Dear Dog of Destruction by Stuart R. West

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(A personal letter to my dog, but everyone's welcome to read):

Zak, what did I ever do to you to fill you with so much rage? Didn't my wife snatch you from one of her students who found you pillaging in their trash? Didn't we take you into our house and offer you food, love and shelter? Haven't we set you up with a heated doggy pillow? So why do you repay us with such a disdain for our furniture?

Okay, you're not allowed on the sofas. I know that upsets you. I'm only allowed on them after a shower. Stuff happens. But you don't have human rights. You gotta stop ripping up the sofa when the mailman comes. Yes, he brings bills and fliers about hair removal. But you can't know that. Even if you did understand "humanese," it's still not a reason to wreck the house. (Let me rip up the sofa when I see the bills.)

One time you were so angry at the mailman, you put your paw through a glass picture frame. Who was there to rush you to the doggy doctor, terrified at the sight of all the blood? And who had to put up with the questions and nervous looks as to why I had blood stains all over the back seat of my car? I was nearly branded a serial killer, thanks to you, my furious, furry friend. But I've stayed with you through thick and tics.

You can be fun sometimes. Sweet, actually. It's a shame you don't like buses, joggers, motorcycles, trucks, trash men, door-ringing politicians (that one I agree with), the ice cream truck, and of course, mailmen. Everyone has their peculiarities. Other than that, you're a wonderful creature. Sort of.

Frankly, I'm at a loss why we humans put up with your furry kind at times. But I'm onto you. Took a while, though. When I try and load you into my car to go to your weekly doggy day care (I know, I know), you feign an inability to jump into my vehicle. You insist I lift all of your sixty-five pounds. Very stubborn. Huh. Of course, you have absolutely no problem jumping into my wife's car, do you? When my wife told me you were playing me, I grew furious!

I realize you see my wife (even my daughter) as your pack-masters. But c'mon! I'm the one who feeds you, walks you, hangs with you more than they do! Alas, I am but your play-pal. Sigh.

Why, in your honor, Zak, I even created a character in my thriller series, Killers Incorporated, who loves dogs. Sure, he's a sociopathic, hot-headed serial killer. But he will see no harm done to dogs. Can't be all that bad, right?

But here's the bottom line, Zak. Every time I get angry with you, I holler, rant and rave. Then I look into your golden eyes and melt. You had me at the facial licking.

P.S., chocolate's not good for you. It's like toxic lima beans. Only deadlier. One would think you'd get a clue by now.

Your play-pal,

Stuart

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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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The Fickle Reaper by Stuart R. West

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I’m Stuart R. West and I write thrillers, suspense and some dark tales. Part of the tropes of that genre is death. Not pleasant in real life, but it’s a plot device readers who seek out such tales expect. A murder mystery without a murder turns into an Encyclopedia Brown tale (“I wonder what happened to that quarter I had in my pocket earlier today.”).

The problem is sometimes I change my mind about characters’ fates. Often it comes down to the wire.  Sometimes I save a character from the Reaper’s scythe because I see potential for him in a sequel. Other times, I flat out have a hard time letting go. I know, right? Fickle.

This happened in both of my books with Books We Love Publishing. In Ghosts of Gannaway, I absolutely knew one character was slated for the great beyond, knew it before I set fingertips onto my laptop. I’m considered a “pantser,” a writer who wings the tale as they go along as opposed to a heavy pre-plotter (I know some writers who use index cards, painstakingly plotting out every move before they begin; hey, it works for them.). But the one absolute I knew before I started writing? The character had to die to serve the story. When the concluding chapters neared, though, doubt began to scratch me. At first, just an annoyance; later, a full-on itch I couldn’t reach. I really liked this character. At the last minute, I pulled a deus ex machina, saved the character.

Secret Society was a different story. Again, from the start I knew this particular character would be destined for death’s door. But as I peeled back layers on the character, he surprised me with previously unseen depths I couldn’t have predicted. A wonderful feeling for writers. Even though he’s not a particularly likable character, I changed my mind. His story wasn’t finished yet.

