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).

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Sisterhood!

Everything is coming up roses Nancy M Bell

It's been an early spring here in southern Alberta. The roses are beginning to bloom, the delphiniums are almost there with just a few blue spikes already showing. We had some really hot weather in May and then some cold weather in June. But that's springtime in Alberta, I guess. Last weekend we drove up to Lake Louise in the Canadian Rockies and it snowed a bit while we were walking along the lake path. The lake was a very milky turquoise blue due to the snow melt, but still very lovely. The canoes were out in spite of the cool wet weather. Some of the trails were closed due to bear and wolf activity which is pretty common in the spring when the bears are just getting moving.

But back to the garden. I planted two new Echinacea plants, one is white bloom and the other a deep pink. They join the original one I planted a few years ago which gets a big seed head but no petals. Looks kinda funky, but I wanted to add a couple with actual blooms. This year I planted vegetables in containers on the front porch in the hopes that I can actually get some tomatoes to grow. It gets too cold at night as a rule, but I have then close to the house on the south side and sheltered, so I have got my fingers crossed.

Right now I have an adorable foster mommy cat with four kittens. She came in as a feral cat and was pretty hissy at first, but now she is so friendly and wants attention. The kittens are four weeks old and becoming more active. Two boys and two girls. The momma's name is Louisa, actually they named her Louie when she first came in as they thought she was a boy. There were a bunch of grey cats all looking the same. But ooops, no. Louie is a girl and pregnant! I brought her home and a week later she presented me with four babies. My husband loves the British show Doc Martin which is set in north Cornwall. Louisa is one of the characters, so we have named the kittens after people on the show. The boys are Martin - for Dr. Martin Ellingham played by Martin Clunes, and Bert for Bert Large played by Ian McNeice. The girls are Morwenna after Doc Martin's receptionist, and Ruth for Doc Martin's aunt. Life in our house is never dull.

I'm also fostering another cat at the moment. His name is Jackson. He came to us from Ponoka, AB, the victim of being hit by a car. Jackson had a broken pelvis and had to have his tail amputated. He is the most loving affectionate cat you could imagine. He spent 6 weeks on crate rest and has now been given the okay so he is roaming free with my other cats. He loves people, gets along with other cats and loves the dogs. He should get a good home very shortly. You always hate to see them go, but I can't keep them all. Knowing they are going to good homes helps a lot. The rescue is very careful about who adopts the animals which helps set the foster's mind at ease.

Last but not least, I am working on the third book in the Longview Romance series. Cale and Michelle are getting married at last, nothing can go wrong. Right? The second book in the Arabella's Secret series released recently. Arabella Dreams fills in some of the questions readers of the Cornwall Adventures series have asked about Laurel Rowan's Gramma Bella. I love the cover. Kudos to Michelle Lee for created the perfect cover.

Arabella Angarrick is heartbroken. Exiled from her beloved Cornwall, she must come to terms with life on the Canadian prairies and her arranged marriage to D’Arcy Rowan. She struggles to reconcile herself to life on a remote ranch with a man she barely knows. He knows he’s getting a two for one deal and Bella is thankful he is happy to welcome her unborn child into his home. D’Arcy is a kind man, but try as she might, Bella just can’t bring herself to love him. Her heart still yearns for Vear Du, the father of her baby. Will she ever stop dreaming of him?

Until next month, stay happy, stay safe!

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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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April is Poetry Month! by Nancy M Bell

Hi Everyone,

This is Guapo. He's pretty amazing and poetry in motion so I thought I'd start with him.

Glad to see you back. April is Poetry Month, so I thought I'd share some of my poetry with you.

This one is about my very first horse, Brandy.

Touchstone

We are linked by love
You and I
You have been my steadfast friend
My anchor in the stormy seas
My safe rock on which to stand
And survey my uncertainties

The sharer of my secrets
The keeper of the wings of my spirit
You have given so much
And asked so little
Touchstone of my soul
Transcending even the distance of death.


This one is about summer when I was seventeen. Old friends I've lost touch with, horses that are no longer here, and my own lost innocence.

