Peter Prasad's Blog: Expletives Deleted, page 7

Best Ripper review yet: Ah Vanessa!

As an author, the lesson for me is to be mindful of all my characters. I never know which characters my readers will identify with and they want to see a satisfying story arc for each one. Vanessa began as a victim. However my readers demanded that she have a redemption scene and evolve out of victim mode. She does.

Here's a detailed review for Sonoma Knight: The Goat-Ripper Case. Thank you, Naor. I feel honored to earn your 4-stars.

The first volume of a new series is always exciting for me to read. I always have lots of questions regarding whether I would like the characters, the premise of the stories, and whether the author will have enough ideas to keep it going and interesting for more than one or two efforts. That is why I was interested when Peter Prasad asked me to review this book – which is clearly the first offering of a new thriller series.

The book is set in Sonoma County. The main character is Jake Knight who was wounded in Afghanistan and is now returning to civilian life. As it turns out, Jake’s father recently died and his farm is in trouble, so Jake and his brother Wally combine with a set of partners to create a cheese making farm that will also grow its own sheep for milking. As the farm gets established, and as Jake recovers from his wound and begins establishing himself in his new life, certain dark clouds start gathering. For one, goats are being killed, semi-gutted, and their corpses are left in various parts of the county near Jake’s farm with only their livers missing.

Being Sonoma County, wine is quite a big thing and so the second dark cloud is that near Jake’s farm a winery was sold to someone named Semper who apparently is not as honest of a citizen, nor as good of a winemaker as he would like you to believe. Being a thriller, there is very little suspense in identifying who is the bad guy in this story. What makes it compelling is figuring out what his real aspirations and inclinations are, and then following the story as the bad guy is uncovered and the hero rewarded for his good deeds.

I believe that there are three components to a series that all must work to allow it to continue: The first is the plot of each book, and that’s what I tried to describe above, without giving away too much of the rest of the book. The second is the set of characters. What I look for here is whether the hero or heroes seem authentic and whether the supporting characters are people that I would want to read more about. Finally, I look to see if the characters evolve both within the scope of the book itself, and then in subsequent books.

In this book I found that I liked most of the characters that will probably make repeat appearances in the series. Wally as the nerdy chemist is well-described especially when it comes to the more active portions of the story. Tanya is a bit over the top for me and some of her backstory needs to be filled out, while Sonya and Hap make too brief appearances to really say.

The pair of cheesemaker partners that join Jake and Wally seem believable to an extent and the descriptions of what they’re doing are authentic.

I do think there are some issues with the book nonetheless. One of the side characters is a young woman named Vanessa who ends up being victimized by Semper. I found her actions to be too naïve and the victimization that she experiences – while highlighting Semper’s depravity – was too much for me to believe. Similarly, the timing of some of the events was too tight for me to swallow. I explained my views to the author who answered all of my concerns, but I still feel that the time lines were too close for comfort.

Overall, I think this book and the series have lots of potential and offer some fun new angles. I’ve given it a four star rating because of the enjoyment I got from reading it and hope that future volumes will get better so as to receive five star ratings.

Character or Plot Driven? An interview

Heather Myers did a wonderful job of asking me questions. I did a poor job of answering them, but then I'm rarely satisfied with answers, much preferring questions. Questions open me up and make me wonder...what if? Answers have a habit of making me ask...is that all?

http://portsideinterviews.blogspot.co...

My New Relationship with Reviewers

I’ve trained as a Buddhist meditator for 40 years now, so I enjoy watching new processes awake in me. I have my crime thriller out, Sonoma Knight: The Goat-Ripper Case. It’s my homage to cheese-makers, organic milk and the beauty of Sonoma.

It took me months to craft a bad guy. When Koch Semper got onto the page, he spawned an even more twisted assistant, Wild Bill. Said a reviewer: “After chapter two, I wanted to see Semper burn.” Said another: “Prasad paints a beautiful, peaceful picture of Sonoma’s winery and farmland, before he shocks the reader by weaving darkness and perversion of a sexually dominant narcissist and a sick-o psychotic into it.”

One reader refused to finish Ripper because she hated Koch Semper so much. So I guess I succeeded; I created bad guys that deserved to die. The forgiving Buddhist in me required bad guys beyond redemption so I could plot their come-uppance. For my next thriller, I’ll opt for moral ambiguity. Goat-Ripper came out to my satisfaction. I hope you’ll read it.

REVIEWS: For the last month I’ve been working the reviews circuit by gifting books, having a book party, participating at Story Cartel (shout out!), chatting up Facebook and Goodreads review groups. Reviews are the bread and butter of Indie Authors. Please express yourself as often as you can, good reader.

As the reviews come in, I notice they create a distancing phenomenon in me. They separate me from my book. A year of hard labor gets summarized in five sentences. I’m not complaining; I’m marveling. It fuels my fire to write an even better one.

