Mandatory Sex Practice by Stuart R. West

Now that I have your undivided attention with that title (sorry, sorry, sorry, etc...), please allow me to explain...

Clickity-click for laughs and mystery fun!

Recently, my awesome mother-in-law sent us a post-holiday card. Within it was a personalized message to me.

"Stuart," it read, "you better start practicing your sex--will expect entertainment in the nursing home."

Huh.

After I rolled my tongue up off the floor and tucked it back into my mouth, I reread the card. Yep. Same thing.

What the...

The ramifications of the note were mind-boggling. And not even a bit cryptic. Kinda an order from her.

Which begs the question: what in the world have my wife and her mom been talking about? Furthermore, what does my mother-in-law mean by "practice?"

I suppose I could use a little boning up on my sex technique. But honestly, I'd rather not have my mother-in-law as teacher.

And what kind of nursing home are we talking about here where sex is used to entertain the crowd? I imagine the facility has quite a long waiting list. (I'd better get signed up now.)

After the fireworks in my head fizzled out, I took a closer look at the note. "Stuart," it read a bit differently this time, "you better start practicing your sax..."

Ooooooohhhhhhh...... Okay. That's better.

Which is my long-winded way of getting to the point. Often (okay, rarely), people ask me where I get my ideas. Nothing's funnier than real people in real situations. This will undoubtedly end up in one of my Zach and Zora comical mysteries as do many people I meet or situations I hear about.

I'm always on the look-out for comedy gold. I mean, you can't make half of this stuff up. At restaurants, I listen. My wife calls it eavesdropping. I call it "artistic license." She also warns everyone we meet to be careful because you could end up in one of my books. Duly warned!

So...have you heard the one about the dumb male stripper and his sharp detective sister working together to solve murders? No? Well, you're late to the party! Click here already for the first book in the series! 

Spiritual Healing Jungle Style by Stuart R. West

Visit lovely Peculiar County, just a click away.

Here we go again, back into the Amazon rain forest...

As things go, I'm kinda skeptical by nature. Which is a funny way to phrase it: "by nature." Because during our eight day sojourn into the jungle, "nature" challenged some of my earlier, stubborn notions.

Me in all my glory getting dowsed by a shaman!

Jungle Momma, the amazing organizer of our Peruvian trip, is--like my wife and many others in our party--a pharmacist. These days, however, she resides in Iquitos and the jungle, soaking up all the information she can regarding the vast, untapped, and downright amazing array of herbal and plant medicines available in the jungle. She's also been apprenticing with a shaman for the past twenty years.

Antonio, the Maestro!

Which brings me to Antonio, el Maestro Magia! Antonio, one of the last of the red-hot shamans, is a fascinating guy. He carries within him immense knowledge passed down from previous shamans, sadly the end of the line. Since his village civilized and moved into Iquitos with direct TV dishes, no one's interested in carrying on the shamanic traditions any longer, preferring the sparkly, new-fangled allure of Western medicine. A shame.

Antonio's part miracle worker, part doctor, part magician, and a pinch of dirty ol' man. Maybe even a sliver of Catskills vaudeville stand-up comic. Savvier than he appears, he pretends to not speak English at all, although we had our suspicions.  During his stay at our lodge, he was sequestered in the back conference room, down a very long walkway and closer to the jungle, because he couldn't handle all of the city energy in the lodge for too long. 

Yet, the reach of civilization had touched Antonio, too. Wearing an Americanized ballcap, emblazoned with the letter "M," and duded out in designer jeans and stylin' kicks, he resembled a tourist emulating American style (or lack thereof). I so wanted the "M" on his cap to stand for "magic." Alas, it was a corporate symbol for Iquitos' mega supplier of cable TV and cell phone plans.

The stories surrounding Antonio are amazing. With one look he diagnosed someone's cancer with his "MRI vision." He healed someone's growing fungal attack with jungle plants when all  Western medicine failed. Father of many, lover of even more, no one truly knows Antonio's age, but it's guestimated at around 82 or so. Given that, he's in better shape than I am, leaping off boats with ease and (terrifyingly) running through the jungle bare-foot.

El Maestro Magia!

Our first night in the jungle lodge, Antonio arranged a group blessing. This consisted of us donning our swimsuits; one by one, he doused us with a bucket of cold water with flowers stirred into the mix. His blessing went untranslated. For all I know, he could've been singing the Brady Bunch theme song.

