Mollie Hunt's Blog, page 72

Reblogged: Weigh Your Characters Carefully

Source: Weigh Your Characters Carefully

How much do book characters weigh? Does the author tell you or leave it up to your imagination? Do you want to see characters as an image of yourself, or would you rather visualize what our society thinks we should be? This blog asks and answers some questions we might do well to ask ourselves.

ANGER

Anger,

like a white dwarf star after implosion,

lives on.

 Like a star,

anger is deadly.

 Unlike a star,

anger is personal.

ROMANCE, MYSTERY, OR COUNTRY NOIR?

    

I’m heavy into the final revision of Placid River Runs Deep, my soon-to-be-published mystery involving a heroine with hepatitis, a not-so-peaceful country get-away, and a revenge plot that has spanned the generations. As I read along, searching for typos, spell-check misinterpretations, and clumsy wording, I find myself wondering just where this complicated story is going to fit.

For the last few years I’ve been concentrating on my Crazy Cat Lady series, which are as comfortably positioned in the cozy cat mystery genre as a kitty in a cardboard box. Placid River is different, like nothing I’ve written before – or after. It’s a leap, a challenge, a journey to a deeper place. Not that it’s literature – I would never presume! Nor is it gloomy, but it does have a somber side, exploring mental illness, a devastating disease, and the raw need to cope with tragedy. It also has a romantic side, for along with the heroine comes the handsome hero, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Then, coiled among the longing glances and first kisses, lurks the dark story: the mystery, the murders, and a broken villain with a grudge taken to insane lengths.

Though my personal reading preference is for cozy mysteries with gorgeous scenery and a happy ending all wrapped up like a kitten in a blanket, I also have a penchant for noir. The cynicism, smoldering sensuality, and the make no promises storylines peak my interest and transport me to a place I don’t usually go. I recognize something of myself in those fractured actors, their achievements so ambiguous and incomplete. I do, after all, have my own cracks and crazing.

Not saying Placid River ends badly – no spoilers here – but as I read through it yet again, the story is taking me on a voyage of its own. Where it will end up on the bookstore shelf, I have yet to decide.

Coming soon: Placid River Runs Deep By Mollie Hunt

When Ember Mackay learns she has a life-threatening illness, she flees to the old Placid River cabin, but instead of solace, she finds mystery, murder and a revenge plot that has taken a generation to unfold.

Diagnosis: hepatitis C. It’s a shocker for Ember Mackay. In 2010, there is no cure and she is far too young to die. Ember needs time to process. She makes for the little summer community her grandparents helped establish long ago. The old cabin holds happy memories, but can they ease the grim reality that will change her life forever?

Her focus shifts when an elderly River Lane patron is found horribly murdered and his brother dies suspiciously soon after. When a third neighbor is killed, it becomes clear that no one is safe. There is a pattern, but one so unthinkable it is passed off as pure fancy. By the time Ember realizes who is next on the killer’s list, it may already be too late.

 

 

“The Committee” Is LIVE! Get Your Copy Today!

Source: “The Committee” Is LIVE! Get Your Copy Today!

A cruel, futuristic vision created by science fiction authors James Courtney and Kaisy Wilkerson-Mills.

This is the sequel to “Prescription for Ratings: The Contestants”.

Enjoy!

Support indie authors!

MY OREGON: STATE OF CRAZIES

Once again, Oregon is in the news for crazy behavior.

I’m not a rancher, a Paiute, a birder, a cop, or a zealot, but this thing has kept me awake at night. I want my wildlife refuge back.

I am also not a vegetarian, but even I can recognize that using land for growing food-cows isn’t all that good for the environment. A bird sanctuary, however, is. I admit our government does fail us on some occasions, but one of the things they have got right is the Department of Fish and Wildlife. Why can’t these “militia men” take over something already ruined by greed?

“The Malheur refuge has long been recognized as one of the premier birding sites in the West. The wildlife refuge was created in 1908 by Teddy Roosevelt to ensure native heron weren’t extirpated for their feathers, a fashionable item of the era. Today, the 187,757-acre refuge is home to over 320 bird species, plus a few dozen mammals, too.”

Photograph by David B Marshall

And that brings me to the third rant that keeps me from sleep, the fact that these hoodlums call themselves a militia. According to the dictionary, a militia is “a military force raised from the civil population to supplement a regular army in an emergency”. These American extremists have nothing to do with the U.S. Armed Forces.  I grant that they fit the rest of Webster’s supplemental definition, in that they are “a… force that engages in rebel or terrorist activities, typically in opposition to a regular army.” I know it’s too late to change their press-given tag, but I, for one, will not call them a militia. Not my army! Not defending me!

This isn’t Oregon’s first time in the spotlight for blatant strangeness though it usually comes out in gentler ways such as our unicycling bagpiper or our yummy . But some may remember the Rajneeshees (1984) and Tonya Harding (1994). Maybe it’s something about the fresh air or the large square shape of the state. Maybe it’s the Vortex. Whatever it is, I’m not trading cow pies for a wildlife sanctuary. Not in my state.