Reviews help process the break-up between author and novel. The story has to stand on its own. While I delight in watching Ripper dance through a reader’s imagination, my job is to make the next one better. Of course, I stay drunk on my own imagination in the process, and that’s a better brew than tap water.

I struggle to turn my pencil into a vaulter’s pole in order to top one reviewer’s opinion. “Jake Knight, a returned wounded veteran, finds himself involved with a wine merchant with murderous intentions.....the style of this book is excellent, it is a fun read, extremely funny and witty and the author has not only created a gem of a book, he is created some wonderfully inspired characters.”

Please hand me a tissue to blot my tears as one book departs and to stop a nose bleed that the next thriller requires. It’s all for your enjoyment, dear reader, and I’d have it no other way. Thank you, dear readers and reviewers. On’Ya.

Goat-Ripper, chapter one

Baa, baa, milk sheep,
Have you any cheese?
Yes, Jake, yes, Jake,
Three wheels full.
One for my master Marco.
One for your sweet Tanya.
One for the governor
who lives down the lane.

* * * * *

A sexy romantic crime thriller set in the heart of wine country. A fast, fun foray into making artisan cheese, adulterated wine and murder. Afghan vet and bronze Star Jake Knight comes home with a bullet hole. He needs to heal, save his farm, fall in love … and stop a puffed-up wine merchant with a taste for murder. Not yet a licensed P.I., Jake races to catch another bullet hole.

* * * * *
Dedicated to my brothers and sisters,
Warriors all, pushing up marble by the yard.


SONOMA KNIGHT: THE GOAT-RIPPER CASE

Late one autumn night Wild Bill Nastor sat at the edge of the fire pit. He used it to get rid of trash and tonight for another thing. Doc said no more roadside dumping. Bill did what Doc said. It was the best job he’d ever had, regular with fringes and no inspections. His motto: Pay me and leave me alone.
He chugged from the red-wine bottle and felt his headache step aside. Sparks swirled above, lifting a spirit into the night sky.
Smoke annoyed his eyes from the fat burning off the body below. The guy’s plastic eye-glasses melted. His lab jacket and pants curled to carbon; his shoes bubbled. His face cooked off and his skull emerged.
Wild Bill longed for red lips. He wanted to eat his road-kill raccoon, finish his wine and get some shut-eye. This burning was taking too long. He decided to go and let the fire do its work.
Tomorrow he’d climb down and crush the bones. As if in agreement, the scorched skull rolled to the edge of the fire pit and sank into ashes.


CHAPTER ONE

Jake heard a sad goat cry as he woke from his last nap in Redwoods hospital.
This was no holiday. He preferred the scent of jasmine wafting through open patio doors in a bungalow on Maui to the odor of bleach, stale bandage and the artificial cheeriness of a wounded veteran’s ward.
After patching him with two surgeries post-Afghanistan, Uncle Sam shipped him as close to home as it could: Redwoods hospital in Santa Rosa, California. Today he was due for discharge.

