Erick Burgess's Blog, page 6

The Axeman of New Orleans

Everyone is familiar with the story of Jack the Ripper who began terrorizing the Whitechapel district of London in 1888, but many outside of Louisiana haven't heard the story of the Axeman of New Orleans.  The Axeman of New Orleans was a serial killer active in New Orleans, Louisiana from May 1918 to October 1919. I even have to admit, the story was new to me when I found an article in a special edition of Life magazine called, The Greatest Unsolved Mysteries of All Time.  From the start, I was fascinated by the story and wondered why the Axeman hadn't received the notoriety of his predecessor.

On the morning of May 22, 1918, Andrew and Jake Maggio, found their brother, Joseph, barely clinging to life.  Joseph, a married local grocer, was covered in blood and unable to stand. His wife Catherine, lying in a pool of blood, was already dead. The brothers immediately called the police.  Though a straight razor and axe were found at the scene, there was no other physical evidence. Reports indicated Catherine was nearly decapitated.  The razor was found to belong to Andrew, but he was quickly ruled out as a suspect.

After two weeks the city had begun to settle down, when in the early morning hours of June 6, 1918, Louis Besumer, another grocer, was found alongside his mistress Anna Lowe. Besumer was critically wounded in the attack but survived. His female companion died a few hours later at Charity Hospital after giving the police many conflicting stories, ranging from being attacked by a "mulatto" to actually being victimized by Besumer himself.  Again, the investigators found the door had been pried open with a wood chisel and once again a rusty hatchet belonging to Besumer was the murder weapon. No fingerprints were taken, but bloody bare footprints were left at the scene. On August 5, 1918, Edward returned home from work to find his wife covered in blood. Though she had a gaping head wound and some of her teeth were knocked out, she was still alive.  The situation was compounded by the fact that Mrs. Schneider was 8 months pregnant.  The police were called and Schneider was taken to Charity Hospital.  She stated that she awoke to find a dark figure standing over her.  The man bashed her in the face repeatedly with an axe. She was treated for her wounds and delivered a healthy baby girl 3 weeks after the attack.

On the evening of August 10, 1918, Pauline Bruno awoke to find a man standing over her.  She screamed and the man, whom she described as being very light on his feet, leapt away into the night. She went to her uncle's room seeking assistance, but found him critically injured.  The physical evidence was the same, the door panel had been chiseled out and an axe was left in the yard. The city was in a panic, but when the Axeman didn't show himself for the rest of the year, everyone settled back into their normal routines.  Had he disappeared like his English counterpart?

That question was answered on the night of March 10, 1919. Charles Cortimiglia lived with his wife and baby in the New Orleans suburb of Gretna.  When screams were heard coming from the Cortimiglia Residence, neighbors rushed in to find Rosie Cortimiglia kneeling on the floor in a pool of blood next to her husband.  He had a gaping hole in his torso. She was badly wounded but survived the incident.  Her two-year daughter was not as fortunate.  Rosie was holding her daughter at the time of the attack. On March 13, 1919, a letter purporting to be from the Axeman was published in the newspapers saying that he would kill again at 15 minutes past midnight on the night of March 19, but would spare the occupants of any place where a jazz band was playing.

Esteemed Mortal:

They have never caught me and they never will.  They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth.  I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell.  I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.

When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims.  I alone know who they shall be.  I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with the blood and brains of him whom I have sent below to keep me company.

If you wish you may tell the police not to rile me.  Of course I am a reasonable spirit.  I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigation in the past.  In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to amuse not only me but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc.  But tell them to beware.  Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman.  I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past.  They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.

Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to.  If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night.  At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship to the Angel of Death.

Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to visit New Orleans again.  In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a proposition to you people.   Here it is:

I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have mentioned.  If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people.  One thing is certain and that is that some of those people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.

Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and as it is about time that I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse.  Hoping that thou wilt publish this, and that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fantasy.

The Axeman

Jazz filled the night air and no one was killed that night.  Steve Boca was a grocer who was attacked in his bedroom as he slept by an axe-wielding intruder on August 10, 1919. He stumbled from his home to get help from a friend.  Although Boca recovered, he had no memory of the details of the attack.  Police discover a panel had been chiseled from his door and the axe left in his kitchen.  Nothing had been taken.