Nostalgia

Bittersweet; nibbling at the toes of my subconscious
Memories of long past summer days
Evoked by the essence of green cut hay
A myriad of days
Wrapped up in the rustle of ripening wheat

Shimmering moonlight
Freeing the ghosts locked away in memory
Sending them shouting and galloping once again
Through the now silent dark
Plunging me back into half-forgotten dreams
And half-remembered loves

Sweet moon shadowed innocence of youth.


This one was written when I was fifteen. I liked really a boy who I didn't think I was good enough for. Luckily, I've out grown those insecurities.

Charms

I ain’t got no pretty face
And all my charms are in the bracelet on my wrist
I can’t even offer you money or power
And important friends

All I can give you is all that I am
A shoulder to lean on
And peace without lies

Even though you’re hear today
And tomorrow gone

All I have worth giving is me.


This is about that person you meet and suddenly feel like you've known them forever, but you don't even know their name. Connections from earlier lives.

Who Are You?

Who are you that you can touch me so?
Touch my heart with your eyes?
Hold me with your smile

Who are you that you draw me into your soul?
Making me oblivious to everything
Except that we are together in the same universe
We are the universe

Who are you?
But I know
Somehow from the first I’ve known
Somewhere, in sometime
We have known one another
We have been one

Even now, separated by other lives
I can’t deny the voice in my heart
Or the light through your eyes


Okay, enough poetry. LOL On another note, I've recently teamed up with the late Pat Dale's literary executor and Books We Love to keep his work fresh and in circulation. To that end, I've revamped some of his previously published work with new covers and new material. I'm currently working on expanding his brilliant short story "Must Love Large Dogs". It will be released in Summer 2016 under the title "The Teddy Dialogues." Told from the large dog's point of view, it's hilarious. Originally a short story, I am expanding some of the incidents so that it will be at least 60,000 words or more. Watch for it coming this summer. If you love dogs or just great humour, you'll love "The Teddy Dialogues."

Titles currently available include:

The Last Cowboy, She's Driving Me Crazy, and Henrietta's Heart.

Available on Amazon and wherever good books are sold. Till next month, be happy, be healthy.

Indecipherable Corporate Speak by Stuart R. West

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I spent two high school years and four college semesters attempting to learn Spanish. To this day, I'm only able to recognize various words and form pointless sentences (i.e., "La rana es verde." Translation: The frog is green.). Still, I can understand Spanish a heckuva lot easier than the nebulous world of "Corporate Speak," an elusive language that not even cryptologists can decipher.

With over 25 years spent in the corporate sector, I'd certainly been around the puzzling language enough. One company in particular proved extremely fluent in Corporate Speak: the second largest label manufacturing company in North Kansas City, Missouri. I know...big deal, right? But the way the team of managers (count 'em, 42!) acted, you'd think we were performing miracles to benefit mankind.

I was the art department "manager" for many years. And every Friday, without fail (um, until the company began to fail), there was a mandantory manager meeting. We'd sit around a colossal meeting room and, one by one, we'd painstakingly explain what we'd been up to that week. Sheer dread filled me each time. Because the meetings always went on for hours and hours and....nothing was ever accomplished.

And I never understood a word of it!


The head of sales honestly thought he was a Hollywood mogul. Snappy dresser, sex addict (a tale better left untold), fast walker, and nonsense talker.

"C'mon, Stu, baby!" (To him, everyone was "baby." He didn't discriminate.) "You're killing me here! I want you to make those new graphics pop! Make 'em zing, make 'em sting!"

"Um..." I'd say.

"Let me break it down for you...we're looking at a completely new marketing paradigm here. To achieve dominant market visibility, we need to quit out-sourcing, fast track things to shoot to the top." This is when he'd start pacing the room, clasping lawyer hands.

"If what you mean is you want better graphics, then--"

"Now you're getting it, Stu, baby! Instead of our old business to consumer model, we need to aim high, shoot it outta the stratosphere, hit it off the table and bring it down to H2H!"

"Right. What's that mean?"

A thunderous hand-clap! "C'mon, you're killing me here! Stu, baby, it means 'human to human'! It's a way to bring functionality, play hardball in the new world series of marketing! Hey, look at Martha!" All heads turned to Martha. "She's a real goal digger! A goal digger! Aren't you Martha, baby?"