His cell phone rang, with the opening bars of “Tied to the Whipping Post” by the Allman Brothers.
It was his dad, Jerry’s, favorite song. Jerry lived as a fourth-generation dairyman tied to his land. He held 50 acres of rolling meadows that backed up to Sonoma Mountain. This was long-grass cow country and Jerry drank too much and lost his herd before he departed earth.
It fell on Jake’s younger brother, Wally, to clean up the mess. Jake was half a world away, third in command of a Ranger patrol in Afghanistan.
A clerk from the Sonoma County Tax Assessor’s office had visited Jake at Redwoods two days earlier. The tax man waved some papers. Jake ignored him. The tax man swore he’d carried the dairy as a patriotic duty for four years. Jake replied, “My country leaned on me, now you want to do the same?”
Jake and Wally faced a tax bill with penalties. The debt had soured like bad milk. The County threatened a forced land sale with no credit given for a bullet hole. Wally mentioned he had a plan, so Jake waited until he was upright and walking to hear it. Today was that day.
***
In Jake’s 90-day tour of military hospitals, an Army shrink had labeled him angry and rebellious toward authority. “No shit. A sniper’s bullet can do that to you.”
The shrink prodded. In response to another inane ping, Jake summed his personal philosophy: “Remember to wipe your boots at the door and don’t be late for supper.”
Pushed further, he blurted his favorite line from a class in western civilization: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Jake couldn’t remember who’d said it or if it was true. He added, “When death drops by, run the other way.”
The female therapist who observed the session giggled. Later, Jake learned she smiled from sheer nervousness and cried when she thought no one could see her. In another private session, she asked him to discuss his feelings toward his mother. Did he feel abandoned? Jake had no answer. She said he’d be incapable of a stable emotional relationship until he forgave his mother.
Jake gave her a wry smile. “Instead of forgiving her, I decided to readjust my expectations and settle for three hots and a cot.” The therapist shook her head and studied him with sympathetic brown eyes. He saw heartbreak in them.
“Jake. You know what I mean. Work with me here, please.”
“So you think it’s a trust issue I have with women?”
“Yep, text book.”
“Ma left fifteen years ago. I was ten. My brother got it worse. He was seven.”
“Let’s just work on healing you.”
The therapist looked better than Ellen, Oprah or Doctor Phil.
Jake continued. “My last memory was when she wrapped a red scarf over her hair and lit out in a convertible next to this new guy who wore too much cologne. I hate Brut for Men. She said she’d be back with pizza. That was it. After midnight, Jerry came home crying-drunk.”
“So, you do remember?” She seemed pleased. She asked Jake to write a letter to his mother, explaining his pain. Pumping from a well he never knew he had, Jake filled an entire notebook. On all the left-hand pages he doodled black-ink cow paddies.
“My own ink blots.”
This excited the therapist. She called it a breakthrough. He was healing. They cried together, burned the notebook and limped out for take-home Chinese.
They ended up on the floor of her apartment and in her bed. She returned his incoming fire with passion and cried between her orgasms.
Jake came to understand that she had soaked up the pain, anguish and confusion of dozens of returning vets, the hobbled and the gimp. He by comparison had escaped with a single bullet hole, thigh-high, through and through.
How do you heal the healers? Jake had no prescription. He sensed that it helped to dilute bad memories with good ones, and to wake up sticky and wet with love.
It helps to forgive the snipers in life, even the snide ones who steal your parking place, cut you off without using a turn signal, and bark at your eleven items in the ten-item line.
As to his Ma, Jake decided to forgive her and wish her well, honestly. As a consequence, her memory faded to black. He imagined her wearing a red scarf in a place where old ghosts go to stand in line to try, try again.
So where did that leave him on the state of his own psyche? He had no QuickClot for the soul. He was twenty-five, a decorated vet due some Uncle Sam-thank-you money with a divot of white scar on his thigh, a reminder that life is not always grand and that most people miss.
As for the hole in his heart? A good-looking woman demonstrated that with tender care she could fix it in record time. Like most guys his age, getting naked was the best band-aid. He was not racked with guilt or a cratered sense of self-worth. He was a specialist in staying alive, with a dinged leg.
The doctor said he needed daily exercise. He planned a regime of running, good nutrition and farm chores—assuming Wally had a plan to save the dairy. Three months of fallow green pasture would set him right. It was time to hobble home.
***
As his cell phone rang, Jake began a mental search for a new ring tone. “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” might do. Ee-i-ee-i-oh. Was there an Etta James version of that? He fumbled for the phone lost in his sheets.
“Hey, Jake. I’ll be outside in twenty minutes. Just leaving now.” It was Wally. Jake hadn’t been back to the dairy since a shouting match with Jerry a week after he graduated from Cardinal High. Jake saw greener pastures down south. He had a full-ride football ticket to San Diego State and the promise of a summer job.
By spring he’d flunked out of San Diego State and learned to surf. He bounced around two junior colleges and completed an AA degree in criminal justice, fueled by a vision of being a G-man. He survived five years in the Army, his last two in the troop build-up in Afghanistan. After basic training, he completed courses in investigative procedure, surveillance and electronics. On track for the military police, he washed out after a run-in with an instructor.
Jake’s unrepentant streak of standing up to bullies got the best of him. He hated hazing. The slightly-built kid in the bunk next to him, Martinez from Merced, was sometimes slow and always late. A newly-minted sergeant doused Martinez and his sheets with lighter fluid and pulled a Zippo lighter out of his pocket.
Jake zipped him instead, with three swift punches to the Adam’s apple, temple and jaw. His psych assessment reported he had an ‘uncontrolled reaction to people who smoke inside buildings.’ Jake might have said that. It was a simple decision for the all-volunteer Army, the sergeant was transferred and Jake went Ranger-ho to Afghanistan.
Now he had a Purple Heart, a Bronze Star and an honorable discharge.
The military can be a hard life to leave. Most days are repetitive and boring, but Jake found comfort in routine. What he disliked were ambushes, unexpected explosions, and jihadist snipers. For the last two years, his motto was: Stay Alive. He had accomplished that.
While killing time in hospital, he completed an on-line course for an investigator’s license in the state of California. With the clock ticking on his new career path, he had yet to pay the fees or secure the bond money for the insurance requirement.
However, Jake was good at shoe-boxing his worries and taking life sun-up to sun-set. He’d heal on the farm and work on his red-neck tan.
