Dead Opossum.
Whenever a Friday the 13th rolls around it always reminds me that there were some things my mom got right raising me. One of those things was not allowing me to watch horror films because I had an over active imagination. On that list of horror films was anything R rated and any Disney film where they'd kill off the parents like Dumbo and Bambi. Which I still haven't seen and probably won't now. But Mom always took me to Hitchcock films, I think I was probably too young and fell asleep a lot. Rear Window, To Catch a Thief, Pyscho.
Brrpt! What?
Yes, she took me to Psycho. It was part of a double feature and I think she was hoping I'd fall asleep after The Man Who Knew Too Much. But just in case I didn't, she explained the movie to me before hand. "It's about a man whose mom dies and he goes crazy and dresses up in her clothes and kills people."
"Why?"
"I guess because he was so lonely and turned mean and he pretended to hear her talking to him. There is a part of the film where the actress takes a shower and he stabs her while she's in the shower and it's really scary." Then she made her pretend 'scary face' and screamed.
I could see 'the scary' was part was of the fun.
"Janet Lee plays the woman who pretends to get stabbed and she's really good at it." Again with the 'scary face' and she screamed. Hey, 'fun' was my middle name! I was excited.
"Her daughter is the woman who's in that scary film 'Halloween'. Jamie Curtis. Jamie Lee Curtis."
…I still can't shower without a see through shower curtain. Thanks Mom.
Fast-forward a few years. Now I'm able to stay home without a baby sitter. It's a typical Friday night. Parents out, sister on a date, and at home - just me and the Great Dane. But it's a Friday the 13th and cable was all of the scary movies. Halloween to be exact, the original with Jamie Lee Curtis. Now, I know the rule. No horror movies. But there was nothing else on, remember these were the early days of cable. Mtv was barely poking on with weird techno videos I didn't understand and dam'it I was too old for Hee Haw. So, Halloween it was.
…What the hell is wrong with these Lee Curtis women!
I couldn't finish the movie. I just shut off the TV and sat there. Absolutely, shaken to the wick, scared out of my wits. Alone. Grateful to have the Dane – family pet, best friend, protector. But the Dane was pawing at the door. She had to go out. And when a Great Dane has to go. They HAVE to go OUT. There are no wee wee pads for Great Danes. But I was scared.
Now, just one caveat here - we lived on a farm and as any person from a rural upbringing will tell you there are TWO things you DO NOT mess with and one of those things is the opossum. They have teeth like razors and I've seen them tear off legs and rip gaping holes in the throats of some beloved pets. They are not to be messed with nor cornered. And we had an opossum problem, which was one of the reason's the Dane was in the house with me in the first place.
Anyway, I was scared and the Dane had to take a dump. I let her out the front porch, turned on all the porch lights and watched. But, sure enough, she goes over to the side of the house, out of my view. So I slip on my boots (it must have been summer, I wore boots in the summer's because of all the snakes. Yeah- that rural.) and went over to the side. The Dane started to growl. Holy Crap. I saw two glowing beady eyes shining at me from out of the dark. The Dane poised to attack.
"Dane. NO! Come here. Heel! Dane NO!"
She lowered her head to attack.
I ran back inside, I could hear the Dane's echoing bark as leapt up the stairs. I ran to my father's closet, grabbed his shotgun, threw open his dresser drawer and pawed through his unmentionables. Ew. ew. ew. Grabbed two shells, stuffed them into the chamber while running back through the house to the front door, and stopped. It was silent, no barking. I carefully made my way over to the side of the house. The Dane and the opossum were circling. I could see the opossum open it's mouth and bare its razor's at my dog. The Dane made a jab toward the opossum and barked. I could see the opossum rise up. I don't remember aiming or pulling the trigger. I don't remember landing on my back. But there I was. My ears ringing and there was a sharp pain in my shoulder. It took me a second to shake it off and my marbles to reassemble in my brain. The gun lay next to me. What have I done?
I got up and looked around. I could see the Dane, she was back in the front now, taking a big dump. I picked up the gun, careful to keep my balance, the ringing in my ears was so intense. The gun was hot and my arms felt like Jell-O with its weight. I looked around for the opossum, but I didn't see anything. The Dane did her galloping 'after poop' dance toward me. She halted, looking at the gun and admonished me with a heavy bark and whine. I put the gun back down, grabbed her collar and ushered her back into the house. I hadn't shot the dog. But maybe I hadn't shot the opossum either. I walked back out carefully lifting the gun back up and looking around.