Martha nodded, a prim gold star smile pressed to her lips.

"But I still don't know what I'm supposed to be doing," I said. "Other than what I'm already--"

"Think smarketing, Stu, baby! Smarketing!" (I would've if I knew what it meant.) "Go the extra mile! Ride the loop, Stu, baby, ride the loop!"

Only thing I wanted to ride were my legs outta the meeting. But it went on...

"Think the It Factor! Be the It Factor! Plug in! Maybe some growth hacking's needed here!"

"Growth hacking..." I said.

Another clap. "I don't feel you Stu, baby! Meet me afterwards! We'll have a mydeation meeting!"

Groan. We did. Have a "mydeation" meeting. And I came out of there still clueless as to what a "mydeation" is.

See what I mean? Corporate Speak is a totally nonsensical language made of of meaningless buzz-words, sports cliches and fabricated sayings. It's enough to give Dr. Seuss nightmares.

During my long tenure in the corporate trenches, I always thought my experiences might form a nifty satire, a comedy of big business. But as when I wake up from a dream, a dream at the time I thought might make a good book, the cold harshness of reality and coffee hit me. Who'd want to read about the inner workings of a label company?

Which is why I wrote my Killers Incorporated series. I hope I found a way to incorporate big business satire into a suspenseful cat and mouse tale. The first book, Secret Society, is out. The second in the series, Strike, comes out next week. In the books, I detail the plight of Leon Garber (an empathetic {again, I hope} serial killer who only pursues abusers) as he goes up against the evil corporation of Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. Big business on a darkly comical and killer level.

Corporate Speak will ensue.

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Brain-Scrambling Earworms by Stuart R. West

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Not too long ago, on the way back from the grocery store (imagine this dramatically emblazoned upon the big screen like a Star Wars scrawl), my wife suddenly shouted, “Oh, my God!”

“What? What’s wrong?” I imagine the worst, maybe a spider crawling on the window next to her.  (And believe me, with her that is the worst; once she jumped out of her still running car when she saw a spider).

“I’ve got the EZ Brite jingle running through my head,” she exclaimed.

That actually brought me a great amount of happiness. EZ Brite doesn’t exist, nor does the jingle. It’s a fictional teeth-whitening product I created for my new comedy mystery, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. One of my two protagonists, Zak (an extremely vapid, but good-hearted male stripper), has the jingle crawling through his head at the most inopportune moments. Particularly when he needs to focus on why he wakes up with no memories of the previous night. And next to a dead, naked man.

“EZ Brite makes your teeth clean, EZ Brite gets out the greennnn…”

By definition, an earworm is a memorable piece of music that continually repeats through a person's mind after it is no longer playing. It’s also known as a brainworm; some people refer to it as “stuck song syndrome.” No matter what you call it, earworms are insidious and harder to get rid of than poison ivy.

What really surprised me, though, is the amounts of research scientists have given this phenomenon.  A long list of researchers (too long, too boring to list here) has been studying this illness since at least the ‘50s. 98% of the population is bothered by this condition. While it affects both men and women, it tends to irritate women more and stays with them longer (probably due to the natural tunnel vision of men). Suggested cures? OCD medication, brain puzzles like Sudoku and chewing gum.

“EZ Brite, nice and easy, seconds to apply, really breezy…”

Unfortunately, my fictional earworm has been bothering me since penning my book.

But I had relief over the holidays. Radio stations inundated us with even worse earworms.  You couldn’t turn the dial without being tortured by Santa Baby. For my wife, it was Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer. Both equally obnoxious earworms.

Chewing gum didn’t help me (my wife can’t stand to be around gum-chewers). Perhaps someday, scientists will actually create a true cure for this sickness that infects 98% of the world. With that high a percentage, you’d think the men in lab-coats would prioritize it. Maybe they’ll create a brain-implanted chip that can turn earworms off. I mean, we can “block” friends on Facebook with relative ease. This just seems like the next logical step.

“EZ Brite goes on quick, tastes so good, just give it a lick…”

And I apologize for contributing to this sinister disease with my fictional earworm.