“See you outside, Wal-bro.” Jake hung up. A discharge nurse checked in with a clipboard of release forms for signature. The packet contained an Army payroll check—$1,818.00. That was it—Hoo rah.
He’d wait 60 days for his wounded veteran’s benefits to kick in and he didn’t expect much. He wondered if the GI Bill would see him through two more years of college. In his heart of hearts, a new campus of acne and beer bongs did not ring his bell.
A swish nurse wrapped his thigh in a compression bandage and handed him a white sack filled with antibiotics, pain pills, gauze and wraps. He looked inside for a packet of QuickClot for the mind. Nada.
One of the wounded ward’s traditions—a $100 credit with L.L. Bean, courtesy of the Patriot Daughters of Sonoma. Jake idled half a day on the glossy, four-color pages of Maine farmer chic. The FedEx package from Bean lay on his bed.
He tore the box open and emptied the civilian cornucopia. Carefully, he slipped his injured leg into a stiff new pair of blue jeans, waist 32, length 32. He buttoned a red-checked flannel shirt, size large, over a new white V-neck T-shirt. He noticed that the T-shirt had a size stamp instead of a tag. He smiled at how life changes.
He wadded up his hospital pajamas and tossed them into a pile on the floor. His Bean box contained a stiff black leather belt with a shiny bronze buckle: “Army Strong.” He wondered where he could trade it for one that said: Eat My Grits.
With unerring accuracy, he wove the new leather through his belt loops and bent to tug tight the laces on his black, government-issue boots. His days in desert camouflage melted away.
“Is someone coming to get you?” the discharge sarge asked.
“You bet. Little brother is waiting outside.”
“An orderly will help with your duffle. That leg’ll be tender yet. Thanks for your service, Sergeant Knight. A Bronze Star is a noble thing.” The nurse saluted; Jake shrugged.
He’d enlisted while at loose ends. He hadn’t seen much of the world. He’d seen too much death and the down side of human nature. He wondered if he’d ever stop scanning rooftops for snipers
Jake limped down the hallway, followed by the orderly. His leg throbbed. The cane helped. But he was too stubborn to begin his new life as an invalid. He took a deep breath, hung the cane on the push bar of the exit door and left it behind as he walked out into the Sonoma sunshine.
Wally waited in Jerry’s beat-up ’86 Ford F-150 pick-up truck. The ‘red rust bucket,’ dusted in dents, was a year older than Jake. But the engine purred with the deep V-8 rumble of stump-pulling power. Both Wally and Jake were able mechanics. They’d spent years working with Jerry to keep the farm patched on bailing wire and duct tape.
“Hey, Jay-bro!” Wally ran around from the driver’s side and embraced him. The Knights weren’t long on expressing emotions. Wally wore his hair long, even for a civilian. He looked geeky in round glasses, as expected for a lab rat, fresh from UC Davis. “How’s it shaking?” He looked down at Jake’s leg. “Hurt?”
“Nope. I have better things to think about.”
Jake hugged him hard. His thigh ached and his eyes watered. Jake had Wally by two inches and 30 pounds of muscle, but Wally had the college degree in chemistry. Jake could take an M-16 apart and reassemble it in under a minute and knock the center hole out of a bull’s eye at 600 yards. Wally could dissect a frog and run a toxicology screen on its liver. Jake had waltzed into an Afghani ambush. Wally could dance rings around a biohazard site.
The orderly lifted Jake’s duffle into the back of the truck. Jake opened the door, mounted the bench seat and lifted his leg into the cab. Wally jumped in behind the wheel. He pointed to a paper bag on the floor. “Cold beers.”
Jake twisted the cap off an ice-cold Lagunitas IPA, splashed beer on the driveway and gave a one-finger sayonara-salute to the hospital. He handed a beer to Wally. “Do you drink and drive now?”
“No, sir. They’re all for you.” Wally grinned and shifted into gear. The bench seat of the red rust bucket brought back memories of smooth moves, make-out sessions and drive-in movies. Jake felt a dusty piece of home-coming click in.
He lifted his head, smelled death and looked across the road.
Two guys in white hazmat suits wrapped plastic around a carcass and loaded it into the back of a County truck. There were no cop cars attending. He assumed it was a hit-and-run, maybe a dead dog. He studied the face of the lead collection guy; it was familiar.
“Let’s get to the bank before we go home,” Wally said. “Okay?”
“Yep. We’ll put my discharge check in. How you holding up for money?”
It was Jake’s turn to help. Wally had come home from college one weekend to find Jerry cold in bed, long gone to the other shore. Over the Internet that weekend Jake talked Wally through the tears and gave him a check list of what to do. Jake and Wally got roaring drunk, half a world apart, with a video hook-up and laptops linked on Skype. Wally talked about Jerry’s demons; Jake’s demons already knew the song.
“I’ve got rental income from the other cottage. And I want you to meet Marco and Sandy Spencer at the bank. They’re cheese-makers. The farm board referred them. We’re talking land lease to start a sheep dairy.”
“Sheep? What do we know about fur-balls?” Jake swallowed a red pain pill, a blue antibiotic and popped the top off another IPA. “They’re hippies or flakes or what?”
“No. I checked references and read their credit report. The farm board says, ‘Do it.’ Powell says ‘Do it.’ The deposit’s ready to go. We need the frickin’ money today.”
“Who’s Powell?”
“That pot-smoking liberal lawyer with the Japanese art collection up on Sonoma Mountain. He was Dad’s friend.”
Jake wanted his next decision to be how slowly he could savor his ale. The baked-dry Sonoma heat poured through his open window. The familiar smell of death was gone.
Wally had a point: cash was king. He decided to begin to trust again, starting with Wally. “They’ll pre-pay the first year. The check’s in the glove box.” Wally waved at the dashboard.
“Money’s a good start. This sounds better than growing bud in the barn. How much?” Jake felt the new civilian wheels in his head kick into gear.
“Enough plus improvements, water pump, barn repairs. I worked up a list with Marco. It’s all there.” He waved at the dashboard again. Jake finished his beer and wiped his hands on his jeans. Wally merged onto a country road toward the bank in Santa Rosa.
“Artisan cheese is getting support in Sonoma. We have 20 cheese dairies in county now. Sheep make great cheese.” Wally began bouncing up and down on the bench seat, driving with one hand.
“The Spencers are cool. They’re big on organics, bio-diversity. They’re flat-out clean freaks. They want me to run the lab. I’ll do quality control, milk analysis, cultivate native yeasts, and harvest bacterial agents.”
Jake felt a twinge of pride in his little science-professor bro. He pulled a manila envelope from the glove compartment. He scanned the paperwork, starting with the lease agreement. It looked complete. He reviewed the checklist Powell had made. He saw where Wally and Marco had initialed each page. He saw the deposit check and whistled: $18,000.
“Frick sake, the tax man can take a hike. I’m in.”
