Sizzling Sofa Stories by Stuart R. West's Sofa

Click here for the first book created on my fine upholstery.

I am Stuart's sofa.

I'm the couch hub of the Midwest, the loveseat heart of suburban Kansas. An upholstery covered melting pot suitable for every race, color, creed, and religious bottom of humanity. There are eight million stories to be told from my cushions and this is one of them. For you see...

Wait. Hold on a minute. It's a lie. All of it!

My life is boring. I get to service Stuart's rear-end only. Day in and day out, he sits on me, writing. Sure, some times his wife parks on me, but as far as variety? Forget about it.

Frankly, watching someone write is really, really boring.

On occasion, though, I'm privy to the insights of the writing process. For instance, Stuart's frequently asked "where do you get your ideas?" Usually--as is his lame and lazy approach--he responds "I don't know." (See what I mean? BORING.)

This hammock thinks it has it bad? Try being me, Stuart's suffering sofa!

But last week, something interesting finally happened. While wearing me down (and would it hurt Stuart to sit on my other side on occasion?), Stuart received a text on his phone.

It read: Hey! It's Theresa! I'm using Tim's phone because I lost mine! See you in a bit! DON'T text back on this phone!

This set Stuart to thinking, never a good idea. He didn't know a Tim or Theresa. He couldn't very well text back, either, tell Theresa she had a wrong number. After all, she'd strictly forbidden him to do so.

Weened on thrillers and mysteries, Stuart started pulling pieces together. Clearly, Theresa was cheating on Tim. The heart emojis sealed the deal. Should Stuart warn Tim? Write back anyway and let Theresa know she had the wrong number?

What did Stuart, the man of inaction, the writer do? Nothing. Altogether now: BORING.

Several hours later, Theresa texted back: Thinking bout you. Had a great time.

Again, Stuart didn't respond. Through-out the day, Theresa kept texting, her anxiety ramping up with each missive: Helloooo? What's wrong? Why aren't you responding? Dammit, talk to me!

Finally, Theresa's final message: That's it. I'm talking to Tim. Even more troublesome? Theresa attached a photo of a baby in a car seat.

Like a Hitchcockian protagonist from days of old, Stuart had unwittingly become an unwilling, silent partner in an affair, the fourth member of a sordid situation that would undoubtedly end in murrrderrrr.

Yes sir, it was the most excitement I'd had since I was a wee settee at the sofa factory.

Stuart deliberated, didn't have a clue as to what to do. In his typically inert fashion, he decided to fashion the incident into a thriller to be written at a later date. The seed of an idea had been planted and his mind began to water it.

So...that's where one of Stuart's book ideas came from.

Wait! Here he comes! Gotta' run. I'll talk to--Oooff!

Another comedic thriller I helped birth, yet never get any credit for!

Stuart R. West's Books We Love Author's Page: http://bookswelove.net/authors/west-stuart-r/

What Has Liam Neeson Wrought? by Stuart R. West

Laughs, mystery, no Liam Neeson, just a click away!

Liam Neeson has single-handedly revolutionized the plots of suspense thrillers. Not necessarily in a good way, either.

But, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. The shocking, highly researched results of my studies may surprise you...
 
Over the holidays, my wife and I were traveling to Oklahoma and got bored. On her IPad, I sought out the most critically acclaimed films of the year that we needed to see. That grew predictably dull. Yes, the movies are supposed to be good for you. So are lima beans, doesn't make 'em any more tasty. So for grins, we ventured over into the worst reviewed films of the year.

Much more fun. And very eye-opening.

Several actors popped up three or four times each. And none of these films ever made it into theaters. I got excited.

Nicolas Cage! Bruce Willis! John Travolta! Pierce Brosnan (I always confuse him with the Perfect Strangers "Belki" guy.)! These actors...several academy award nominated...apparently have shifted into direct to DVD territory. The winds of change.

Oddly enough, all of them appear in a crummy movie with plots that go like this: "Rock Hardguy is an ex Navy Seal. Bad guys have kidnapped his son. Rock won't stop 'til he gets his son back. And cause all kinds of mayhem and destruction--call it collateral damage--doing so."

Thank you, Liam Neeson! This guy cornered the market, made revenge a genre unto itself. And he just won't quit. There's even a TV series based on the Taken movie series. Seriously, how many times can one father's kids be kidnapped? 

The above-mentioned actors are all prancing onto Liam's bloody turf. Keanu Reeves, of all people, got into the act, violently enacting revenge over his dead dog ("Whoa. Dude you killed my dog.").