Three weeks later on September 3, 1919, someone entered the home of Sarah Laumann, but not through a door panel.  The 19-year-old girl was found unconscious in her bed, with multiple wounds to her head.  She later died at the hospital. A bloody axe was left outside an open window. The final victim, Mike Pepitone, was attacked on the night of October 27, 1919. His wife was awakened by a noise and arrived at the door of his bedroom just as a large axe-wielding man was rushing out of it.  Mrs. Pepitone gave the police conflicting stories regarding her husband's attack and did not seem distraught when police arrived and found her kneeling over the body of her recently deceased husband.  It should be noted that Mrs. Pepitone later shot and killed a man she claimed ran past her the night her husband was killed.  Her accusations were never substantiated. There were no more axe murders in New Orleans. There was rampant speculation as to the identity of the mysterious killer.  Some people thought that he was the devil himself while others thought the Axeman used the powers of voodoo to get away with his crimes. No one knows for sure who the Axeman was, but he was never brought to justice for the reign of terror his crimes caused the city of New Orleans.

Filed under: Unsolved Louisiana

The Axeman of New Orleans

Everyone is familiar with the story of Jack the Ripper who began terrorizing the Whitechapel district of London in 1888, but many outside of Louisiana haven't heard the story of the Axeman of New Orleans.  The Axeman of New Orleans was a serial killer active in New Orleans, Louisiana from May 1918 to October 1919. I even have to admit, the story was new to me when I found an article in a special edition of Life magazine called, The Greatest Unsolved Mysteries of All Time.  From the start, I was fascinated by the story and wondered why the Axeman hadn't received the notoriety of his predecessor.

On the morning of May 22, 1918, Andrew and Jake Maggio, found their brother, Joseph, barely clinging to life.  Joseph, a married local grocer, was covered in blood and unable to stand. His wife Catherine, lying in a pool of blood, was already dead. The brothers immediately called the police.  Though a straight razor and axe were found at the scene, there was no other physical evidence. Reports indicated Catherine was nearly decapitated.  The razor was found to belong to Andrew, but he was quickly ruled out as a suspect.

After two weeks the city had begun to settle down, when in the early morning hours of June 6, 1918, Louis Besumer, another grocer, was found alongside his mistress Anna Lowe. Besumer was critically wounded in the attack but survived. His female companion died a few hours later at Charity Hospital after giving the police many conflicting stories, ranging from being attacked by a "mulatto" to actually being victimized by Besumer himself.  Again, the investigators found the door had been pried open with a wood chisel and once again a rusty hatchet belonging to Besumer was the murder weapon. No fingerprints were taken, but bloody bare footprints were left at the scene. On August 5, 1918, Edward returned home from work to find his wife covered in blood. Though she had a gaping head wound and some of her teeth were knocked out, she was still alive.  The situation was compounded by the fact that Mrs. Schneider was 8 months pregnant.  The police were called and Schneider was taken to Charity Hospital.  She stated that she awoke to find a dark figure standing over her.  The man bashed her in the face repeatedly with an axe. She was treated for her wounds and delivered a healthy baby girl 3 weeks after the attack.

On the evening of August 10, 1918, Pauline Bruno awoke to find a man standing over her.  She screamed and the man, whom she described as being very light on his feet, leapt away into the night. She went to her uncle's room seeking assistance, but found him critically injured.  The physical evidence was the same, the door panel had been chiseled out and an axe was left in the yard. The city was in a panic, but when the Axeman didn't show himself for the rest of the year, everyone settled back into their normal routines.  Had he disappeared like his English counterpart?

That question was answered on the night of March 10, 1919. Charles Cortimiglia lived with his wife and baby in the New Orleans suburb of Gretna.  When screams were heard coming from the Cortimiglia Residence, neighbors rushed in to find Rosie Cortimiglia kneeling on the floor in a pool of blood next to her husband.  He had a gaping hole in his torso. She was badly wounded but survived the incident.  Her two-year daughter was not as fortunate.  Rosie was holding her daughter at the time of the attack. On March 13, 1919, a letter purporting to be from the Axeman was published in the newspapers saying that he would kill again at 15 minutes past midnight on the night of March 19, but would spare the occupants of any place where a jazz band was playing.