Wally hooted and hand-tapped the dashboard. Jake kept reading. Wally’s contract specified lab-tech with a list of job functions to keep a ‘farmstead certified’ rating. Jake looked up. Wally cut him off. “Organic comes later, after seven years of paperwork and inspections.”
Jake watched the brown hills capped with green-tree fringe roll past. Jake knew cows, not sheep; milk, not cheese—but he was willing to learn.
He selected his words carefully. “Bro, this looks great. You’ve been busy. We can improve the place and you got a job. Jerry would like it.” Wally grinned at Jake’s approval.
“So will you sign as co-owner?” Jake gave his brother a moment of eye contact and nodded in agreement. Wally hooted and shook his clenched fist out the window at the sky.
“Diggity! You’ll like the Spencers. Marco knows sheep and Sandy sells at farmers markets. They work a circuit, long hours, bro.”
Jake watched Wally’s eyes shine with a new future. “We’ll move a cheese shed onto the property. All stainless steel with a 30-gallon pasteurization vat. That costs $30,000. Way chill. And an air-conditioned clean room for the cheese to age. Marco designed it. We’ll improve the barns and build sheep pens.” Wally paused to let the vision sink in.
Jake drifted behind Wally’s enthusiasm, half-listening and soaking in the sunshine.
He noticed the beers and pain pills begin to smooth the heat.
“See the last page? That’s for you, property manager, if you want it. Basic dairy duty.”
Jake turned to the job description and read through the list. He knew how to do this: install pumps and new electrical circuits, mend fences, build paddocks, feed animals and move manure. A regular $1,500 a month plus gas and materials. Minimum wage, but no commute. No resumes. No interviews. No lines. No rejections. No snipers. The tax man could go shoot someone else.
Jake opened another beer and turned to Wally, grinning. The Knight Brothers Sonoma Sheep Dairy bumped bro-fist.
At the bank, Jake shook hands with the Spencers, and excused himself to the Men’s room. He decided to ease off on being hard-charging Jake; this was Wally’s deal. He swallowed a red pain pill and slowly walked back to find his new tenants.
Wally was right. He liked them. Marco, lanky and calm-spoken, had the gentle vibe of a dairy man with a calloused grip hardened by chores. Grinning, he showed a chipped front tooth. Jake sensed Marco reserved judgment. He’d help birth a lamb at midnight and clean pieces of placenta out of the birth canal.
Sandy, not yet 30, the bubbly talker in the family, came from Sonoma. Marco, a Wisconsin native, met his younger wife in a college food-science program. They’d launched their brand a year earlier and leased commercial kitchen space.
They dreamed to turn it up a notch with a milk-sheep herd. “From grass to cutting board,” Sandy said, her pale freckled face beaming. Sun-streaked red hair framed her bright blue eyes. Jake smiled and signed the lease agreement. He and Wally banked his discharge check, the lease payment and cleared the tax liens.
They were broke again. Jake figured he’d bought himself a year and time to heal.
Wally was clearly caught up with these cheese dreamers. If the creamery worked out, he’d have found himself a career. For now he had a lab to run, applying his chemistry education. Painkiller haze was coming over Jake. Saving the farm was enough for one day. He wanted to go home.
Poverty hadn’t changed the view. Sonoma was in late dry season, earth in slow fade under a remorseless sun. Jake had missed the green grass of spring and the riot of wild yellow mustard. Now in October, the land was baked to a faded ivory dotted with brown patches. One good cloud-buster would bring renewal, but rain wasn’t likely until mid-November.
His two dairy barns on the crest of a hill grinned defiantly. Jake grinned back.
He and Wally owned it all now, free and clear: his buildings, his manure, his blades of grass. Jake was surprised his throat choked up. For five years, his home had been a billet, a bunk and duffel dumped into a locker or closet.
The pain pills made him think sideways. He might start shouting sonnets. He and Wally hadn’t been roommates for eight years. He waited for Wally to look away and he splashed beer on his small speck of mother earth.
Jake raised his sunglasses and squinted. Behind the barns, the land sloped down in a wide sweep to more pasture. A glint of emerald showed where the grass sipped at a year-round spring, fed by an aquifer with run-off from Sonoma Mountain. His dairy had more green than most. He had deep wells.
Water is life across California farmlands. Jake’s natural spring was like money in the bank. Other dairies were forced to supplement with alfalfa and grain by June. Jake would try to keep Marco’s sheep on grass almost year-round. He made a mental note to check the spring. It had to be kept cleaned out and directed to drain to feed the grass. It was his job and he’d be paid; hell, he’d do it for free.
The fences stood strong; they ran straight and true. None of the outbuildings had collapsed. The barns towered above it all, without paint, framed on thick oak beams and slatted in wide first-cut redwood planks, weather-worn dull gray and contoured to the land.
The sheet-metal roofs, once white, showed bare patches and oxidization. The squat red-brick cottages had wrap-around verandas and overhanging metal roofs in better condition. He saw Sandy’s wash hanging on a line by the upper cottage.
Wally explained that Marco and Sandy had moved in a month earlier. Wally had cleaned the other cottage, where he and Jake had grown up. He donated Jerry’s clothes to Salvation Army and upgraded to dorm deluxe with fresh paint, a coffee maker, new pots and pans, a large computer monitor and no TV.
Up valley, grape growers delighted in Sonoma’s long, dry summers. The wine makers praised the afternoon heat that pushed the sugar in the grapes. They delighted in the morning fog that chilled grapes to a flavorful acid balance. The mineral rich volcanic soil contributed more flavors. Fermentation lifted sugar into alcohol and alcohol into money.
Early morning chill preserved fruitiness before the afternoon sugar race-up. Most mornings, the fog burned off between sun rise and midday. Sonoma winters were gray and wet, with rain blowing in December through March from the Pacific Ocean 20 miles away. Yet winter’s monotony was often broken by crystal bright blue days that made Sonoma almost perfect.
He collected his beers, lifted his kit from the truck and followed Wally into their cottage. The solid wood door opened onto a large living room with a kitchen area across the back wall. Jake took the bedroom on the right, once Jerry’s room, clean and Spartan now. The new bed looked like heaven. Jake pushed it into the corner of the back wall under the window. He jumped into deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke early, before dawn, his body on military time which worked for a sheep-dairy man. He lay awake and listened to the quiet, peppered with gusts that rattled the cottage. He celebrated with a beer and a sandwich.
He tasted ocean salt in the air. The fog carried moisture to wet the grass. He smelled home and childhood, his piece of dirt. It was a civil change from an Army of snores, grunts and farts. He preferred the honest smell of dairy manure to the odor of G.I. barracks.