       

 

*For those who haven’t been followed this farce in the news and more humorously, on Facebook, last weekend, armed men took over several buildings at the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, a remote, marshy oasis in Oregon’s high desert famed for its spectacular migratory bird populations. The standoff protests policies governing the use of federal land in the west and is a continuation of a long-running feud between ranchers and the Bureau of Land Management over federal policies covering the uses of public lands, including grazing.

                 

 

 

 

2016 – NEW ROAD

January 1 has dawned bright and sunlit in Portland, cold and beautiful as marble, but now it seems late to run through the record of 2015. I’ve already changed the calendars.

Some things stand out, however, as I think back to…..was it just yesterday? For the most part, 2015 was a year of rigid routine, the way society would have us believe it should be. What does Fox News call it? “Packing 10 pounds of to-do list in a 5-pound bag”?

There was work (too much), volunteering (not enough) Al-anon meetings (never enough), and trips to the beach (also never enough).

I published a book, had my first readings, got a story in an anthology, won Nanowrimo, and a few days ago, got my proof copy of Placid River Runs Deep.

      

I traveled to Utah to volunteer at Best Friends Animal Shelter, and to Las Vegas for the Star Trek Con.

 

  

I was sick a lot and quit taking my meds to get a baseline so hopefully they can find out what’s wrong with me. I think I already know, at least in part:

I am metamorphosing.

My life is about to get very different. In an email I sent to my co-workers, I explained, “On January 21, 2016, I will be taking a giant step into change. At 63, I am leaving my place of employment after nearly 15 years to pursue my dream of being a writer. Anyone close to my age will understand that at some point, time begins to count down…. The need to fulfill my creative destiny has become vital. I’m optimistic about my future adventures in writing, cat-sitting, volunteering, and changing my diet from steak to beans.”

I have thought this through, and here is my reasoning for taking this geriatric leap of faith:

Because no matter how early I get up in the morning, I’m still late for work. It’s a sign.

Because sitting on my butt for the past 15 years has made me sick. And I’m sick of it!

Because I work at a medical clinic where every day I see the unpredictability of human health – someone comes in for a wart on the toe only to find they have a fatal disease.

Because as I volunteer with my therapy cat, Tinkerbelle, too many of my hospice patients are younger than me.

Because I can.

Though I still have another few weeks at the job, I’m beginning to feel the stirrings of release: butterflies of imagination, sparks of creativity being born – or reborn, stretching like something cooped up and cramped for a very long time. New synapses are firing. I’m not too old to learn something new.

It’s never too late to change.

Except when you die.

Then it really is.

 

 

Motives For Murder

Source: Motives For Murder

 

Tis The Day To Shred

Photo post by @Cat at the bar@TvKapherr.

Source: Tis The Day To Shred

THE GREAT AMERICAN CHRISTMAS

I am not good at Christmas. Months before December 25th, I’m plagued with stress – little wiggle worms in my brain saying got to find the perfect gift. There is a lot to do this time of year: decorate the house; send cards to friends and family; cook Brussels sprouts and cranberry sauce; go shopping for that perfect gift. If I don’t find the perfect gift, how will they know I love them?

It might be easier if I were rich and could buy cars and iPhones and diamond rings, but would that satisfy the nagging thought that, though expensive, though coveted, maybe it wasn’t really the perfect gift after all?

Endless advertisements that began I swear shortly after the Fourth of July have been telling me what to buy, so how is it Christmas Eve and I still don’t know? I look at the little pile of stuff I am about to wrap and the angst rises. What if they don’t like it? What if they already have one? What if this book or DVD or scarf doesn’t show my love? What if it isn’t enough?

When I was a hippie, we made things for each other: a hand-written recipe book; a jar of home-canned pickles; a wooden doll house or train; a card with a note, “good for 1 massage”. Of course we had very little, so anything was appreciated. And we were all stoned so it was always pretty groovy.

In my grandmother’s day, a yard of satin ribbon was an suitable gift for a little girl. Now it’s a $300 designer handbag. Inflation? Guilt? Love = money spent.

And where does Jesus fit in this pandemonium of gift-giving? Though I’m not exactly a Christian, this is His day. His gift was of himself, and we could learn from that, no matter what religion we are or are not. What about peace on earth? Are we closer to that goal or farther away than ever? Sadly, I doubt He would recognize what we’ve done to His birthday.

It’s certainly not all bad, the colors and lights and joy that the Great American Christmas has become. Vignettes of co-workers decorating the office, of families running through the rain to the mall. The season brings us together, whether we like it or not. What we do with it is up to us.

Today I will take what comes, and give back what I can. I will ask God for the knowledge of His will for me and the power to carry that out. I will let go my own feeble attempt at control and allow the miracle. I will share something of myself with my friends and family….

Share something of myself, something only I can give.

It doesn’t cost money, and it can’t be wrapped in a box, but might that be the perfect gift I’ve searched for all along?

 

31

There are 31 days until my life changes forever. 31 days until my “occupation” line will be marked writer instead of grunt at a desk in a cubicle in a room without windows.

It’s also 31 days until I  get back into clipping coupons, pull a rabbit out of a hat whenever the mortgage is due, and make more meals with beans than steak.

Never too old to start new.

    It’s worth it.

    I’m worth it.

    I’m ready.