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!

The Smell of Romance by Stuart R. West

Something smells very, VERY funny. Click to explore that scent.

“The Smell of Romance.” Hmm…

Let’s consider that for a moment. Doesn’t really evoke love, does it?

Yet as a writer, I stubbornly—stupidly?—keep striving to incorporate all five senses into my tales while my characters grapple and rassle in the name of romance. 

Sight? Easy-peezy, lemon-squeezy. Sound? Sure: heavy breathing, groans, moans, and hands ruffling over corsets and what have you. Taste and touch I’ll leave to the erotica writers.

But the sense of smell’s a curious quandary, a puzzle for this writer. Generally (and without trying to sound sexist, gotta be careful these days), women writers are more successful in describing the scent of love than men, I think. Yet—and I see this constantly—most female writers who dare to venture into olfactory romantic territory, tend to comment on the male partner’s scent of “musk.”

Well, I dunno from “musk,” but I’ve been in more than my fair share of men’s locker rooms and the only scent that comes to mind would be dirty socks (and that’s putting it politely). I looked up the definition of “musk.” Ms. Google says “musk is a pungent and greasy secretion from a gland in the male musk deer.”

Go figure. Even if men could secrete such an odor, I wouldn’t think it’d be an attractive one. I don’t see a lot of musk-scented air fresheners hanging in cars. Yet I read about this masculine scent... All. The. TIME.

Sometimes I even see men’s odors described in books as “musty.” Again, my assistant, Ms. Google helped me out. “Must” is even worse than “musk.” The definition reads “having a stale, moldy, or damp smell.” Ever so eloquent, Urban Dictionary goes on to add “the smell of armpits.” Clearly, you ladies don’t like the smell of us men. (Psst…you would be right).

Male writers, on the other hand, stumble around, attempting to describe how female characters smell. A lack of male vision keeps the scents narrowed to two options: some kinda floral arrangement or food. Which says A LOT about where men are coming from: their stomachs. I’m guilty of it, too. “She smelled of vanilla, touched with a dash of cinnamon.” (Apparently my character's ready to eat the female character. Just toss in some fava beans and a nice chianti and we're set.)

So, class, the takeaway from this lecture is men smell like armpits and women smell like food. There’s gotta be more to it than that. And as a writer, I vow to go on olfactory high alert until I’ve upset the cliché cart and created some new scents.

In Peculiar County, everything smells fishy...

When to Put a Stake into Santa by Stuart R. West

Click for comedy, suspense and the world's greatest tear-away pants!

Every year around this time, my family invariably finds themselves wrapped up in the same holiday conundrum: When is it time to quit playing at Santa Claus?

Oh, sure, I know some of you are of the mind-set that you're never to old to believe in the magic of Santa Claus and all that eggnog-inspired hoo-hah. But notice I said "playing" at Santa Claus and not "believing."

My parents kept up the Santa mythos for a long time. An embarrassingly long time. We were well into college and my folks would stay up late on Christmas Eve, secretly wrapping Santa's gifts, and always leaving one half-eaten cookie on the cookie tray. Fooling no one. My brothers and I went along with it, rolling our eyes, goofing on it good-naturedly.

But when we saw how tired Mom looked, it was time to put a stake into Santa's giving heart. We told her enough's enough and just how old did she think we were anyway? My Mom was hesitant, big on tradition, but short on the cold, hard truth.

Which is kinda sad, really. Not for us, not for we "kids." But it was heartbreaking for my mom. Clearly, she enjoyed the exhausting ritual more than we did.

I also think it's sad that kids today have a tougher time believing in Santa. When I was growing up, all we had to stand in the path of our belief was common sense or classroom talk.

Now, kids just have to turn on their phones, and boom! They find out Santa's a myth. Plus modern kids are much more sophisticated these days, grade school minds already set on climbing corporate ladders and leaping into piles of stocks and bonds, no time for silly, antiquated traditions.

Last Christmas, my niece--the last in my family to discover the truth about Santa (and I'm not a grandfather yet; no need to rush things along!)--told me where it all went belly up for her. "Well," she said, "my friends were saying that it's just our parents pretending. Then I started thinking that it's kinda impossible for one guy to go down everyone's chimney in one night. And what's up with the Easter Bunny? That's really creepy."

She kinda had a point. A giant bunny sneaking into people's homes? Creepy. And Santa's not much better: a large man who spies on people, keeps lists, and not too far removed from the current "leader of the free world." Plus, Santa only comes out at night and breaks into people's homes. Sorta like a vampire.

So...when is it time to put a stake into Santa and kill the myth? Whenever you want to, I say. But, maybe we should first put a stake into kids' unlimited access to the internet.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel, Habari gani, happy holidays, and whatever you celebrate, may there be peace where you reside.