We were then given the option of having a personal, spiritual healing session with el Maestro Magia. I waffled back and forth, wanting to experience it, yet fearful of what he might find out about my health. Did I believe in his unexplained abilities? I don't know. But I was afraid enough to waffle. And after the stories I'd been told by intelligent, sane people, I'd be a fool to dismiss Antonio's talents out-of-hand. So, I continued to waffle. Man, can I waffle, more waffling than the local pancake shop, a waffling talent I've perfected over many years of waffling. I mean, if I've got some kind of necrotic skin disease, isn't it better to not know about it until the last second?

At the final moment, I took a giant leap of faith over my waffles and landed in Antonio's domain, off the griddle and into the frying pan. 

I entered the circular room, empty except for Antonio sitting in a folding chair, head bowed. I approached him, shook his hand. Quietly he muttered something, gestured toward the folding chair across from him. I sat. He slapped some kinda nice-smelling oil on my face and doubled down on my head (I kinda think he liked the feel of my slick pate as he gave it a few extra smacks). A cigar was lit as he smoked herbal tobacco, constantly blowing it on me as he whistled a nameless, tuneless song. I closed my eyes, went with it, tried to "get out of my head" as I was instructed (usually an impossible task; I mean where else am I gonna go?), as he brushed palm leaves all over me.

I'm not sure what happened, but something did. The constant rustling of the dried leaves fell into a drum-like pattern. Pungent, rich smoke transported me elsewhere. With my eyes shut, I envisioned the past, ancient tribes beating drums, dancing around a fire, a community of respect for Mother Earth.

A duck-like call at my temples brought me back; Antonio sucking out the bad energy from my head. When it ended, I was disappointed. Eyes still closed, I waited. Finally, Antonio said, "okay," a universal word. I opened my eyes, felt comfortably numb, rested yet exhilarated.

I stumbled out to the communal hammock/nap room and just lay there contemplating my navel for half an hour.

Was I really transported back in time? No. Probably just my writerly senses propelling me into a flight of fantasy. But I felt more rested, comfortable, and at peace than I had for a while. It also made me consider bigger issues than my rather small Kansas City backyard.

Other members of our group experienced different things. My wife felt connected to water. She said, "We're moving close to water." I said, "Okay, as long as there's air conditioning."

Another person felt a shoulder wound heal and the word "metaphysical" kept bouncing around his mind. One woman said it felt like the aftermath of a really great massage. I couldn't argue with that. Another guy shrugged, said, "it was alright."

On the other hand, Antonio also strongly believes in love potions, so there's that.

Speaking of unexplainable and magical happenings, book a trip to scenic Peculiar County, where things are never as they appear.

Visit with a Peruvian Indigenous Tribe by Stuart R. West

Laughs, Murder & Mayhem! One simple click away!

Continuing our adventures down the Amazon River (and not to be as boring as everyone's least favorite uncle at holidays), the next day of our trip started with a red-eyed, bird-watching boat trip at six in the morning. Bleary-eyed, half-asleep, agitated like a disturbed hibernating bear, I blundered into the boat and managed not to capsize it. Barely. We saw lotsa birds, rare and exotic ones, but I probably would've rather seen the inside of a coffee cup.

A local fisherman kindly showed us his daily catch. Later we found out the locals weren't too keen on tourists invading their waters and jungles. Given their past treatment by colonial invaders, I can't say that I blame them.

After lunch, we visited an indigenous people's village. Decked out in long pants, long sleeves (groan), and enough bug spray to kill Mothra, we set out again by boat. Oh, we also had to don boots.

Ahhh, the boots. Those horrific boots. Heavy, hot, ill-fitting, we wore them every time we trekked through the jungle (snake protection). My feet were terribly loose so I had to wear two pair of thick, hot, sweltering socks. Conversely, one of my calves is oddly larger than the other and I couldn't even get the boot on so I had to roll the top down on that leg. Not only did I look even more ludicrous than usual, my feet felt like I was walking on burning coals.

But once we hit the village, my petty pedi-problems seemed minuscule in comparison.

Our first stop was a fantastic, ancient, ginormous tree next to the village. Legend has it that it contained mystical qualities and I certainly wasn't going to scoff in the face of such overwhelming nature. 

These boots aren't made for walking!

A small local girl had been craftily lying in wait for us. As soon as we disembarked our boat, she met us, carrying her pet sloth with her. Yep, a pet sloth! No fool, the child had been schooled in the nature of mercantilism, voguing for change. She got me. Seemed like bad karma not to tip.