There’s a saying amongst writers: Kill your darlings. It actually refers to a writer’s need to recognize their own self-indulgent and over-written passages, and then get rid of them. No matter how pretty they may read. (The saying has been attributed to many people over the years, most famously William Faulkner and Stephen King. But it came from Arthur Quiller-Couch, a Cambridge professor who lectured on writing and style.) While I, too, am often guilty of this writing crime, I’m learning how to punish myself appropriately by fixing the writing. Unable to kill some of my characters, though? Guilty, guilty, guilty! I act as the governor of my books, granting last minute reprieves to certain characters. But who will grant me a reprieve from saving my characters?

So I make this pact with myself.  In the future, I promise not to save predestined to die characters. No more Mr. Nice Writer. From now on, you’ll see a meaner (not so much, leaner) Stuart R. West. But at least I won’t be fickle.

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Ghosts and Hauntings by Stuart R. West

Well, it's Halloween again, the spookiest time of the year. So put the cat to bed, stick the kids outside and grab a nice cup of hot chocolate. Let's chat about ghosts.

Do I believe in ghosts? Not really. But it blows my mind how many grounded sensible people do. Not too long ago, friends of my wife's parents (the names have been changed as per their request) relayed a tale with such conviction it's hard to dismiss out of hand...

Some years back, "Bob" and "Iris" bought a three-story house in Denver, Colorado, so old it had a water closet on the third floor. At first, things were fine. But it wouldn't be much of a ghost tale if things remained that way, of course.

One day, Bob had been tasked with watching their toddler son. With the son safely asleep in his crib on the second floor, Bob tended to business on the first level. Footsteps trampled over his head. He barreled up the stairs. The baby was fine, still asleep. No one else in the house. But the footsteps continued on the third floor. After a thorough check-through, Bob was satisfied there was no one on the third floor. (He sorta accidentally blew a hole in the attic roof with a shotgun, but this part of the story wasn't quite clear. Make of that what you will!)

When Bob's brother and family visited, they also heard footsteps in the night. And they hadn't been told anything about the prior occurrence.

As in all poltergeist-related hauntings, things started small (missing items, a bottle of spice vanishing while Bob's back was turned, the water closet flushing in the middle of the night) before escalating. Hanging pictures were relocated to walls in different rooms. Once Iris searched her closet for a pair of shoes and only found one. When she turned away, she heard a solid clunk. The missing shoe now sat next to its partner.

Most troubling was the day they heard a loud scrape on the second floor. The young boys' bunk-beds had been moved to the center of the room. And the sheets had been carefully cut, an "L" shape meticulously trimmed through both of them. This occurrence kept happening, no doubt pleasing the Denver sheet manufacturing industry.

Fed up, Iris read somewhere to rid a house of a poltergeist, you had to confront it. Up she went to the second floor landing. Shaking her fists, she screamed, "Stop it! Stop it right now!" Silence. Suddenly a bucket worth's of water dumped down on her. No sign of water marks, stains, drips on the walls, the ceiling. Nothing.

First thing she did when she came downstairs is tell her husband, "We're leaving."

Brr. Now, I don't know about you, but that's a pretty spooky tale. At first I admit to being skeptical. But the narrator told it with such sincerity, I had to give it consideration. And his wife backed him up, filling in missing details.

Another friend of mine told me he once had a childhood ghostly encounter in a graveyard. But he won't talk about it. Says I'm not ready.

Honestly, I'm torn if I'd like to experience a spectral visitation. On the one hand, it excites me, gets my writer instincts pumping. But I also know I'd end up shrieking. Watching a 240 pound man shriek is probably not high on everyone's to-do list. Very unbecoming.

The irony is I'm drawn to writing about things spooky and spectral. I suppose I'm living vicariously.