Sex Makes Characters Human: OMG & FREE

"Add more sex; it makes your characters human." My editor said that and I blushed. Like a have extra sex scenes lying around my writer’s nook. Some authors pop them out like cookies. I'm old-school. I want a bath, appetizers and desert, before desert.

RIPPER got its extra sex scenes. Are you curious to see what happened on a beach blanket at Drake's Bay?

My favorite reviewer comment: “Honors the soil of Sonoma and the culture of wine & cheese.”

If you’d like to read RIPPER for Free, it’s available at Story Cartel in exchange for an honest review.

A 10-Day promo, so hurry. Wine, cheese and murder set on a sheep dairy in Sonoma. YUM! And save room for desert.

Click here to read for Free: http://dld.bz/cJZJd

Thank you good readers. On’Ya.

Welcome a New American Hero: Buffalo Dick (a review)

Welcome a new American hero – Buffalo Dick Maddock. Run as they might, Dick makes this chase of mad bombers a cake walk with blood splatter. Bet on Buffalo Dick in a dust-up. He’ll dog you from Brazilia to Argentina to danger zones north. Then he sprints in a chase that raises the bar from page-turner to cinematic blockbuster. It don’t matter, Dick refuses to die.

I’m amazed when a writer weaves story craft this tight. DICK’s enemies jump off the page with full-blown back story. Hats off to new author Duff O’Brian, a master of plot that drips credibility and rings true in technical detail. The research could crash Wall Street. The havoc promised will keep Homeland Security up at night. So cut your teeth on Uncle Sam’s nightmare.