The Salesmen of the Year Award goes to this little girl and her sloth.

As we entered the village, children ran merrily about--some in school uniforms, others not and I never could figure out why--dropping "buenas dias" and spreading the word of the visitors' arrival. 

This particular village had been aided by charity (Jungle Momma's art program being notable in providing lessons in how to improve the indigenous' wares). A new water tower provided clean water, yet abodes were still meager by our standards. Unlike Iquitos, though, they kept their village scrupulously clean (if you overlooked the visibly sick dogs living paw to foot among the villagers), decorated trash bins strategically located throughout the small village.

When I entered the grade school, the children adorably feigned working hard at math. I thought I'd flex my Espanol muscles and talk to the kids: "Ahh, bueno, bueno, ninos! Muy caliente matematicos!" They just kinda stared at me. (Later I found out I'd only singled out the boys--having left out the "ninas"--and told them their math was very hot.)

We piddled about the village for a while, killing time. Turns out it was a strategic ploy as it gave the people time to set up their small marketplace.

Soon we were hustled into a traditional communal hall, a large hut thatched with palm leaves. Decked out in original Yagua full garb, grass skirt and face-paint for the benefit of we marauding tourists, the chief proceeded to tell us a little about his tribe's traditional ways (and to shill for money). Soon, other villagers were painting our faces (wait a minute! Why did the other men get "hashtag" marks on their cheeks and I got the feminine stripes? Curious and curiouser...). Next they dragged us out for a hoedown of a dance (basically an endless, dizzying circle around the uneven dirt floor in my heavy duty boots and suffocating clothing).

Next was blow-dart shooting where my wife nailed the target first try.

Then...shopping!

Eight to ten stalls were set up, each representing a different family. The offered goods were similar (bracelets, masks, fans, touristy stuff), but the quality varied by booth. To be authentic, some of the women wore traditional palm fiber breast covers...which didn't quite do the job at times.  We were told that uneven distribution of funds might cause strife, so we tried to share the wealth.

Now, I was warned early on that the Peruvian merchants expect you to barter. Just part of the deal. But to me it felt wrong to barter with these poor villagers so we gave them asking price, even though one woman automatically brought her price down when she saw us waffling.

Last to leave, the Chief accosted us. He stuck his hand out. I thought it was a token of friendship, so I grabbed his hand. Clearly pissed, he jabbed out his other hand. Dumb American that I am, I seized that hand in a sorta embarrassing cross-armed double hand-hold. He yanked away, held out his hand again and bellowed, "Change!" Hard-core salesmanship, the taint of civilization. I obliged. Otherwise, we weren't getting outta there. He looked at what I gave him, finally said, "okay," and stepped aside. Guy needs to be selling cars in Kansas.

As we left, I was struck by the happy nature of the village. Honestly, though, my privileged, liberal-guilty self fabricated a touch of sadness. I felt like donating my boots to them.

In fact, I would've happily paid them to take my boots.

To show you just how generous I'm feeling, I'm going to donate this book to you, dear reader (for the low, low price of $2.99), a perfect stocking stuffer for the holidays. Bad Day in a Banana Hammock...it's for a good cause (hot dog money). 

Wild Horses of Alberta by Nancy M Bell

My latest novel Wild Horse Rescue released On September 21, 2018. You can click on the cover to learn more about it.

The inspiration for this story came from the wild horses of Alberta who mind their own business and struggle to survive like any wild animal. Unlike a 'wild' animal, the horses are considered 'feral' by the powers that be and therefore have no protection. In fact the Alberta government has a committee that decides when they decree there are too many. They can decide to initiate a 'cull' which means the horses are rounded up indiscriminately regardless of age or gender and sent to auction where most end up in the hands of the meat buyer. Some of the members on this supposedly impartial committee are the very people who will participate in the cull and benefit financially from the sale of the horses. Fences have been left unrepaired and gates open so the horses wander unto 'private' land, often lured by feed or salt block, although of course this is denied vehemently by the perpetrators.
Those horses are on crown land, land the people of Alberta supposedly have rights and access to. However during one cull a few years ago, the rancher with the cull permit locked access gates and refused entry to Alberta citizens. To make matters even more convoluted five people who were doing nothing more than observing were arrested and held for a number of hours and had to go to court to be proven blameless. The official stance is that the horses have no natural predators which of course if untrue and has been rebutted by advocacy groups. Help Alberta Wildies is a group of concerned citizens who advocate for the horses and bring their interests to the public forum. You can follow them on Facebook at Help Alberta Wildies. There are a number of photographers who routinely go out and take photos while watching over the horses. There have been recorded instances of foals being caught in deep snow and floundering, left by the herd. Young horses so covered in ticks they are anemic, attacks by cougars, wolves and coyotes on young, sick or older horses.