Esteemed Mortal:

They have never caught me and they never will.  They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth.  I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell.  I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.

When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims.  I alone know who they shall be.  I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with the blood and brains of him whom I have sent below to keep me company.

If you wish you may tell the police not to rile me.  Of course I am a reasonable spirit.  I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigation in the past.  In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to amuse not only me but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc.  But tell them to beware.  Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman.  I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past.  They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.

Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to.  If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night.  At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship to the Angel of Death.

Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to visit New Orleans again.  In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a proposition to you people.   Here it is:

I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have mentioned.  If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people.  One thing is certain and that is that some of those people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.

Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and as it is about time that I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse.  Hoping that thou wilt publish this, and that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fantasy.

The Axeman

Jazz filled the night air and no one was killed that night.  Steve Boca was a grocer who was attacked in his bedroom as he slept by an axe-wielding intruder on August 10, 1919. He stumbled from his home to get help from a friend.  Although Boca recovered, he had no memory of the details of the attack.  Police discover a panel had been chiseled from his door and the axe left in his kitchen.  Nothing had been taken.

Three weeks later on September 3, 1919, someone entered the home of Sarah Laumann, but not through a door panel.  The 19-year-old girl was found unconscious in her bed, with multiple wounds to her head.  She later died at the hospital. A bloody axe was left outside an open window. The final victim, Mike Pepitone, was attacked on the night of October 27, 1919. His wife was awakened by a noise and arrived at the door of his bedroom just as a large axe-wielding man was rushing out of it.  Mrs. Pepitone gave the police conflicting stories regarding her husband's attack and did not seem distraught when police arrived and found her kneeling over the body of her recently deceased husband.  It should be noted that Mrs. Pepitone later shot and killed a man she claimed ran past her the night her husband was killed.  Her accusations were never substantiated. There were no more axe murders in New Orleans. There was rampant speculation as to the identity of the mysterious killer.  Some people thought that he was the devil himself while others thought the Axeman used the powers of voodoo to get away with his crimes. No one knows for sure who the Axeman was, but he was never brought to justice for the reign of terror his crimes caused the city of New Orleans.

I love being a dad!

I truly love my teenager daughter.

She knows that I love her, but sometimes I'm not sure if she know why. She is so much like her mother, it's seems like they had more than seven years together. She is so beautiful and stubborn and hardheaded. I know if I can channel that drive in the right direction, she will really be a world beater. She conquered my heart the second she was born.

Filed under: Family Life, Journal

Under Abnormal Conditions for FREE!

In anticipation of the release of my second book, Mask Of Shadows (coming soon from Astraea Press), you can download the first Michael Drake mystery for free. Available in multiple formats.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/130397

http://www.goodreads.com/ebooks/download/13457200-under-abnormal-conditions

Chapter 1

You can't save everyone.

Those words rang in my mind as I stared out the window. The rain beat a gentle pattern against the large window in Dr. Franklin's office. Even though I was very tired from a weekend of little to no sleep, my mind raced as I answered the doctor's questions.

"How have you been feeling lately, Michael? He asked in his most soothing and therapeutic voice.

"I haven't been getting much sleep." I answered as I returned to my chair. "I've been getting crank calls all weekend and when I do doze off . . . I dream about her."

"How do these dreams make you feel?" he asked.

"Like I never want to sleep again." I answered. This was only my third session with Dr. Franklin and I was still terribly nervous. It was difficult not to be intimidated by the many degrees and awards that hung on the good doctor's wall.

"Can we talk about what happened that night?" he asked as the scratching of his pencil against his legal pad sounded like the only sound in the world.

I closed my eyes to help focus and answered, "It was a Saturday night and Michelle and I were riding around the campus in my car. We had dinner to celebrate the end of my certification and then went back to my house. I tried to talk her into staying, but she had a test to study for so she left. That's it. That was the last time I ever saw her."

"No one knows what happened to her?"

"They found her car a couple of days later. It was late and it was raining. I didn't want her to go, but she wasn't worried about it. I don't know what happened. She probably stopped to try and help somebody. That was the kind of person she was."

"She sounded like a very special person."