I emailed O’Brian to learn more. Everything in Buffalo Dick, he says, can be checked on the Internet: The deaths from radiation poisoning in Goianas; the private intelligence agency; the top-secret British army unit; etc. The legend of White Buffalo Woman is authentic Plains Indian lore. He hopes people read along with a live Internet connection.

O’Brian cites Borges, Marquez, and Kafka to explain his ‘magical realist’ perspective. My favorite reference: When Lewis & Clark reached the Mandan villages in 1804, they noted tall, white-skinned Mandans who spoke a language similar to Welsh. It was believed they were the lost descendants of Prince Madoc (Maddock), a 7-foot tall Welshman who historians say made two trips to North America 300 years before Columbus; on the second trip he brought 100 colonists, and they were never seen again.

From a lost tribe to a New York brownstone to an Argentine bistro, Dick chases ‘hell on wheels’ until the tires come off. For pure grit, I loved it. The first 20-pages are resilient with word choice, then the yarn puts you in a hammer-lock until the last page. The dastards do their do until Dick is driven to drill them through and through. 5-stars, plus Orion’s Belt for plausibility, as in OMG this could really happen.

Get Thee To A Writer's Group

Some say writing is best done alone in a crowded room, by weak light at the wooden table of a tavern or coffee shop. It’s where imagination lurks in an empty chair. Here stories grow loud and bleed techno-colors on a starched white sheet.

To bolster my pen, and having taken to shaking when I lost my compass on manuscript day #66, I found a Sonoma writers group. The rules were rigid. I had to hand in my pages, a copy for each reader. Then I read aloud and watched my babies be red-penciled to less. It was modern torture and I confessed all.

My babies amazed me. Cling not, they cried to the writer in me. Just go with the flow to new 26-letter combinations. My words raced ahead and spun the locks in my head. In a chapter critique, my flat characters popped out round, richer with detail and motive.

Authors and editors squint for extra eyes. Once we literary had them in ivory publishing towers as wards of civility. They’re gone now, off-budget in the global call for ‘more raw.’

Readers want bold strokes and less tip-toe. More gut-wrench and less sit-on-the-fence. It's voodoo to ward off work-a-day and leap to imagination transported, escaped from rows of toil.

In birth and war, no battle lasts forever. In critique I soaked up all the learning I could blot: a litany from confessional to animal sacrifice; a review of place, voice, verbs, action dialog and a hero's march past decision-points of storyline. My tribe survived.

More blood on the cover was the final request. What I showed looked like a sheep-breeding manual. I took a deep breath, perforated by zingers. A phrase or two rang my bell.

I plowed on; we launched and have landed a few 5-star lauds. Yes, I shall return to my critique group as a shorter writer but never short of words.

So began my public journey to address readership. Damn the semi-colons; I leaped with a new crew of characters. If you write, I hope you’ve paid dues at the portal of proof-reading. It helps to know how to bail on open ocean.

Place Is Character: I write of Sonoma to refresh my spirit. Sonoma, is just over the bar to country cream-top dairy -- where sun and rain outweigh us all – and green meadows roll onward in celebration of sun, moon and soil. With a moo-moo here and a bah-bah there. On'Ya readers all.

Which Arc of History Are You On?

Says the New Yorker: “The conflict over Stand Your Ground isn’t simply a matter of race; it’s a matter of differing trajectories in history and their implications in the present.”

Heavily edited, history is re-told by the winners. So are you getting traction on your arc? Or feeling ready to fall off?

Stand Your Ground is law written by the NRA. It sells bullets. It reflects a swamp-law mentality of fearful retirees, withered prune-brown, checked into gated communities where people hide in ice-buckets. This arc will ossify to cracked shell on a cracker road strewn with Spanish Moss. When the arc of fear collapses, we the people win out.

Our next generation skipped a beat when it comes to hate. We gave that up after Vietnam; we got high and forgave them instead. We’ll do the same for the jihadi, psycho-babbled to submission with his seams busted by tantrum screamers.

Every morning we choose to salute the same-ol’ or be a page-turner in the American almanac. From Florida we hear the last gasp of the dinosaur. A decade from now, this kind of stinking-thinking will be a known carcinogen.

Flowers belong in the barrels of guns. Some day, all wars will be won this way, trigger fingers flattened by the press of humanity in new blue jeans. After we end bullying we cap the crap from bullies with bullets.

How? Speak out in community and call out fear for the coward that it is. Grow the rights of man, democracy, and Internet voting as fast as you can. Recall government of, for and by the people and remind the breathing what we’re all in it for.

It takes three generations to wash the stain of war from family fabric. Until then, honor the family, oppose racial profiling, promote nonviolent conflict resolution. Stock up on anti-bullying one-liners and jump in to crowd-fund our future.