First of all: kids, if your dad's Liam Neeson, seek emancipation. Second, are people really watching all of these ridiculous revenge films? Is this the future of suspense books? Personally, as a parent, I can't think of anything less entertaining than reading about a kidnapped child.

And when did Liam Neeson become a tough guy? Wasn't he kinda' a Shakespearean, hoity-toity actor, all up in art and what-all? What's next, the brothers from Fraser in a Death Wish remake?

Anyway, my wife and I tried to watch some of these awful movies. Wine helped, but didn't quite diffuse the stink. We cringed while Kevin Spacey turned into a cat. We sighed as John Travolta played a redneck power and light man whose brother is electrocuted in a tragic line accident (and do I have to tell you he raised his arms in the rain and screamed, "Nooooooo!"?). I slept when Nic Cage flew a plane while the rest of the world was whisked away by the Rapture. And, of course, the endless revenge flicks.

So thank you, Liam. Thanks a whole lot!

Wholesome fun even Grandma won't hate (totally).

Spatchcocked! by Stuart R. West

My wife told me she wants to "spatchcock" a turkey. After my initial giggle-fit ended, she explained that spatchcocking's a method of cooking poultry by cutting out the backbone and flattening the carcass. It's supposed to cook more evenly. Or something equally gross.

Spatchcock Monthly July Cover Model

That doesn't matter. What does matter is I've found a fabulous new word. I'd like to "trend" the word. I wanna' make it rain with spatchcockery.

Spatchcock. Everyone take a minute and say it out loud. I'll wait. Done? It's fun to say, isn't it? Rolls right off the tongue. Kinda' cathartic, too. Violent sounding without the physical fall-out. And wonderfully, subtly vulgar; it makes the twelve-year-old boy in me laugh.

But the word can be used in many more creative ways. The next time someone gets on your nerves? Try this: "Are you looking to get spatchcocked?" Or how about this? "Looks like I've stepped in a deep pile of spatchcock." Or "I'm gonna' spatchcock this yard with my rake." See what I mean? A multifaceted word, guaranteed hours of fun.

A painful looking display of human spatchcockery.

Where in the world did this awesome word come from? Mr. Wikipedia wasn't much help, nor Ms. Google. I wonder if some guy went postal on his turkey, ripped out the backbone in a fit of cooking rage, and screamed, "I'll dispatch you yet!"

Or maybe some chef was embarrassingly named "Spatchcock," an unfortunate footnote in cooking history.

But, as I said, none of that matters. Please use this term, incorporate it into your daily vocabulary. Then sit back and enjoy the fun.

I'll update once (if?) my wife and I ever end up spatchcocking a turkey.
 
Intentional spatchcockery--akin to "Hitchcockery"--abounds in my cozy, (I hope) amusing mystery books: the Zach and Zora comic mystery series. Don't take my word for it. I wouldn't. Click on the covers for free samples:

Christmas Toy Shopping Disastrophy by Stuart R. West

Hola and happy holidays, everyone. 

Tensions are high, people on edge, fights and riots breaking out everywhere. Oh, and then there’s the political situation. But I was talking about Christmas shopping.

Talk about madness. Say what you will about Amazon (like politics, everyone has a highly volatile opinion of them), I’m thankful for Amazon at Christmas time. My wife and I pretty much get most of our shopping done without ever leaving the sofa.

But things weren’t always like that.

I’m thinking the infamous year of the “Water Baby.” 

I made the parental mistake of asking my then eight year old daughter what she’d like for Christmas. 

“A Water Baby.”

“A what?”

“A Water Baby. Melissa and Brianne have one.”

“Oh. Well, if Melissa and Brianne have one, they’ve gotta’ be something special.”

I had no idea what a “Water Baby” was, yet pretended to. Because dads know everything, right? After researching, I discovered Water Babies were special dolls you fill with water to give them that “realistic” feeling. Well… First, gross. Second, why are eight year old girls wanting to feel a real baby?  Stupid Melissa and Brianne.

But the hunt was on! 

Instead of eating during my work lunch-breaks, I scoured the stores and malls of the Greater Kansas City metropolitan area. I called stores, pleaded my case for the stupid, highly elusive Water Baby doll. I enlisted my parents into high-stepping action. I offered to buy the doll at twice the price, to any takers, just please don’t let my daughter down this Christmas! Alas, Water Babies were sold out everywhere. 

I came close a few times. My mom found one at a Kmart. Excited, I asked her how much I owed her for the gift. 

My mom said, “Well, I didn’t get it because the doll was black.”

“Gah! Mom! My daughter won’t care! No one cares but you! Please, please, PLEASE go back and get it! Never mind. I’ll do it!”