There are more verses of the EZ Brite jingle in Bad Day in a Banana Hammock. There’s also Zach’s tough, take no guff, ex-detective sister, Zora, who has three kids in tow and one on the way. She’s also very cranky. Stir in a murder mystery involving a plastic surgery enhanced femme fatale, a frighteningly large and deadly European chauffeur, a dead politician, a gleefully loud politician, a Hillaryesque politician’s wife, a competitive male stripper in a fireman’s outfit, a conspiracy theory hermit, aging hippie parents, and squabbling kids and maybe—just maybe—you’ll be distracted enough to not add a new earworm to your minds IPod.

Santa Magic: The Adult Years by Stuart R. West

One click away from ridiculousness.

I remember the thrill of waking up on Christmas morning. The magic of a big man in a sleigh, sneaking into your house at night (in a non-threatening way, of course!), bringing good will and joy.  And toys, can’t forget the toys. There always seemed to be a strange lingering magic dust in the air, a smoke screen of wonder blurring the blinking Christmas tree lights.

When you’re young, it’s by far the best part of Christmas. No matter what anyone tells you.

But as a child, when I began to question the whole Santa Claus thing (“But…how can Santa be at this mall, when he’s at Steve’s Shoe Shack at the same time?”), realizing the absolute impossibility of it all, a part of my childhood went into hibernation. It didn’t die, just crawled into a cave for a long nap. 

My parents were hardcore about the myth of Santa Claus. Even kept it up while I was in college. No one was fooling anyone and we all knew it. But the dumber you played, the longer you indulged in the game, the more likely you’d get cool gifts. One year, my brother and I found the “secret Santa stash” in the basement, unwrapped the presents, oohed and ahhed over them. Sealed the presents shut again. Okay, fine, not very magical, but we were know-it-all, “worldly” kids (or so we thought).

Finally, we let the cat out of the bag, let my parents off the hook. Told them to cut it out. There is no Santa Claus. Hard to believe, but my mother looked sad at our revelation. And that’s when socks and underwear became the norm as gifts.

I suppose I don’t blame my mom, not really. Once your own childhood thrill is gone, you live vicariously through your children’s excitement. The circle of life.

Seeing Christmas through the eyes of my young daughter reawakened my hibernating inner child.

I lived a double life: Dad and Santa. And I thrived on it. I loved watching my daughter sit next to the tree amidst an avalanche of colorfully wrapped gifts.  Her eyes lit up as she opened her presents, wondering how the Big Man in Red knew what she wanted. (And this particular “Big Man in Red” went to a lot of effort searching for what my daughter asked for. Always the hottest, hardest to find toys. Always. I have lots of war-torn Christmas stories. But that’s a tale for another time.).

It was all worth it.

But all good things come to an end (a rather cynical saying my mother used to tell me).

One day, while pushing my daughter on the back-yard swing set (the same swing set we had the dreaded sex talk on a year or so later), she said, “Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“Is Santa real? Or is he, like, parents making him up and stuff? You know, sneaking around and putting gifts under the tree. Pretending.”

A quandary. I always taught her not to lie. Yet…I wanted to keep the mythology alive; if not for her, than for me. I hemmed and hawed, finally said, “Do you believe he’s real?”

“I guess.” Not really.

“Well, if you believe he’s real, then he is. Merry Christmas!” I ran quick interference, shouting, over-zealously hugging, cheek-kissing. The works. Anything to avoid telling her the truth.

Yet, I could tell, just by the way she forlornly nodded, she didn’t buy into my non-answer. The magic had dissipated, the Santa dust drifting away into an invisible cloud.

We played the game for a few more years. But we both knew the jig was up. Knowing winks were shared; smart-alecky comments were dropped whenever the mythical Man in Red came up.

A sad time, a rite of passage. Not only for children, but also for parents.

Last year, my youngest niece quit believing in Santa. Over Christmas dinner, I asked her why.

“I mean, the whole thing was kinda weird,” she explained. “How Santa could hit all the houses in the world in one night. Yeah, right.” (Her examination of the impossibilities of the Easter Bunny was even better.)

Laughter ensued. But it foretold the end of Santa magic for our family.

But my now grown daughter brought me back in.

“Dad?”

“Hm?”

“Do you believe in Santa?”

I hugged her. “You know I do.”

Bring on the next generation! 

Happy holidays, everyone!

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