Honor the right to have an opinion. Allow others to be wrong until they gain your insight. Argue and debate with good humor to improve you fate, instead of rotting in hate.

Better yet, draw a line in the sand in the shape of a circle. Why stand your ground on a piece of dirt rented from the last generation and due for improvement?

The Zest for War: 500bc to Present Fictions

In the historical fiction genre, gals pounce on bodice-rippers. Men in wet wool uniforms opt for the clash of swords in the open air. We dig into history to hold a battle line or shield wall and our favored authors put us there, sweat-stained, gore-splattered and gawping.

Flash forward and the kimono of crime scene tape is lifted. We’re invited to gape at heinousness, then ape the good guys. We romp through mayhem, scared witless, and marvel at Miss. Marple’s astute views. If she’s a kick-butt P.I., all the better.

Toss in a top gallant, a slaver and chains, and dialogs turn salty. We celebrate like a rum-soaked bawd. Historic noir is a place for peak experiences only when you’re already a bent penny.

Today’s crime thrillers are the historical fiction of tomorrow. Our hearts throb in the boudoir as he fumbles to be less than straight-laced after twilight. Outside, the posse races with evil intent to run the rapscallion to ground or put him up a tree at the end of a noose. Our collective cellular memories revert to when we sacked anyone not of our tribe -- brown-eyed, blue-eyed, wooly-haired -- pick your side.

Historians marshal facts; fiction writers season the epic stew with tastes, smells and the steps of the espadrille. In black ink, evil threatens all until a hero draws a line in the sand and lust floods the street beside the house of the rising sun. We’ve all been those children in the learning lab of centuries, where students had no choice, hardly a voice, and never a stun gun.

Since Moses came down from the mountain and Hammarabi scratched his tablets, we’re told it doesn’t pay to be cruel in the village that raised us, so we take it outside to the vellum between the sheets of a hum-dinger pulp fiction.

So, dear reader, toss a copper coin to the bard. He sings history so we’re glad we escaped it. We mow down Yankees in cornfields from Pork Chop Hill -- killing is a crime and reading it is a thrill.

Problems? Overnight them in the dungeon and we’ll hear confessions in the morning.

Ah-ha history -- let’s all be kind to readers and writers so we can make more of it.

Back at 101 writer’s block, my latest best effort awaits your persnickety peepers at:
http://www.amazon.com/Goat-Ripper-Son...

On’Ya, readers & writers all!

Huzzah the king of historical fiction Bernard Cornwell

Cue the trumpets. Unfurl the banners. There is a royal cardinal of historical fiction among us. Me? I’d kiss his ring and vote him pope.

Bernard Cornwell is the living cultural treasure of which I speak. Here’s a Englishman, an ex-TV producer who followed his heart to Cape Cod and couldn’t get a green card. So he wrote the Richard Sharp series (21 novels) about a rifleman who follows Wellington from India to the Battle of Waterloo. See the DVD if you don’t believe me. Never has history tasted more true.

There is no era of blood and guts that Cornwell has not gored and scored. He’s written 40 novels and is considered “the most prolific and successful novelist in the world today” (Wall Street Journal). The King Arthur legend, the Saxon invasion of England, the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and the 1350’s War of the Roses, he’s marched his sparse prose through every one.

1356, his newest, tells how yeoman English archers, with pluck and luck and sharp stiletto daggers, pop the eyes out of the cream of France and make a rabbit stew. He tells the birth tales of the professional soldier through the mists of time. His heroes struggle out of the gutter to gain the manner house. I await his serialized interpretation every spring and my library orders them by the bucket.

History is recoded by the winners, and Cornwell annotates the sights and sounds, the pompous and villainous, the abbots with nasty habits, slayers with haymakers and monster men who swing a morning star. He tells history far beyond the ‘Be All You Can Be’ recruiting poster. He puts you in the melee and mud like no other.

War is hell and Cornwell writes in Technicolor. Swords were useless for fighting in the battle line, so smash an ax to split a steel helmet, swing a cudgel to clear a lane through the cannon fodder. The only difference between Cornwell’s heroes and the hounds of hell is that they do not condone rape. Mayhem and chivalry, surely, but a lady’s virtue is a gate best not trampled on Cornwell’s turf.

Richard Sharp, Uhtred, Thomas of Hookton, Nathaniel Starbuck – these men have the spine of a nation, the genes of the Celts, the grip of the god-damns (French slang for the English). If ever a warrior looked into a mirror, it was to find a bit of Richard Sharp glinting back in his eye. There will be no boogey men inside the castle tonight, my darlings.

So raise your pens to Bernard Cornwell, a master of the craft and pinpoint accurate with a yew-bow at two hundred yards. If it weren’t for his lineage, we’d all be eating pommes friets and goose liver pate with never a gold Louie between us. And the cries of our mothers would keep us awake at night as we pined for a blade.

Huzzah Lord Cornwell, the castle and keep of historical fiction are yours, well won.