The wild horses in the western United States face similar challenges and their round up methods include chasing the horses (including young foals) by helicopter, insisting this is the best and most humane method. I can only IDIOTS! You can follow their story on Facebook at WIld in North Dakota and The Cloud Foundation.
I am not a bleeding heart city girl, I'm a horsewoman with many years of experience and I can say with no reserve that most of the official babble from both sides of the border is HOGWASH. That's the nicest word I could think of.

In Wild Horse Rescue, Laurel Rowan who fans of mine will remember from Laurel's Quest and the other books in the Cornwall Adventures, is back home in southern Alberta. Her Cornish friend Coll Tinne is visiting for the summer. The wild horses are under a cull order and Laurel refuses to allow the horses she so loves and admires to be denied their freedom and their very lives. So she sets out to find a way to help them. The stallion in the story is Coal, but he is inspired by the stallion known as White Spirit who lives with his band near Sundre, ALberta. I have moved the horses in my story from Sundre down to near Pincher Creek, Alberta. Although I don't believe there are any wild horses left in that area. There used to be wildies on the Suffield Military Base living quite in harmony with their surrounding. However the Alberta government in their infinite wisdom decided to remove them all, a lot of them went to slaughter, but some were bought by concerned citizens who fought to keep the bloodlines alive. There is a Suffield Mustang Association where they keep track of the horses and the breeding lines. When the horses were removed the government introduced elk to the area, now twenty years later they find the elk (who aren't indigenous to the area) are destroying the riparian areas by the water holes and the grazing. Now, they are talking about 'managing' the elk. Again, I say IDIOTS. Bureaucrats who don't understand the animals or the land listen to special interest groups who have their own agenda which has more to do with money than the environment or the animals well being.

The wildies are born wild, they live wild, they survive as they can, the weak fall and the fittest survive. They are as wild as any deer or moose. Hanging the 'feral' tag on them just makes the wildies easy pickings for the unscrupulous. I encourage you to take a look at the Help Alberta Wildies facebook page. There is another group called Wild Horses of Alberta Society, however they support the cull and also birth control for the mares, which I do not. Many of the ranchers would be very happy if the horses disappeared altogether and that will be a sad day for Alberta and the world.

Duane Starr is one of the photographers who follows the horses. The photos below are his work. PLease realize most of the images are taken with telescopic lens, the photographer is not near the horses. You can also see the damage logging has done as the horses graze in the mess of the clear cuts. And yet the government and ranchers claim the horses are destroying the landscape.

White Spirit

Darrel Glover also took some of the pictures and the black stallion in the snow is by Rick Price

Clear cut mess

This little guy is Kai when he was found, he was snowbound and freezing. Some riders found him and rescued him. He was severely under weight and covered in ticks. He survived but sadly before he was two he succumbed to colic. However, he was loved and cared for during his short life, so fie on the ones who said he should have been left to die, 'as nature intended'. I believe if he was 'meant to die' the riders wouldn't have found him. Perhaps little Kai was test of our compassion, courage and greatness of heart. In which case some people would have failed miserably. I bless Help Alberta Wildies for taking care of Kai and loving him.

Some of the wildies doing what they do to survive.

About Rosemary Morris

I’ve always had an extraordinary interest in written words. My mother described me seated in my pushchair, when I was two-and-a-half years old, holding up a book and reciting the story,
“Your little girl is reading!” an astonished lady exclaimed.
Mum laughed. “No, she isn’t. Rosemary’s memorised all her favourite stories.”
I can’t recall them, but I remember the colourful illustrations and the joy of sitting on my darling grandfather’s lap while he read to me.
By the age of four, I could read and make up stories. Everything around me was fodder for my imagination. At seven, in the days when children walked unaccompanied to school, I stopped by a lime tree at the end of the road. I pretended a wicked witch had cast a spell on a handsome prince. To honour him on my way to and from school I walked around him three times and curtsied.
“I am sorry for the mother of that abnormal child,” one of the neighbours said to Mum
After I came home that day, I received a lecture. On the next day I invented magic words to release the handsome prince.
When I studied history at school I was, to use a cliché, in seventh heaven.
I imagined Alfred burning the cakes, the Tudor Princess Elizabeth by Traitor’s Gate refusing to enter the Tower of London, gallant c-cavaliers with their plumed hats and lovelocks - much more appealing than the Roundheads. These and many others were food for my fertile imagination; so was historical fiction, which I still enjoy as well as biographies of those who lived in times past and historical non-fiction.
Eventually, I wrote romantic historical fact fiction and, after many years, achieved my ambition to be published.
Now, I spend almost as much time researching the past for my novels as writing.