In my book, Ghosts of Gannaway, there're many hauntings, curses, ghosts. Perfect for Halloween reading. But, honestly, with all of the supernatural shenanigans going on in the tale, there's nothing truly scarier than  mankind's capacity for evil and malice. Come for the ghosts, stay for the human characters.

I'm interested, folks...have you had any ghostly encounters you'd like to share?

Ghosts of Gannaway available now in paperback.

And the ebook is available at a limited sale price of .99! Perfect Halloween reading!

Adventures On the Husband Bench by Stuart R. West

The "husband bench" is a particularly uncomfortable piece of pseudo-furniture situated near the exit of department stores. The intention of the bench is to get the non-shopper out of the way so the shopper of the couple can go about their business, unimpeded by the whining other half. Married or dating, male or female, straight or gay, it doesn't matter; in the grand equation of life every couple is comprised of a shopper and a complainer.

The heinous bench is generally very cold and sterile, a terrible place to reside. And it's usually located  out of sight of the check-out aisle, presumably so the waiting person won't try to hasten the shopping partner's progress with impatient can-we-leave-now? hand gestures.

My last visit to the husband bench was an eye-opening, yet soul-deadening experience. I took my seat, my back freezing against the wall. Next to me, a tired looking man in a ball-cap eyeballed me, nodded, a weak brotherhood of sorts solidified in mutual suffering. Then we both went back to studying our feet. Soon, Ball-Cap's eyes lit up. His time in purgatory had ended as his significant other approached, bags in hands. The changing of the guard. The torch had been passed to me to take on elder statesmanship of the husband bench. I gave him a farewell smile. But not too big, because I knew my tenure in tedium had just begun.

A young guy strutted up, full of energy and cockiness. Didn't take long for his youthful vigor to slip into despair, like watching air leak out of a balloon. I gave him a knowing shake of the head, signifying that yes, this is awful, but soon it'll all be over, hang in there. Unless, of course, a blue-light special in aisle four is announced. You never know.

After an eternity of waiting, celestial trumpets sounded! A glorious spotlight framed my wife coming around the corner! I turned to the young guy and said, "now, you're in charge." He understood. Grimly.

But while I was waiting, studying my fellow sufferers, I began to wonder about them. Maybe they weren't there waiting for significant others. What if these men had a hidden agenda? Meeting on the husband bench for a nefarious purpose, a place where no one would ever suspect skulduggery.

From this simple premise, my new suspense thriller, Secret Society, was born. The book begins with two very different men meeting in a mall on a "husband bench." And from there, the action, mystery, dark humor, thrills, chills, intrigue and a clown car's worth of serial killers never lets up. It's a clowder of cats and mice thriller about a very insidious corporation that sponsors serial killers. For a price. A very big price. Pity poor Leon Garber who's crossed them.

People always wonder where my ideas come from. I point to the "husband bench,"  and say, "Here. What happens on the husband bench, stays on the husband bench."

Secret Society just released this very day from Books We Love publishing.

Out now: Ghosts of Gannaway, a historical ghost tale based on true events (sorta).

Stuart R. West's Books We Love author's page.

Mothers and Mortality by Stuart R. West

A year ago, my mother had open-heart surgery. I was just as terrified as her. Nothing makes you confront your own mortality more than having a parent--someone you've taken for granted all your life, always expecting to be there--go under the knife. I felt like I'd be on the operating table alongside her.

Months before, my mom waffled about having the procedure.  Her aorta was closing fast, surgery the only option. But my mother elevates stubbornness to an art-form. She'd said, "Maybe it's best to leave it in God's hands and let me live the rest of my life as is." 

"Your grandchildren are counting on you," I'd told her. Absolutely shameless, sure, but I played the "grandkid card" nonetheless.

It worked. Mom decided to have the procedure. I told my winter-bound Florida "snow-bird" mother to get her dancing heels ready 'cause the procedure would go great.