I finished wiping the gun down and put it back. Hiding the spent shell in the rags, I stuffed them way down into the garbage outside. Everything smelled like sulfur. I brought the Dane into the bathroom with me and took a shower. I stuffed my pajamas deep into the hamper in the basement, covering them with my father's dirty underwear. Ew. ew. ew.
Even on holidays the Dane was not allowed in the upstairs with the bedrooms, kitchen, and dining room. I brought the Dane into my bedroom, where she fell asleep on the floor next to my bed. So far tonight, I thought, I have broken every possible law. I've watched a horror movie, shot my father's gun, walked in the house with my boots on, and used the stove. (I left out the popcorn part – for brevities sake.) What's one more desecrated law? I could have killed our beloved Dane!
I awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs. My door had been shut and there was no Dane in the room.
I walked into the kitchen where the other thing that you DO NOT mess with was making pancakes.
"What happened last night?" Mom asked me.
I shrugged and yawned. "Nothin'."
"Well, Dad is out burying a dead opossum. We drove up last night and it was laying there on the front porch." She shuddered. "It was bloody, oh, it was awful, I was worried that the Dane had killed it and left it there. Did she go outside?"
"Yeah, she had to poop. I'll clean it up later. I didn't want to go out at night."
"Well, why would an opossum crawl up to a front porch like that. Your Dad thinks someone shot it, but didn't kill it and it just crawled up there to die."
I nodded. "Probably."
"Did you hear any shots last night?"
Uh oh. "Maybe, I don't know, I was in the basement with the TV on. It wasn't there when I let her out to poop."
"What did you watch?"
"Hee Haw."
Just then my hormone crazed teen-aged older sister came thundering in, "She was in my room again, MOM!"
"No, I wasn't." It was the only honest thing I had said in the last twenty-four hours. But then I thought about it. Had I? I mean, it's completely possible.
"Did you see a dead opossum when you came in last night?"
"NO." She said truculently. Such a stupid question.
"Did you hear any gun shots?"
"NO. I don't know what you're talking about."
She looks guilty, I thought.
"Did you shoot an opossum last night?" I cross-examined her.
"Shut up!" She snapped at me and spooned eggs onto her plate.
Just then the Dane came to the back sliding glass door and stared in at me, her eyes so innocent and trusting. My hands began to shake a little, last nights events washed over me in a hot fear wave. I could have killed her. And how would I explain that exactly? Jamie Lee Curtis made me do it? This is why I'm not allowed to watch horror films. These weren't little fibs or sneaking into my sister's room to listen to Elton John records. These were big, hairy, bad rules that I had –
"Stay out of my room or I'm going to kill you." My sister hissed at me through her eggs.
Pfft! I spit out some of my pancake and started laughing at her.
Mom sat down and started dishing food onto her plate. "Okay, enough. I guess it's just a mystery then."
I nodded in agreement. "It is. It's a mystery. Mystery of the dead opossum."
My sister stopped eating and looked hard at me, her eyes narrowing. I got up from my seat and cuddled up to my mom. I really needed a hug and as always, she complied.
To protect the innocent bystander, the name of The Dane was changed. Not that she ever told anyone what I almost did on Friday the 13th.
Brrpt! What?
Yes, she took me to Psycho. It was part of a double feature and I think she was hoping I'd fall asleep after The Man Who Knew Too Much. But just in case I didn't, she explained the movie to me before hand. "It's about a man whose mom dies and he goes crazy and dresses up in her clothes and kills people."
"Why?"
"I guess because he was so lonely and turned mean and he pretended to hear her talking to him. There is a part of the film where the actress takes a shower and he stabs her while she's in the shower and it's really scary." Then she made her pretend 'scary face' and screamed.
I could see 'the scary' was part was of the fun.
"Janet Lee plays the woman who pretends to get stabbed and she's really good at it." Again with the 'scary face' and she screamed. Hey, 'fun' was my middle name! I was excited.
"Her daughter is the woman who's in that scary film 'Halloween'. Jamie Curtis. Jamie Lee Curtis."