Women’s Dress in Queen Anne Stuart’s reign -1702-1714
A brief description.

The Fontage, introduced by Mademoiselle Fontage at the French court of Louis X1V, was made of rows of stiffened muslin or lace supported by wire, and varied in height during the period.
Underlinen. A glimpse of this is revealed in an advertisement. Lost etc., a deal box containing 4 fine linen Holland shifts, 7 fine cambric handkerchiefs, 2 night rails (nightdresses) etc.,
False Hips and Hoops. To spread wide their under petticoats and petticoats (gowns) before c.1709 ladies wore false hips, subsequently these were replaced with compressible whalebone hoops.
Bodices were laced but left open in the front over very tight stays made from different materials often lined with flannel. Sir Richard Hoare of the Gold Bottle in Fleet Street offered the finder 12 guineas for a pair of stays with 8 diamond buckles and tabs. The bodices were worn low over the bosom which was often concealed by a tucker (a modesty piece).
Sleeves were loose. They reached the elbow and were worn over lace or muslin under sleeves that almost reached the wrist.
Gowns were divided down the front to reveal the petticoat. Both garments were sometimes made of very rich materials. E.g. stolen out of the house of Mr Peter Paggen in Love Lane near Eastcheap … one gown flowered with green and gold … one purple and gold gown …one scarlet and gold petticoat edged with silver…one yellow chintz gown and petticoat etc. These are part of a long list of stolen gowns and petticoats.
Stockings were made of thread or silk, the latter sometimes in bright colours. The little temptress (shop assistant) at the New Exchange asked…” Does not your lady want fine green silk stockings?”
Shoes were beautifully made of embroidered satin or silk or fine Morocco leather with high heels.
Hats did not fit over fashionable ladies’ fontages, however poorer women wore ‘flat caps’ and country women wore tall, broad brimmed hats (which are still part of the Welsh national costume).
Hoods when fontages were sufficiently lowered could be worn and were referred to by contemporary writers especially in the Spectator.
My favourite description is: I took notice of a little cluster of women sitting together in the prettiest coloured hoods that I ever saw. One of them was blue, another yellow and another philomot (Feuille-mort); the fourth was of a pink colour and the fifth was of a pale green. I looked with as much pleasure upon this little parti-coloured assembly and did not know at first whether it might be an embassy of Indian queens.
Note. Women also wore cloaks, furs and owned muffs.