Off I went! I bolted through my company’s door (“Not feeling good!”), sped and zipped in and out of highway lanes like Steve McQueen on a bender. I slammed open the Kmart doors, raced down the toy aisle. 

And found an empty shelf. 

A forlorn looking mother stood next to me, equally numb. 

“Water Baby?” I asked, shorthand for every parent who’d been fighting the battle.

She nodded, dead to the world.

I dropped to my knees, raised my hands and screamed to the uncaring toy manufacturers, the greedy corporate marketing strategists, and mostly to that insidious duo of little girls, Melissa and Brianne, “Damn you, Melissa and Brianne! Curse you foul demonic Water Babies, you ugly looking, jiggly, creepy hunks of stupid plastic!”

Then a stock-boy strolled out. His name tag identified him as “Chet.” To this day, I identify Chet as the boy who saved Christmas. In all his slacker, acne-ridden glory.

“Hey,” he says, oh so nonchalantly, just teasing us, “you looking for Water Babies?”

“Yeah. Please, dear God, tell me you have some!” I nearly took Chet by his blue lapels and shook him down.

“Nah. Not here. But our store in Gladstone's got a couple.”

“Thanks, Chet! Love you!”

Out through the store I hurtled. A dead tie with the other grieving parent. I considered shoving her into the sock aisle to gain an advantage. (Hey, all’s fair during Christmas toy shopping.) But I didn’t need to. Once I slammed open the doors, I broke into a full-on, manic sprint through the parking lot. Another breathless race through the streets of KC. I screeched to a halt in the Gladstone Kmart parking lot.

The store loomed in front of me, large and foreboding. Conqueror and creator of Christmas happiness: Kmart.

This was it. My last chance to bring Christmas joy to my daughter.

I shoved past people--certain they’d understand--and scuttled down the toy aisle.

Celestial trumpets! Glory hallelujah! 

There in all their grotesquely manufactured glory, sat two of the ugliest lumps of plastic Mankind had ever created. I snatched one doll up (hoped my competitor would get the other), locked it under my arm, thrust a hand out like a running back and slammed my way to the check-out aisle. 

A true Christmas miracle.

Of course the dumb Water Baby’s novelty wore off after a couple of hours. Soon enough, my daughter discarded the grotesque mannequin to the bin of unwanted toys.

Still, it was all worth it to see my daughter light up like a Christmas tree upon opening that gift. (No way did I let Santa grab the glory for that one, either. My heroic efforts as a dad demanded to be rewarded).

That Christmas morning, I finally relaxed. Job well done. After all, I had 364 more days until I had to worry about it again. (Next year was even worse: Furbies.)

I gripe about the Toy Wars. But, to tell you the truth, I kinda’ miss it. My daughter’s long grown up, at the stage where money’s her favorite gift. As are my nieces, nephews, all the children in our family. It’s boring. There’s no challenge or joy in tossing around cash. 

Maybe I’ll go back to giving everyone toys no matter their age. 

Happy holidays, merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, cool Kwanza, super Solstice, beautiful Boxing Day, and to those parents still in the trenches and fighting the good fight: good luck.

Click the cover for a preview.

Why Women are Smarter than Men by Stuart R. West

Okay, I have to admit, the title’s a “come hither.” Because I don’t know the answer. It’s just the truth, an undisputed fact of life.

Lord knows I never set out to be a feminist. It’s really not in my genetic chemical make-up, having been born and bred in the backward state of Kansas. Even my mom, who I used to think was the most independent woman ever, recently said, “Politics need men in office!”(She clenches her fists in a show of power.) “Someone who’s led by God. A man! A really strong man!”

I’m not gonna get into politics, let alone the silly, sexist rhetoric of her proclamation. But she’s wrong. 

Usually in my books, I begin with a male protagonist. But it’s the female characters who soon take center-stage, pretty much hijacking the action.  They’re shrewder, much savvier. They’re the characters who pull the clueless guy’s butt out of the fire . It just flows naturally, nothing I ever planned.

Because I write from proof. Maybe it comes from a deeply embedded mind-set that all men know but are unwilling to admit: women are more logical than men. Contrary to TV and movies, I believe women are ruled less by emotion. They can survive anything. If the movie, Rudy, played over wide-screen TV’s in a bar, the stool-campers would be reduced to tears in seconds.

And what do men like to do? Fix things! Heck yeah! Jump right in, make things right, no moss on us! But what happens when we can’t fix things? We get lost in a world that’s incomprehensible to us. After we’ve played out our ineffectual macho attempts to make things right, women swoop in and save the day.