"She was. After my accident, she made me feel alive again. If it weren't for her I never would have even tried to be a cop. She really was special. She believed in me." I paused as I felt tears begin to build in my eyes. "That's how the dreams are. I would try to keep her from leaving but I never could."

"How does that make you feel?" he asked.

"Helpless. They needed me and I couldn't help them."

"They?" he asked. Before I could clarify my slip, he continued, "Interesting. Well, we only have a few minutes left for this session, so maybe we can tackle that issue next week. How is your return to school going?

"Well, it took a while to get back into the swing of things, but everything is going well. If fact, I'll be graduating soon."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Finally. It's been a long time since I've had something like this to look forward to. For my final project in my psychology class, my assignment was to do an in-depth character analysis of someone close to me but not related."

He laughed quietly and said, "I can remember that. Who is your professor?"

"Dr. Alan Pierre."

"Hmmm, I don't believe I know him. Is the class going well for you?" he asked.

"It's going okay. I decided to use Sherry Allen for my project."

"Do you think that was a good decision? Isn't she-"

"I know what you are thinking, but I had to do it. She just came back to work and I think that is why I started having the dreams again."

"So what do you hope to accomplish by using her?"

"Maybe it's to help me understand the situation more. I really don't know. We both have to work through it so she was as good a person as any. You know, when my life finally calms down, I may even sit down and write a book."

"Autobiographical?" he asked.

"No, the story I write will have a happy ending."

Chapter 2

As I drove from the doctor's office, I wondered whether or not I should have told him about the phone calls. I figured maybe it would make me look paranoid, even though it was a big part of why I wasn't sleeping. In a way I was thankful. Nothing could have been worse than the dreams.

Nothing.

For the past two years my life had been a nightmare. Everything started with the accident. I was on my way to an All-American season at Southern State University when it happened. I was driving back home to visit my grandfather whose body was being destroyed by cancer.

We had just beaten North Arkansas State for homecoming. I had my best game of the year and the team had planned on going out to celebrate. I hadn't even finished drying myself off when Coach Jackson told me I had an emergency phone call. I was dripping wet and standing in a puddle in the coach's office waiting for the call to be transferred. A million different things ran through my mind as I waited.

Was Ester okay?

Was it the baby?

When I heard the distress in Ester's voice, I knew exactly what it was. The doctors only gave my grandfather a few hours to live. I dressed quickly and headed straight home.

I didn't get on the road until after ten o'clock. Normally the drive would only take about thirty minutes but I had to take Highway 190 because of work being done on Interstate 12. The air was cool and the night was bright. I remember praying he would make it through Christmas. That is all I remembered of my drive that night.

From what the police said, a drunk driver crossed the middle lane and hit my car. I was thrown from the wreck and slammed against a tree. My leg snapped like a weak sapling, but the driver of the other car ended up with barely a scratch.

While I was in the hospital recovering, my grandfather passed away. As close as we were I couldn't be there for him when he needed me most. That was something I would have to live with for the rest of my life, and yet another reason I couldn't sleep.

Another reason I didn't want to sleep.

Filed under: Writing

Rules for Dating a Writer

With Valentine's Day approaching, I felt the need to write this blog for the people who may be in a desperate situation.  If you, or someone you know, has been or is in love with a writer, they should read this blog as quickly as possible.

Before the explosion of social networking sites, and knowing that one in five relationship start online, it can be difficult to identify us.  In real life situations, it was easy to pick out the writers.  He was the guy in the corner whose clothes just weren't right, she was the snotty girl who could not stop talking, but no one could really tell you what you were rambling about.  Then you have those possers who actually claim to be writers. Those dark and mysterious wannabes think that by reciting John Keats poems they learned in high school, would serve as automatic panty removers. The problem with that one is, it typically works.  For whatever reason, women like to fix dark and mysterious . . . especially if it's good looking.  My plan is the try and clear things up for everyone. 

Rules for Dating a Writer  

1.     All writers are like schizophrenic eight year olds: Writers are selfish, self-centered egotistical beings that lie for a living and are really only comfortable when dealing with the voice inside their heads. That doesn't mean we are bad people, we just want to be patted on the head and fed jello sometimes (we love strawberry and little chucks of pineapple).