Extract from The Captain and The Countess

At her morning levee, Kate, Countess of Sinclair glanced at her most persistent admirers, Mister Tyrell, both dashing and bold, and Mister Stafford, conservative and somewhat hesitant. As usual, they had arrived before her other admirers. Now they sat at their ease on gilt-legged chairs near her canopied bed.
Kate decided she could delay no longer. She rose to make her toilette behind a tall screen, still conscious of the rose-pink night robe she had ruffled around her shoulders with great care before Tyrell and Stafford arrived.
With her maid, Jessie’s help, after Kate removed her nightgown and night rail, she donned her under-linen, stays, and a bodice, cut lower than the current fashion and loosely laced in front to reveal gold buckles inset with pearls, which clasped her satin-covered stays so tightly that she could scarce draw breath. “Gentlemen, which petticoat shall I wear?” she asked, giggling deliberately and playing the part of an indecisive female. “Jessie, please show both of them to Mister Tyrell and Mister Stafford.”
Over the edge of the lacquered screen, Jessie dangled the full petticoats to be worn displayed beneath skirts parted down the front.
Kate stood on tiptoe. She peeped over the top of the screen, decorated with a painted blue and white pot containing tulips, passion flowers, lilies, roses, and sprigs of rosemary.
“Gentlemen, the cream petticoat is made of Luckhourie, a newly fashionable silk from India. The lavender one is of the finest quality Pudsay.”
“Stap me, they are uncommon plain,” said Mister Tyrell.
Kate knew he admired feminine apparel trimmed with folderols such as gold or silver lace, ruched ribbons, bows, and rosettes. She suppressed a chuckle in order not to offend him.
“My mother approves of modest attire,” Mister Stafford said.
Before she withdrew her head from their sight, Kate choked back her laughter. Stafford’s contemptuous glance at his rival did not escape her notice.
She doubted Mrs Stafford found much about her to praise, but she cared naught for Stafford’s mother, a creature with the languishing airs of a pseudo-invalid, who bound her son cruelly to her side. Indeed, the gentleman’s determined courtship surprised Kate. It proved he was not, as the saying went, completely under his mother’s thumb.
“Which one shall I wear?” Kate repeated. Although she had already decided to wear cream, she followed the custom of prolonging what amounted to “The Art of the Levee”.
First, Jessie retrieved the petticoats. Next, she dressed Kate in the Luckhourie one, a gown, and lace-edged apron.
Stafford spoke first. “I have no doubt her ladyship will favour the cream petticoat, which will enhance the natural delicacy of her appearance.”
Delicate? Heaven forbid. She did not want, her new acquaintance, Captain Howard, to consider her delicate. “’Pon my word, Stafford, I have no wish to give the impression of one who suffers from lung rot.”
Mister Tyrell laughed. “I am sure you don’t, Lady Sinclair. For my part, I beg you to wear the lavender. It will enhance the colour of your blue eyes.”
“I shall surprise both of you.” Kate ignored their petty war of words and wondered why she yearned to see Captain Howard.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels:
Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess
Regency Novels
False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child.
Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019
Mediaeval Novel
Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One
www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove,net/authors/morris-rosemary

Can too much research kill a story? by J. S. Marlo

J. S. Marlo BWL Author Page

I started writing a new series Unraveling the Past, and as the name suggests, it takes place in the past. The first book of the series Misguided Honor takes place in Nova Scotia in 1941. It’s the first time I write an historical novel...or a ghost.

When I lived in Nova Scotia decades ago, I heard the legend of a ghost haunting a special building. Back then the legend fascinated me, so I thought one day I’ll write a story around it. Well, that day has finally come.

Before I begin writing, I searched for the origin of that legend. Well, not only didn’t I find any reference to it, but the facts I gleaned about the building differ substantially from the legend. To my great disappointment, I was forced to admit to myself that there might not be much truth behind that legend and that reality check made me pause.

The story I had in mind no longer held any grip with history, so where do I go from there? Do I still use the real building in the real town in Nova Scotia or do I create a fictional town? While the later gives me more artistic freedom, it also changes the impact of the story as this little town in Nova Scotia is full of history, just not the history I was hoping to delve into.

I wrote the first chapter last week then life happened and I had to take a few days off. I opted for the real town, but I’m not convinced yet it was the right choice. Once I reread it, I’ll decide if I like the feel of it, but regardless of my decision, I will write that story. The research, though contradicting, didn’t kill my story, but it made me rethink it.

Misguided Honor might not turn out exactly how I had planned, but in the end, I like to believe it will make it that much better. Still, I can see how research can send a muse for a spin, making her dizzy and confused.

I hope my muse will eventually forgive me.

JS

 J. S. Marlo's Website

Spring IS Coming! by J.Q. Rose

Welcome to the BWL Publishing Insiders Blog!

Terror on Sunshine Boulevard by J.Q. Rose

Mystery, paranormal

Click here to find mysteries by JQ Rose at BWL Publishing

Shocking. That's what it was. Snow! A thick, six-inch layer of snow covered the lawns, heaped up in piles along the cleared (thank goodness) roads, and blanketed the tender leaves of spring flowers tentatively breaking through the unfrozen soil to face this wintry spring weather. We drove from Florida back to Michigan last week through rain, wind, snow showers and black ice only to discover our part of the world was still smothered with that white fluffy stuff!! 

So, for all of you (including me) still dealing with winter in the middle of April, I'll share some of my spring photos from years before to give you a taste of what surely WILL come. Don't give up. Spring is on its way.

Hyacinths

Forsythia bush

Pink tulips

Flowering crab

Tulips and creeping phlox

Let's party!!

One good thing I can find about this extended winter weather is the fabulous opportunity to stay in and read a book! Then, this summer, you can read a book at the beach. Anytime, anyplace is perfect for reading.

Wishing you a wonderful spring!