Gonna get coal this year? Stick something fun and light-hearted in your own stocking!

The Show-Stealing Sleuth by Stuart R. West

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE!

Due to popular demand (at least in my household), book #3 in the acclaimed (mostly), cozy (kinda), hilarious (totally subjective), classy (a lie!) Zach and Zora series about a no-nonsense female sleuth with four kids and a dim-witted, big-hearted stripper brother has just been released to much fanfare (well...more like a raspberry or two).

"Murder most dumb" is probably the best way to put it.

Honestly, I never thought this series would make it this far (and still have some legs to go on for some time). Don't get me wrong...I love the characters and they're lotsa fun to write. But the series almost didn't happen.

True confession time: I wrote the first book as a dare. I was yakking with another author and I just threw out what I considered a ludicrous lead character: a vapid, vain, dense male stripper. So Bad Day in a Banana Hammock was born.

Five pages in, I nearly buried the book. I said to myself (because writing's a very lonely and at times scary business), "Stuart, you can't do this. This guy, Zach, is way too dumb to carry a book."

I answered, "You're right as always (because that's something my wife never tells me). Let's give Zach a sister. A detective. A very pregnant, very irritable sister sleuth."

Boom. 

CLICK FOR THE FIRST BOOK IN THE SERIES

Little did I realize when Zora first entered Bad Day in a Banana Hammock, she'd steal the show. She wasn't meant to. This was her brother's book. But many readers commented how Zora took over the book and was a riot. She struck a chord in many readers, particularly women readers.

I'm not sure why. I could postulate and pontificate 'til I'm stupid blue in the face as to why and most assuredly, I'd be wrong. I usually am. My best guess regarding Zora's popularity is due to her being a strong, smart, take-charge, no-nonsense kinda' sleuth. Even though she's  eight months pregnant with her fourth kid, has the other three in tow, and is trying to save her stupid brother from going to jail for a murder he didn't commit, she never loses sight of her goals.

Maybe readers like her because of the snappy, noiresque dialogue I stick her with. It's a lotta fun to write. If I had my way, I'd have all my characters speaking that way. But, alas, the world's not a Damon Runyon newsroom.

Or maybe the readers like Zora's crankiness. After all, with Zach as a brother, four out-of-control kids, and bodies dropping everywhere, I imagine the patience of Job would be sorely tested.

So. Here we are at book #3, Nightmare of Nannies. Some things have changed. I've tried to mature Zach (gasp!) a bit. Just a bit. But don't worry. He's still dumb. Still the yin to Zora's yang. And as much as Zach drives his sister crazy, there's a natural, comfortable love between the siblings, the heart of the books.

Plus there's a chapter long chase scene involving Zach, a kid on a skateboard, a serial killer van, a mariachi band, an irritated bus driver, and a very, very special pair of tear-away pants.

CLICK FOR MORE EXCITEMENT AND STUPIDITY!

Bad Day in a Banana Hammock by Stuart R. West

For a Listing of Stuart R. West's Books and Purchase Links, Click Here for Stuart R. West's Books We Love Author's Page!

 

 

About Stuart R. West
Author Stuart R. West, just like his smarty-pants books, thinks he's funny. Yet over the years, his family, teachers, bosses, and wife have told him it's just not so. You be the judge.

Bad Day in a Banana Hammock 

 Zach wakes up with no memory, no phone, and no clothes except his stripper g-string. And oh yeah! There’s that pesky naked dead guy in bed next to him. Problem is Zach's not gay. Or a murderer. At least, he doesn't think so.

Only one person can help him, his sister, Zora. Of course Zora's got problems of her own—she has three kids at home and is eight month's pregnant with the fourth. So she’s a bit cranky. But that’s not going to stop her from helping her brother.

With kids in tow, the siblings set how to find the true killer, clear Zach's name, and reassure Zach he's not gay.

Reviewers who DO find Stuart R. West's books funny! 

“An hilarious murder mystery romp. Ride along with Zach and Zora on this most entertaining of mysteries.”
-Heather Brainerd, author of the Jose Picada, P.I. mystery series.

“Bad Day in a Banana Hammock will have you wiping up tears of hysterical laughter.”
-Suzanne de Montigney, author of the Shadow of the Unicorn series.

Book #2 in the Zach and Zora Comic Mystery series!

And coming in October! The third book in the Zach and Zora Comic Mystery series: Nightmare of Nannies.

*Stuart R. West's Books We Love Author's Page: http://bookswelove.net/authors/west-stuart-r/
*Stuart R. West's (totally inconsequential) blog: Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley
*And the rest (like on Gilligan's Island): Facebook, Twitter