2.     All writers want the hear the truth (unless it's something they don't want to hear): As writers, we all want to believe our writing is good, but we know better. In the span of five minutes and a cup of coffee, we can go from the next Lee Child to being an ebook author who can't give his work away for free. There is going to come a time when he wants you to critique something.  DON'T DO IT! Come down with a serious case of the stomach flu and lock yourself in the bathroom.  You can't win. If you tell him it's good, he won't believe you because you don't want to hurt his feelings. If you don't like it, either you are jealous of his tremendous talents or it's something personal and you really don't like him as a PERSON and you want to break up.  Now, I've never been guilty of this one . . .  it's only a coincidence that my ex-girlfriends have been blocked from leaving comments on this post.

3.     The best time to start a relationship with a writer is just before the pen hits paper on a new project: This is the time to strike. He's not too high like in the beginning, not too low like he can be in the middle, and not the absolute jerk who can't focus on anything until his book is finally done. Once that book is done, he is a bit vulnerable and needing some affirmations. There will be some brightness in his eyes and sparks of ideas fill his head. If you play your cards right, he will associate you with that great new idea. Be patient because when he actually starts the new project, you'll be back on the roller coaster. DisneyWorld should name a roller coaster, The Writer, because there are no words to describe the highs and lows that we will take you.

4.     Writing is the wife/husband, writer's block is the one who got away: Writing is what he thinks about as he falls asleep. Writing gives him peace, security, serenity, and that warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. He is married to his words, but from time to time will allow you to be has mistress. He will run from your arms and lay your dreams and desires at her feet. Don't feel bad. You will probably read about your time together in a book or short story.  Sometimes the names are changes to protect the innocent.

Writer's block is like his old high school prom date. She was anything that occupied his time before writing came along. Though he is perfectly happy being married to writing, he wonders what life would have been like if had never began this journey with words. When the words give him the silent treatment and he is staring off into space or at a blank screen, he is thinking, "What if I had played football . . ."

5.      Even when we don't make sense, we do: As writers, we like order and things that make sense. Now, my desk may look an explosion of notes, pens and papers, but I know where everything is. So, when he says that you didn't do anything wrong and he is mad because he can't find a certain pen, it doesn't make sense to you.  I say this as a man who has driven to multiple retail and office supplies stores in search of a Zebra NuSpiral 0.7 fine tipped black pen . . . anyway.  Sometimes, we get upset over silly things that make no sense to anyone in the world. We need order and . . . fine, black pens.

In all seriousness, it can be terribly difficult to love a writer.  Take it from me, once you get past our childish, selfish nature, we are fiercely loving and loyal. We are insightful and inspiring. We desperately want to be loved with the same passion and intensity we have inside ourselves.

This blog should have been written by Tabitha King, but she was too busy loving her husband.

Filed under: Family Life, Journal, Writing

Top Ten Reasons I Haven’t Finished Writing/Editing My Latest Book

10.  I was doing research – While using the Internet to decide which car my protagonist should drive, I ended up watching old episodes of The Love Boat. That led to old episodes of Fantasy Island . . . I’m not really sure why.

9.  I was participating in a panel discussion – Having a Facebook/Twitter/Email war with friends/enemies over how in the hell did LSU lose the National Championship Game to Alabama and Nick Saban. And why in God’s name did he not play Jarrett Lee? And why did he keep running that option play? It wasn’t working . . . nevermind. Don’t even ask me about the Saints!

8.  I’ve been suffering from insomnia – I couldn’t sleep once I discovered that Netflix on my son’s Playstation 3, lets me watch EVERY of 24 nonstop.

7.  I’ve been tired and needed to catch up on my sleep – (see #8) Finished final season of 24. I really missed Jack Bauer.

6.  The Holidays – Instead of sitting home and not writing/editing, I went to my mom’s home . . . and didn’t write or edit. I’m lying. I didn’t even go to mom’s.  I sat around in my underwear eating ice cream out of the container. Don’t judge me!

5.    Professional obligations – I finally reached the 20th level in the World of Warcraft and was voted president of my local Dungeons and Dragons chapter.

4.  I’m focusing on blogging – I’m creating silly ten top lists and rehashing old stories that weren’t good enough to get published anywhere else.