So far this is all just theory. But based on my highly scientific research, here are the astonishing—yet absolutely true—findings:

FACT! While watching movies, I’m always the sobby mess by the end of it. I can’t even think about the kid movie, Homeward Bound, without fogging up. (Oh…that final scene…sniff). My wife asks if I’m alright. Totally embarrassing.  My “Man Card” should probably be revoked.

FACT! Outside of spider visits, my wife can handle any crisis. Made of steel. She’s more prepared for the End of the World, always thinking ahead, one foot set in the bomb shelter.

FACT! Our dog respects my wife more than me. Why? Because I’m the lovable playmate. Dang dog ignores me. But when my wife barks, the dog bows down. He’s no dummy.

FACT! Whenever confronted with a store or restaurant trauma, my wife’s the clean-up player. The way I “handle” the situation? I scream, shake and sweat like latter day Elvis. Heart attack in a Hawaiian shirt. Nothing good ever comes from my hissy-fits. My wife smoothly rolls in like a pavement layer and attains positive results with cool calm.

FACT! Women aren’t too proud to ask for directions. I mean, who does that, right?

FACT! Women live longer than men. Because, duh, they’re smarter.

If you’re a man reading this, I apologize, just ignore it. You'll forget about it soon enough. Women readers? You know I’m right.

For further FACTS, check out my “women are smarter than men books.” Every last one of ‘em features a woman as the hero. (Never mind the shirtless male model on the cover below; it's the character's wife who's the true hero).

Click on the cover below for a preview!

Sisterhood!

Writing Humor: I'll Be Here All Night, Ladies and Gents! by Stuart R. West

Laughs! Murder! G-strings! Clicky Here!

Humor’s very subjective. For the writer and the reader. Out of all the genres I’ve written, humor’s probably the hardest. Don’t get me wrong, I have a blast writing my Zach and Zora comic mystery series and I’m always proud of the outcome. The problem is I tend to write aiming at my funny bone. Not everyone shares it. Many readers found the first book in the series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, “hilarious.” But one reviewer suffered through four pages and declared it “total trash,” the equivalent of having a tomato lobbed at me if I was on-stage doing a stand-up routine. Tough crowd, tough crowd. 

Of course everyone’s entitled to their opinion, the world would be very dull if that wasn’t the case. But clearly the reviewer didn’t understand the book was a comedy. You can’t please everyone. Especially regarding humor. Readers are very protective of their humor, I’ve found, and everyone has a different threshold and variety of likes.

For instance, I’ve never laughed at an Adam Sandler movie. Honestly, a crackly Jerry Lewis voice and vulgar humor doesn’t do it for me. And, psst! I don’t even like the Three Stooges. Blasphemy among my male peers who would probably want me to hand in my “Guy Card.” It takes a strange mixture of low-brow and high-brow to amuse me.

So, I started writing stuff I find funny. Going into the Zach and Zora books, I knew I might be the only one amused, my laughter the only barometer. Mark Twain said, “Humor is mankind’s greatest blessing.” While I don’t have such lofty ambitions as to be the Pope of humor, if I can make someone smile while reading my books, goal accomplished!

The road to the first book, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, was a sloppy one, pocked with potholes of doubt and riddled with speed-bumps of hesitation. I didn’t trust that anyone might find it amusing other than myself. Then something happened…badda-boom! Everything seemed to come together.

True origin time! The book almost didn’t happen. I was gabbing with a writer friend one day, grousing about the same-ol’, same-ol’ books we’ve read. I said, “What if I came up with the dumbest lead character in history? How about…a really vain, vapid, stupid male stripper? Yeah!” She laughed, said, “I dare you!” I can’t turn down a dare, especially since it was a double-dog dare. Badda-bing!

So I started writing Hammock. One chapter in, though, I cheated. It became obvious Zach wasn’t strong enough to completely lead a book. So I created his super-competent, super-irritable, extremely pregnant sister, Zora (an ex security specialist), to bail Zach out of trouble when he wakes up with no memory or clothes next to a naked dead man. Hilarity ensues. (I hope). Did I mention Zora’s other three kids who have to tag along for the first part of the investigation?

The second book in the series, Murder by Massage, just released September 4^th. When I accepted that challenge a while back, I had no idea the bet would turn into a series. And I’m having a ball with these characters and hope it shines through on the pages. (But what do I know?) I’ll be here all weekend, folks!

Murder by Massage once again finds Zach up to his g-string in trouble when he stumbles onto another murder. Zora to the rescue! There’re ex-radical hippies, the cult of “Furries,” a g-string chase through the streets, a dance-off, smart aleck kids, bewigged pastors, a dancing and singing detective, secrets, more murder and mystery and I hope laughs. Lotsa, lotsa laughs. And despite Zach’s rather unsavory choice of profession (“male entertainment dancer,” NOT “stripper” as he protests), the comic cozy books are not explicit. Rather chaste actually. Except for a g-string here and there.