…I still can't shower without a see through shower curtain. Thanks Mom.
Fast-forward a few years. Now I'm able to stay home without a baby sitter. It's a typical Friday night. Parents out, sister on a date, and at home - just me and the Great Dane. But it's a Friday the 13th and cable was all of the scary movies. Halloween to be exact, the original with Jamie Lee Curtis. Now, I know the rule. No horror movies. But there was nothing else on, remember these were the early days of cable. Mtv was barely poking on with weird techno videos I didn't understand and dam'it I was too old for Hee Haw. So, Halloween it was.
…What the hell is wrong with these Lee Curtis women!
I couldn't finish the movie. I just shut off the TV and sat there. Absolutely, shaken to the wick, scared out of my wits. Alone. Grateful to have the Dane – family pet, best friend, protector. But the Dane was pawing at the door. She had to go out. And when a Great Dane has to go. They HAVE to go OUT. There are no wee wee pads for Great Danes. But I was scared.
Now, just one caveat here - we lived on a farm and as any person from a rural upbringing will tell you there are TWO things you DO NOT mess with and one of those things is the opossum. They have teeth like razors and I've seen them tear off legs and rip gaping holes in the throats of some beloved pets. They are not to be messed with nor cornered. And we had an opossum problem, which was one of the reason's the Dane was in the house with me in the first place.
Anyway, I was scared and the Dane had to take a dump. I let her out the front porch, turned on all the porch lights and watched. But, sure enough, she goes over to the side of the house, out of my view. So I slip on my boots (it must have been summer, I wore boots in the summer's because of all the snakes. Yeah- that rural.) and went over to the side. The Dane started to growl. Holy Crap. I saw two glowing beady eyes shining at me from out of the dark. The Dane poised to attack.
"Dane. NO! Come here. Heel! Dane NO!"
She lowered her head to attack.
I ran back inside, I could hear the Dane's echoing bark as leapt up the stairs. I ran to my father's closet, grabbed his shotgun, threw open his dresser drawer and pawed through his unmentionables. Ew. ew. ew. Grabbed two shells, stuffed them into the chamber while running back through the house to the front door, and stopped. It was silent, no barking. I carefully made my way over to the side of the house. The Dane and the opossum were circling. I could see the opossum open it's mouth and bare its razor's at my dog. The Dane made a jab toward the opossum and barked. I could see the opossum rise up. I don't remember aiming or pulling the trigger. I don't remember landing on my back. But there I was. My ears ringing and there was a sharp pain in my shoulder. It took me a second to shake it off and my marbles to reassemble in my brain. The gun lay next to me. What have I done?
I got up and looked around. I could see the Dane, she was back in the front now, taking a big dump. I picked up the gun, careful to keep my balance, the ringing in my ears was so intense. The gun was hot and my arms felt like Jell-O with its weight. I looked around for the opossum, but I didn't see anything. The Dane did her galloping 'after poop' dance toward me. She halted, looking at the gun and admonished me with a heavy bark and whine. I put the gun back down, grabbed her collar and ushered her back into the house. I hadn't shot the dog. But maybe I hadn't shot the opossum either. I walked back out carefully lifting the gun back up and looking around.
I finished wiping the gun down and put it back. Hiding the spent shell in the rags, I stuffed them way down into the garbage outside. Everything smelled like sulfur. I brought the Dane into the bathroom with me and took a shower. I stuffed my pajamas deep into the hamper in the basement, covering them with my father's dirty underwear. Ew. ew. ew.
Even on holidays the Dane was not allowed in the upstairs with the bedrooms, kitchen, and dining room. I brought the Dane into my bedroom, where she fell asleep on the floor next to my bed. So far tonight, I thought, I have broken every possible law. I've watched a horror movie, shot my father's gun, walked in the house with my boots on, and used the stove. (I left out the popcorn part – for brevities sake.) What's one more desecrated law? I could have killed our beloved Dane!
I awoke to the smell of bacon and eggs. My door had been shut and there was no Dane in the room.
I walked into the kitchen where the other thing that you DO NOT mess with was making pancakes.
"What happened last night?" Mom asked me.
I shrugged and yawned. "Nothin'."