3.  Networking and building my platform – Spending all day reading other’s people blogs and being disgusted because they are so much more talented than I am. How can anyone be expected to write after that?

2.  Writer’s Block – I have a new postman who doesn’t give me nearly as many good ideas as the last guy.

1.  Continuing Education – I’m learning to play Words with Friends, Hanging with Friends, Farmville, Angry Birds, etc.

Top Ten Reasons I Haven't Finished Writing/Editing My Latest Book

10.  I was doing research – While using the Internet to decide which car my protagonist should drive, I ended up watching old episodes of The Love Boat. That led to old episodes of Fantasy Island . . . I'm not really sure why.

9.  I was participating in a panel discussion – Having a Facebook/Twitter/Email war with friends/enemies over how in the hell did LSU lose the National Championship Game to Alabama and Nick Saban. And why in God's name did he not play Jarrett Lee? And why did he keep running that option play? It wasn't working . . . nevermind. Don't even ask me about the Saints!

8.  I've been suffering from insomnia – I couldn't sleep once I discovered that Netflix on my son's Playstation 3, lets me watch EVERY of 24 nonstop.

7.  I've been tired and needed to catch up on my sleep – (see #8) Finished final season of 24. I really missed Jack Bauer.

6.  The Holidays – Instead of sitting home and not writing/editing, I went to my mom's home . . . and didn't write or edit. I'm lying. I didn't even go to mom's.  I sat around in my underwear eating ice cream out of the container. Don't judge me!

5.    Professional obligations – I finally reached the 20th level in the World of Warcraft and was voted president of my local Dungeons and Dragons chapter.

4.  I'm focusing on blogging – I'm creating silly ten top lists and rehashing old stories that weren't good enough to get published anywhere else.

3.  Networking and building my platform – Spending all day reading other's people blogs and being disgusted because they are so much more talented than I am. How can anyone be expected to write after that?

2.  Writer's Block – I have a new postman who doesn't give me nearly as many good ideas as the last guy.

1.  Continuing Education – I'm learning to play Words with Friends, Hanging with Friends, Farmville, Angry Birds, etc.

Filed under: Journal, Writing

Love and War – My Journey With MS

"A lie is still a lie, no matter the reason for telling it," Erick said to himself, staring at the beige and white building he prepared to enter. The January air was cool, especially for a South Louisiana day. The sun was bright, the air was fresh, and the sky was clear. The day should have been perfect.

The office wasn't bright, considering it was a doctor's office. The clerical girl was took down his name couldn't have much more than a teenager. He wonder to himself how he appeared to someone with so much life ahead of them. The world was her's to take. He hoped she would take advantage of it.  The waiting area was lit by sky-lights from the architectural dream of a building. There wasn't any music playing and only one wheel chair bound patient before him. He sat, but didn't bother with any of the reading materials that ranged from Sports Illustrated to Neurology Now. They have never made him wait more than five minutes for his appointments. Due to being in a medical trial, they make him feel like a V.I.P. As if on cue, Michelle opens the doors and said, "Come on back."

She is a tall brunette with big hair and big smile. Erick feels relief and apprehension. Though it's good to see her, he is unsure of how she is going to react to his upcoming explosion of truth. She greeted him with a hug.

"How are you?", she asked.

"I'm okay," he lied. The slight twinge of guilt he'd felt before had turned into a dull knife stabbing him in his heart. "We need to talk."

She smile morphed into a look of concern; he followed her into her office. She asked him to forgive the mess and invited him to take a seat.

"What's going on?"

"Michelle, I haven't been entirely honest with you about everything."

By that time, her reassuring smile had returned. Somehow, that made his guilt even worse. He turned away and stared out  of the office door and watched the young hopeful reception go about her daily duties.

"The truth is," she started. "I am completely miserable. You know my situation. I'm a single parent and everyone depends on me. I feel so overwhelmed by life and everything else. I feel like I'm at my breaking point, but I'm the rock that keep everyone else together. It takes everything I have to get out of bed in the morning to get my kids off to school. I'm depressed beyond description and I have no energy. So, I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not alright."

Erick wasn't sure what he expected her to say.  She was the first person he had been completing honest with in a long time. In his mind, he was a liar and a fraud. He placed walls around his heart and his life and no matter the circumstance, he made a point to let everyone know he was alright.