You’ve been a great audience ladies and gentlemen!

Don't be left out! More fun and better for you than Pokemon Go!

The Big Book of Cliches by Stuart R. West

These days when I read a book and come across a cringe-inducing cliché, my first inclination is to hurl the book across the room. Of course I don’t do that since I do most of my reading now on an electronic device.

Even more troubling is when I realize, “Hey! As a writer, I’ve used that cliché on several occasions!” Oh, the shame of it all. Here’s the funny thing about clichés, though. Writers hate them; but sometimes, particularly in genre-based fiction, readers sometimes seek them out. Like a comfortable throw. There’ve been times when I’ve strayed from clichés intentionally, particularly in regard to protagonists. Gone are the rough and tumble, yet beyond handsome, confident he-men. Hello to insecure, troubled, baggage-carrying neurotics. No secret which type of hero is more popular.

Clichés offend me. No, that’s not quite true. They bore me. I want more originality. To help myself stay on the straight and narrow path and not stray down cliché alley, I composed a list of some of the worst offenders. (Keep in mind these adhere more to the noir/thriller/suspense genres than others).

*Heroes with macho names. Every writer’s featured one. Every reader has read many. Usually the names connote some sort of solid building material. Don’t ask me why. “Rick Broadbrick.” “Rocky Hardroad.” “Stoney Brawling.” “Captain Tug McLumber.” Personally, I’d like to see more Marvins and Miltons. But…those names don’t exactly encapsulate tough guys.

*The damaged goods male lead. Women readers love these guys. Throughout my life, I’ve met women who adore these guys in real life. They’ve admitted it to me; they want to change them. So many fictional detectives and cops are alcoholic, love-dented, chain-smoking, sloppy, death-wishing brooders. Every woman’s dream, right? Good luck fixing ‘em, ladies!

*The dreaded dream sequence. How I’ve come to loathe fictional dreams. I’m the first to admit I’d used them in some of my earlier books. But never again. I see them as the ultimate cheat. Nothing that happens in a dream ultimately matters. Sorta a waste of time. If I make it through the book, only to find out the entire tale was a dream? I call foul! No more! Use your clichés wisely and sparingly.

*The big revelation! Usually, the big reveal happens with our hero standing out in the rain. Not just a light sprinkling either. We’re talking monsoon weather. He drops to his knees, raises his fists to the sky, screams, “Noooooooo!” Or the variant: “Whyyyyyyy?” First? Get out of the rain. You’re gonna catch pneumonia. You can scream just as well in dry environments. Or at least prepare yourself and bring an umbrella. Second? Scream something original. How about, “Huh. I didn’t see that coming.” Or “What a day, what a day.” Okay, I know, right? Not as impactful. But…enough’s enough.

*Characters who have big emotional insights, but say them out loud when they’re alone. “Think of the kitties…oh, my Lord, what about the poor, poor kitties?” Who does that? Who are they talking to? Talk about damaged goods. Call up a friend, then chat about the kitties. Or see a psychiatrist. The only time I’ve ever talked to myself? When an accident happens. And it’s language no one should be privy to.

*The chatty, James Bond-style super-villain. Usually when the bad guy is unveiled, he holds the hero at gun-point (or some other perilous situation) and decides to make a lengthy speech. “You see, Mr. Broadbrick (they’re generally very polite, too), the reason I decided to poison the clown-car full of would be thespians is because I, too, once fancied myself a clown. Oh, I went to clown school, learned to juggle at the feet of the masters, excelled in the art of applying make-up and honking red noses. I wore baggy pants day in and day out. Every day for twenty years! Then they laughed at me…not a good kind of appreciative audience laugh either. For you see…”  Zzzz. Snurk. Wha? Sorry, I dozed off just writing that. The hero probably would’ve in real life, too. Or taken the time to unravel the ropes binding his hands, sweep the feet beneath the villain, claim the gun, the woman, the stolen money. Truth time? I’ve done this. Sometimes it’s a must, no way around it in murder mysteries.

There’re a lot more where these came from. I’ve just skimmed the top of the ol’ cliché barrel. But, as I said, some readers come to expect a few of these in books. It’s what they like, what they search out. And depending on the genre? Some are absolutely unavoidable. Depends on what you do with them, I suppose. But I’m striving to keep away. 

Um, starting right about now.

How about you? Any annoying cliché’s you’d like to add?

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