"Well, Dad is out burying a dead opossum. We drove up last night and it was laying there on the front porch." She shuddered. "It was bloody, oh, it was awful, I was worried that the Dane had killed it and left it there. Did she go outside?"
"Yeah, she had to poop. I'll clean it up later. I didn't want to go out at night."
"Well, why would an opossum crawl up to a front porch like that. Your Dad thinks someone shot it, but didn't kill it and it just crawled up there to die."
I nodded. "Probably."
"Did you hear any shots last night?"
Uh oh. "Maybe, I don't know, I was in the basement with the TV on. It wasn't there when I let her out to poop."
"What did you watch?"
"Hee Haw."
Just then my hormone crazed teen-aged older sister came thundering in, "She was in my room again, MOM!"
"No, I wasn't." It was the only honest thing I had said in the last twenty-four hours. But then I thought about it. Had I? I mean, it's completely possible.
"Did you see a dead opossum when you came in last night?"
"NO." She said truculently. Such a stupid question.
"Did you hear any gun shots?"
"NO. I don't know what you're talking about."
She looks guilty, I thought.
"Did you shoot an opossum last night?" I cross-examined her.
"Shut up!" She snapped at me and spooned eggs onto her plate.
Just then the Dane came to the back sliding glass door and stared in at me, her eyes so innocent and trusting. My hands began to shake a little, last nights events washed over me in a hot fear wave. I could have killed her. And how would I explain that exactly? Jamie Lee Curtis made me do it? This is why I'm not allowed to watch horror films. These weren't little fibs or sneaking into my sister's room to listen to Elton John records. These were big, hairy, bad rules that I had –
"Stay out of my room or I'm going to kill you." My sister hissed at me through her eggs.
Pfft! I spit out some of my pancake and started laughing at her.
Mom sat down and started dishing food onto her plate. "Okay, enough. I guess it's just a mystery then."
I nodded in agreement. "It is. It's a mystery. Mystery of the dead opossum."
My sister stopped eating and looked hard at me, her eyes narrowing. I got up from my seat and cuddled up to my mom. I really needed a hug and as always, she complied.
To protect the innocent bystander, the name of The Dane was changed. Not that she ever told anyone what I almost did on Friday the 13th.
January 10, 2012
Book 2 is officially out!
Hello! Where have you been? Did you have good holidays? Welcome back, I'm glad you're here. I have something I am excited to tell you about. But first let me apologize for not blogging over the holidays.
I would have blogged earlier but I was in a bad mood and I don't like to invite others to wallow around in my emotional stink. I was grumpy, okay that's an understatement, I was overstuffed with regret and pithy sentiment. I was lying at the bottom in the pool of self-doubt. Dark times. Marketing will do that to even the strongest of us. When I finish a project I'm dancing my happy ass around the house, buy myself a little something pretty, and take myself out to lunch. Alas, that is the lament of a self-publishing writer isn't it? We tend to live in a vacuum. (I buy myself something-I take myself out-)
I believe there are self-publishing writers out there who really think that they don't have to market their work, those who don't know how, and those who refuse to learn how. Marketing is hard. You really have to gird yourself. You have to learn a new skills. Pace yourself. Have patience. Unclinch that protective bubble you lived in while writing and open yourself to a new experience. Which leads me to that thing I wanted to tell about The Disaster Relief Club – Book 2 of The O Line Mystery Series is out now! Yay! (happy dance happy dance happy dance)
I would have blogged earlier but I was in a bad mood and I don't like to invite others to wallow around in my emotional stink. I was grumpy, okay that's an understatement, I was overstuffed with regret and pithy sentiment. I was lying at the bottom in the pool of self-doubt. Dark times. Marketing will do that to even the strongest of us. When I finish a project I'm dancing my happy ass around the house, buy myself a little something pretty, and take myself out to lunch. Alas, that is the lament of a self-publishing writer isn't it? We tend to live in a vacuum. (I buy myself something-I take myself out-)
I believe there are self-publishing writers out there who really think that they don't have to market their work, those who don't know how, and those who refuse to learn how. Marketing is hard. You really have to gird yourself. You have to learn a new skills. Pace yourself. Have patience. Unclinch that protective bubble you lived in while writing and open yourself to a new experience. Which leads me to that thing I wanted to tell about The Disaster Relief Club – Book 2 of The O Line Mystery Series is out now! Yay! (happy dance happy dance happy dance)
December 12, 2011
Crazy Questions
SCENE IN AN ORGANIC MARKET
"Excuse me, my name is Saylor Billings and I write a mystery series called The O Line Mysteries. I'm working out a plot just now and I just have a couple quick questions if you have a moment."