"I'll be fine," he thought.  Sometimes he even believed it, but those days had become few and far between. He couldn't blame the numbness in his heart on the multiple sclerosis. No, losing his father, wife and grandfather in the span of eight months took that credit. Being a husband, father and caregiver stretched him so thin, he couldn't be real with anyone. He had people who depended on him so he had to be alright.

"I thought you were going to tell me something bad." she answered.

"What?"

"Depression is very common in people with MS. In fact, symptoms of depression severe enough to require medical intervention affect up to half of all people with MS at some point during their illness. You have no reason to feel bad."

He sat there totally vulnerable and transparent and heard the words he needed to hear.

"You are okay. We are going to get you through this."

Maybe for the first time since his diagnosis two years ago, he felt like things were really going to be ok.

"Are to taking an antidepressant now?" she asked.

"Celexa."

"Ok, we'll talk to the doctor about that."

"I know that I have so much going on, but I should be happy.  I'm finally writing full-time and although I have two books coming out this year, I don't feel like I'm capable of being happy."

"And that makes you feel guilt too."

"Exactly! I know I have it better than so many other people with MS. No one can look at me and tell I'm sick. I'm so thankful for that, but I feel like I'm dying inside."

"Are you still on the Rebif?"

"Yes."

"You only have three more months before you can try the Gilenya."

His main MS medicine is Rebif. Whenever he opens his closet door, there are two tackle boxes of meds and vitamins he takes. But then, there is the needle. He administers himself painful shots three times per week. The beta interferon is used to prevent episodes of symptoms and slow the development of disability in patients with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis. It is not known how these interferons work to treat MS. That's a scary thought by itself, but the main side effect of the drug is depression. After six months on this medicine, he'll be allowed to try Gilenya.  It's an oral medicine that blocks potentially damaging T cells from leaving lymph nodes, lowering their number in the blood and tissues. It may also reduce damage to the central nervous system and enhance the repair of damaged neurons. At the very least, he know what this medicine will do to his body and there's no prepping to take a pill.

"Let's see if the doctor is ready for you," she said as she walked by and patted him on the shoulder. "Just tell him everything you told me."

"I'll be fine," he thought.

Filed under: Writing

Basic Safety Rules For Blogging

When I originally came up with the idea to do this blog, I wasn't sure where to start. For the most part, I am ahead of the ballgame. My mystery, Mask of Shadows, will be out in the spring of 2012 and my thriller, Darker Than Night, is due out later in the summer. If someone would have told me last year at this time, I would have two books coming out in the next year, I would've thought they were crazy. I would have said the same thing if they would have told me I would also quit my full-time job to pursue this crazy writing dream.

Where do you start?

Now that this is my job, I have to approach it as such. So I started this path to successful authorship by searching the Internet for other successful small press and ebook authors.  I found some good suggestions in a post from Writers Digest (http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/50-simple-ways-to-build-your-platform-in-5-minutes-a-day). Most often though, I was bombarded by writers telling me how I could sell a million books if I used their method or how to gain thousands of fans/followers on twitter and Facebook if I buy their books.  Now, I am all for supporting my fellow authors, but I'm not trying to send anyone else's kids to college. I read through a few previews of these books, but the tactics weren't for me. I know that I have to come out of my shell a little, but I still have to be true to myself.

I spent almost ten years of my life working in law enforcement. Why not apply those same principles to my writing/blogging career?

Basic Safety Rules

1. Treat all guns as if they are loaded - If my books are guns, then my words are bullets. Be mindful of your words and what you post online. Once something is out there, you can't take it back. Before I post anything, I make sure to get someone that I trust and respect to proofread and critique it for me (I'll touch more on this later). Sometimes, when you write from a place of pure emotion, you lose track of common sense and etiquette.  If your goal is to connect with your readers, be sure not to alienate them with insensitive posts. I try to steer clear of incendiary topics like politics, religion and Tyler Perry.

2. Keep the muzzle pointed in safe direction - At the firing range, this is usually downrange or toward the ground. Don't waste your ammo (words) on folks that won't appreciate your work, comment on it or pass it on to others. Fire your words to people in your target audience. Use tools like Facebook and twitter to identify your readers. I know most of my fans are women, age 25-54.  These are the people who make the money and decide how to spend it. Though I remain true to myself and my vision, I try to blog about topics that will be meaningful to this demographic. That's not to say I don't have readers that fall into other demos, but it's pretty safe to say that I'm not writing for the SpikeTV crowd (the category I'm in).

3. Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire - Bad writing is like a squib load, lots of smoke with very little bang. I've found out the hard way that being in a hurry to get published, is worse than not getting published at all.  I jumped the gun with my first book and ended up with a product that could have been so much better, if I had taken the time to find the right publisher and the right fit.  My first book, Under Abnormal Conditions, is like that first love you had in junior high. At the time, she is the most wonderful thing ever! Then you get to high school and are exposed to new people, places and things. After that is college and your horizons expand even more. When you go back home for a visit and see her, though she still has a special place in your heart, you know that you've moved past that stage. Always strive to put your best writing foot forward, because you never know who may be reading your work for the first time (you don't want it to be the last). 

4. Know your target and surrounding. - Hopefully, you have identified your target audience. Once you do, check out other writers who share your demos. Don't look at them as competitors, but as colleagues.  Read their blogs, make comments on their posts and give them good reviews. We know Stephen King doesn't need a plug or good review from you, but you could have a hand in helping to discover the next big thing. Bring attention to other writers like yourself and hopefully, they will return the favor. We all have to start somewhere, so don't be afraid to connect with the author and maybe even cross promoting your work (networkedblogs.com).

BONUS TIP

I commented earlier on having someone you trust and respect critique your work. When you work in law enforcement, you have to rely on your partner or your team.  Being a writer is the same way. Surround yourself with people you trust and respect. If you are reading this blog, it's because you want to become a better writer.  Allow your confidants to help you with editing, web design, marketing, etc.  Carefully assemble your team, and allow them to help you succeed. Spend your time writing. We have our own talents and friends who may be gifted in other areas. The people who care about you want you to be successful and won't mind devoting a few hours a week to contribute to that success. (Remember you aren't paying these people, so don't be a jerk)

Filed under: Journal, Writing

Introducing . . . Erick Burgess

When I worked as a parole officer, it was difficult not to be in 'cop mode' all the time. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, being distrustful and paranoid about the people around me. The stress was killing me and breaking me down from the inside. I knew I had to make a change.

So I stepped out on a limb to follow my dreams. I am now a full-time writer, but one thing didn't change. I remain locked inside the box of my chosen profession. As a fiction writer, I lie for a living. I am paid to make up stories to entertain people. The problem is . . .

How do I turn that off?

When people ask you how you're doing, it's typical to respond in a positive way. No one wants to hear about your problems, right? Well, my problem is I take it to the extreme. When asked how I am. I always have to go out of my way to show just how well I am doing.

Maybe it's time for me to stop lying to myself and the people around me.

I don't plan on turning this into a pity party for myself or anything like that. I'm just being real. Maybe being real for the first time in my life. As I sit here in front of the computer, there is nothing to hide behind, no title or position, no friend or foe. Because when you really thing about it, isn't that the way we define ourselves: in relation to the things we try to hide from and the people we are trying to be. Several times in my 38 years, my perceived identity was ripped away from me. As a son, husband and then finally, as officer. Even the disease that changed my life tried to label me as a victim. When you are no longer what others have seen, what are you left with?

You are alone and afraid. Then you realize there is no one left to disappoint. There is no one to run from. There are no more excuses. All that's left is the cold, honest truth. Stripped naked of the perceptions of the world, you examine yourself as you should, with the only eyes that matter, your own.

2011 will go down as a defining year in my life. After I quit my job, I wrote a blog about finding my identity but there were still memories from my past holding me in secret. So secret in fact, I was unaware of them myself. It wasn't until the Penn State scandal that I was truly able to make a complete release. I let go of the final perception that kept me from being me. I'm not a victim or a survivor. I'm just me, Erick Burgess.

The labels I now chose to have are: father, writer, avid crime show watcher/reader, comic book enthusiast, Jack Bauer fan, nerd, geek, lover of old school R&B and jazz, future husband and future bestselling author.

The blog is about my journey to become all the things I was meant to be . . . join me.

Filed under: Journal, Writing