Click here to connect online with mystery author J.Q. Rose.

Jury Duty: Torture or Writing Research? by Stuart R. West

Much more fun than jury duty!

My wife got the mail that fateful day, said "uh-oh," as she tossed the inexplicably foreboding government letter toward me. Surprise! I'd been chosen for jury duty! (Cue the wah-wah-wah-wahhhh mocking trombone).

Noooo! (Rendering it an even larger injustice, for years my wife has actually longed to pull jury duty. It's a cruel world).

Well, I'd managed to dodge the jury duty bullet twice before in my life time. (Years ago, I'd written the Government that my dad was in a wheelchair {true!} and that I was needed to take care of him {kinda true, but not really!}. It'd worked twice.) Feeling invulnerable, I figured I could dodge the bullet a third time. I wrote that my mother was ailing (true and constantly!) and that I was "on-call" at all times to take care of her (sorta' true if you kinda smudge the boundaries of what's "true" and whatever). This time, the cold-hearted judge didn't take pity on me.

So, on a recent bitter, snow-storm threatening Monday morning, I hauled myself through gridlocked highway traffic to the Kansas courthouse. Like lemmings driven to their death, tons of people grumpily shuffled across the sidewalks toward the courthouse. As it was Monday morning, I'd never seen such a collection of bleary-eyed, clearly hung-over, grumpier people together at once.

At the security check, I de-shoed, unbelted, emptied my valuables into a bucket, got beeped at, then was sent through the puzzling labyrinth of the courthouse. Worse than a rat in a maze, I had to go down a flight of stairs to a room, up another flight, down the hall, down another flight, then up another flight. Finally, I entered the courtroom.

A woman who made Fran Drescher sound absolutely dulcet directed us toward assigned seats. She looked at my paperwork and laughed. Actually brayed! "You're juror number one," she managed between sadistic guffaws. 

This didn't bode well. So much for a fast exit. All week long, I'd been working on a strategy to be dismissed during the "voir dire" process (oral and visual examination of the potential jurors). I figured I might try a surly and crazed "hang 'em all and hang 'em high" attitude. But all now seemed lost as I settled into chair number ONE.

And there I sat for an hour. By my estimation, over a hundred potential jurors crammed into the courtroom. Grimly, I stared at my non-existent wristwatch. An older man sat down in front of me, flying his flannel and sporting a mess of Grizzly Adams beard and hair. My peer. Breathing like a pneumatic nail gun, his face redder than a fire hydrant, he turned around and angrily huffed at me like some kind of out-of-control Lifetime movie husband. At that point I figured it was gonna be a long trial.

Not Fran Drescher did her best to entertain us, answer questions, and warn of the oncoming snow storm. While she couldn't get into the specifics, she did say this was a criminal trial--a big one!--and could take up to several weeks. I had a sudden change of heart. Even though I didn't want to be there, the trial might provide some excellent writing research and ideas. I began to brainstorm a courtroom thriller! Because I had nothing better to do!

Some woman asked Fran Drescher's twin how they picked potential jurors. "Driving and voting records and bad luck," she answered. The woman's question was two-fold, however. "This is the fourth time I've been here this year," the woman implored. "What's up with that?"

Pseudo Fran Drescher responded, "That sucks." (A truly governmental response if I've ever heard one.)

Suddenly a yuppie--flashy in Friday casual wear--took the podium. He said he was our judge (No robe, no liver spots, no tremors while rattling a gavel. Feh. Not my kinda judge.) and apologized for keeping us waiting. Apparently they'd reached a plea agreement and we were free to go.

What?

Just as I'd resigned myself to a long drawn-out affair, almost excited about the sordid adventure awaiting me, then POOF, we were ushered out of the courtroom (and up stairs, then down stairs, then up again, and...).


Oddly disappointed, I trawled home. But at least I wouldn't be called again for another year. Then again...that "rule" didn't hold true for the poor four-time lottery loser in the courtroom.

A jury of reading peers has found Bad Day in a Banana Hammock guilty of hilarity with a finding of a 4.2 rating. 22 jurors surely can't ALL be wrong.

Hear ye, hear ye, click here to read the book in session!

Writing a Police Procedural Made EZ by Stuart R. West

Click Here for the Your Laugh Line's 2017 Funniest Book Nominee

That’s right! For a limited time only, I’m divulging the secrets to writing a successful police procedural for only ten—that’s right, ten!—easy installment payments (which we’ll discuss later)!