"Oh?"
"Is there a way I could murder someone with your organic beans?"
"Well sure, I've actually thought about that a lot…"
Coming up with original and inventive ways to create mayhem on the page is really a part time job. Imagined conversations, motives, underlying meanings all make for a rich interior life and if you can get it on the page all the better. There are also plenty of writer's murder manuals out there as well. But there is always a point when you, as a writer, are standing in a store – be it a hardware shop, florist, or whatever – and it dawns on you that maybe your protagonists can defend themselves with duct tape.
I would love to write a series called the Duct Tape Mysteries. It would be about the protagonists in a bad situation and each time all they have is a roll of duct tape to save the day. But that's not my point…
My point is you'll have to have the conversation with someone (probably someone who, up until that moment, is a complete stranger). And you need to do it without sounding like a complete lunatic or an actual criminal. As writers we aren't exactly the most gregarious group of social butterflies but there are a few guidelines to help guide you through until it becomes second nature.
Here's what I do: first of all, I don't worry about what people think of me or my crazy questions. But with that in mind I am respectful of other people's time. Don't bug someone if they're in the middle of something. If someone looks busy I just introduce myself and ask if I may come back later to ask them a couple of questions about their work or product or whatever. If you are in a hurry don't put that burden on someone else.
Secondly, don't argue with them. I only say this because I've seen another writer do it. They actual called a travel agent, introduced themselves, asked their plot question and then proceeded to argue about the answer. (Ooof, some people have no shame.) But my original second point was: Secondly, try asking open-ended questions. Such as I was going to have a character work in a dog food factory and I'm wondering what type of background you look for in your employees who make up the ingredients? Is it biology or chemistry or animal sciences?
Third, thank them for spending time with you and sharing their knowledge. Whether or not they've been helpful. Whether or not they've answered your questions. If they've gone out of their way or inadvertently saved your bacon in some way - always thank them in the book.
"Excuse me, my name is Saylor Billings and I write a mystery series called The O Line Mysteries. I'm working out a plot just now and I just have a couple quick questions if you have a moment."
"Oh?"
"Is there a way I could murder someone with your organic beans?"
"Well sure, I've actually thought about that a lot…"
Coming up with original and inventive ways to create mayhem on the page is really a part time job. Imagined conversations, motives, underlying meanings all make for a rich interior life and if you can get it on the page all the better. There are also plenty of writer's murder manuals out there as well. But there is always a point when you, as a writer, are standing in a store – be it a hardware shop, florist, or whatever – and it dawns on you that maybe your protagonists can defend themselves with duct tape.
I would love to write a series called the Duct Tape Mysteries. It would be about the protagonists in a bad situation and each time all they have is a roll of duct tape to save the day. But that's not my point…
My point is you'll have to have the conversation with someone (probably someone who, up until that moment, is a complete stranger). And you need to do it without sounding like a complete lunatic or an actual criminal. As writers we aren't exactly the most gregarious group of social butterflies but there are a few guidelines to help guide you through until it becomes second nature.
Here's what I do: first of all, I don't worry about what people think of me or my crazy questions. But with that in mind I am respectful of other people's time. Don't bug someone if they're in the middle of something. If someone looks busy I just introduce myself and ask if I may come back later to ask them a couple of questions about their work or product or whatever. If you are in a hurry don't put that burden on someone else.
Secondly, don't argue with them. I only say this because I've seen another writer do it. They actual called a travel agent, introduced themselves, asked their plot question and then proceeded to argue about the answer. (Ooof, some people have no shame.) But my original second point was: Secondly, try asking open-ended questions. Such as I was going to have a character work in a dog food factory and I'm wondering what type of background you look for in your employees who make up the ingredients? Is it biology or chemistry or animal sciences?
Third, thank them for spending time with you and sharing their knowledge. Whether or not they've been helpful. Whether or not they've answered your questions. If they've gone out of their way or inadvertently saved your bacon in some way - always thank them in the book.