(Disclaimer: Although I’ve not written a true police procedural, I’ve had quite a few cops and detectives tumble in and out of my books. Besides, I’ve seen enough TV procedurals to qualify as an expert.)

Ready? Let's go!

Step #1) Pick Your Lead.

This is the biggest choice you’ll face as a writer: what gender to make your lead. Once you clear that hurdle, the rest of the book will flow naturally. It doesn’t truly matter if your lead detective is male or female because they’re going to share the same traits: hard-edged as granite, muscular, no-nonsense, tough-talking, swagger walking, alcohol-pounding, quip-dropping tough gals and guys. Note that it’s no longer politically correct to have your protagonist chain smoke, so don't even think about it.

Step #2) Pack Your Baggage.

Your protagonist needs baggage, HAS to have baggage. Lots and lots of emotional baggage, so much baggage, it’d put an airport baggage handler into traction. Said baggage may be due to a series of lousy, failed relationships (usually due to a combination of drink, infidelity, and the stress of being On The Job). Or maybe there's the unfortunate passing of a loved one. Maybe your hero has had too many bad encounters with cable guys and has snapped. It doesn't really matter as long as he or she is damaged as tornado debris.

Step #3) Choose Your Lead’s Police Partner.

Another simple step, really, because there can only be two choices. Your protagonist’s work partner is either a newbie, eager-to-please, green-around-the-ears rookie cop; or a slovenly, donut-eating, burned out cop just days away from retirement. There are no other choices. And it doesn’t matter because the partner’s doomed within the opening pages. He may as well wear a sign on his back reading “Dead Cop Walking.” For he will be shot early on, oh, yes he will. And prepare for your hero to raise his/her hands to the sky over the late partner’s corpse and scream, “Nooooooooo!” Bonus points if it takes place in the rain.

(Note: A lot of writers choose to have a man and woman, both from the hard-boiled school, as partners. Naturally while chasing the bad guy, they'll fall into bed. Should you choose to go down that path, it’s fine, but don’t forget to add a little Yin to Yang.)

Step #4) Position Your Police Captain (and Immediately Disrespect Him).

This is the guy in charge. Invariably, he's always bald, short-fused, sick and tired of your protagonist’s lone wolf ways, and one step away from a heart attack. His coloring tends to run stroke-red. It’s a must that your protagonist never shows the least amount of respect for the boss, treating him with cool disdain and quippy one-liners. And it’s important to remember your protagonist should only address the captain by his last name or a colorful nick-name.

Whether you choose to make your captain crooked is entirely up to you. It's a popular choice these days.

Step #5) Master the Maniacal Laugh.

Your good guys are in place. The stage is set. Now things get tricky.

Bad guys are tough to do on paper. The Maniacal Laugh is particularly tough to express in words.

“For you see, Trina, I’ve been killing ice-cream vendors because of a tragic bomb-pop incident in my childhood years. I despise sprinkles. Mwah-hah-hah-hahhhhhhh!”

See? Doesn’t exactly sing in the written word, does it?

But, like it or not, you’ve set yourself up to write a police procedural, and you need an incredibly unhinged villain, lest your tough-as-nails protagonist comes off appearing uncouth, particularly in these sensitive and politically correct times. Maniacal laughter is a must. Please do approach with caution, though, and strive for a modicum of subtlety.

Step #6) Uncomfortable Sex Locales.

I don’t know what it is about these tough cops and detectives, but as a general rule, beds aren’t their number one location to have sex (NOT make love; tough gals and guys don’t go in for that sissy stuff). No, like everything your tough protagonist does in life, there's a tendency to take the road less traveled, a rocky road indeed. The love/lust scenes play out in alleyways (again, cue the rain, thus making it even more uncomfortable), cars, against walls, any place sure to put a cramp in the reader’s leg.

Not sure why, really. I don’t make the rules.

Step #7) Make It Personal.

Your protagonist has to have a personal gripe against your bad guy. It’s nice to tie this into the hero's baggage (see Step #2). Maybe the current serial killer was the hero’s scoutmaster or paper-boy. This will involve the reader in an entirely new level, pulling them in by the lapels (but since Casual Friday is the current popular mode of wardrobe, I suppose lapels are rather dated). Be creative. 

Ta-dahhhh! There you have it! Everything you need to know about writing a successful police procedural. Now all you need to do is go publish and make a kazillion dollars. It's that simple.

A Burned Out Detective Lurks Within!