The family gathered on the day of the operation, three sons and their families. We sat in the cold, sterile waiting room, chugging bad coffee, killing time by reminiscing. Every embarrassing tale from my childhood was dragged out and beaten like a rug. Then we had even more bad coffee.

The operation went well. So well the surgeon pronounced the procedure as "boring."  "Boring's" good in this case.

Hours after the operation, my wife and I visited Mom in Intensive Care.

And I totally lost it.

I wasn't prepared.

My mother, dear God, I didn't recognize her.

She uttered disembodied, agonized "oh's" every few seconds, her eyes wandering, milky and lost. She looked like she'd lost twenty pounds in ten hours. I wanted to hold her, kiss her cheek, afraid I'd break her.

There was no way of letting her know how much I loved her.

Later that same day, I visited again, dreading what I'd find.

I couldn't believe the difference. Sitting up in a chair, she welcomed me. I helped feed her breakfast, administer her medicine, scratch her neck. When she started griping about things, I thought, "Yes! My warrior mother's back!"

All past grievances, annoyances, racial and political differences I'd had with her jettisoned out of the room.

My Mom. The angel who raised me, formed me, talked me through things. Protected me from monsters under the bed and monsters in the school yard.

I cradled her head as gently as I could, said, "Mom, I love you. I'll do anything I can for you."

*** 

My new Books We Love novel can be found here: Ghosts of Gannaway

Book trailer for Ghosts of Gannaway:

Perception: A Formidable Writing Weapon by Stuart R. West

Perception’s a funny thing. It fascinates me when people are confronted with the same visual, audio or mental stimuli and interpret it differently.

Recently, I had dinner with my brother and his daughters. We had a heated discussion about the approximate size of Mickey Mouse. Yes, we both need to get out more.

He insisted Mickey Mouse is the size of a real mouse. Defiantly, I stood my ground and patiently explained that Mickey Mouse is about five feet tall.

Let's weigh the evidence. Mickey has a dog named Pluto. Mickey's larger than Pluto, keeps him on a leash and appears to be a relatively good dog-owner. At least he doesn't dress Pluto in Halloween costumes. Plus, I believe I've seen Mickey drive a car in cartoons.

My brother's defense? He said Mickey Mouse on Ice is not indicative of the character’s size. He stared at me disbelievingly and said, "Those guys on skates aren't real. You KNOW that, don't you?" He said this in the solemn way one tells a child Santa’s not real, a dark and sad secret unveiled.

(I didn’t even bring up the paradox of Goofy. He's a dog as well. I think. Yet, he walks upright, speaks (unlike Pluto) and appears to be a well-adjusted--yet, slightly stupid--individual.)

This argument has thrown everything I thought I knew into a tizzy. I lay awake at night, pondering the size of Mickey Mouse. Surely, a sentient mouse who walks a dog is human size. Yet...in the back of my mind, I find myself questioning it. 

Perception. A peculiar concept, particularly on how it forms people’s personalities. Was my brother wrong? Depends on which side of the argument you land on, I suppose. But how can anyone’s perception be declared definitively wrong when, to them, they’re right? You can't change people's perceptions, particularly when they involve anything regarding religion, politics or Game of Thrones, I've discovered.

One of the last standing monuments in Picher, Oklahoma, the basis for my book, Ghosts of Gannaway.

As a writer, I like using perception to form characters. In my new suspense thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway, the mining magnate villain, Kyle Gannaway, perceives himself as a hero of sorts, the savior of the little town he founded. Which is true in a way. But Kyle justifies his actions which include murder, perceives it as a means to an end, for the greater good of everyone. Is he wrong? Well, yes. But not in his mind. Perception can be a writer’s secret weapon, something to bring what might be a clichéd character to vivid life.

Dennis Lipstein is the hero in the 1969 portion of the novel (yep, there’re two different timelines), an environmental scientist tasked with studying the now ravaged wastelands of Gannaway, Kansas. Even though Dennis is confronted with empirical evidence of ghosts and a haunting, he refuses to believe, chalking it all up to science. A matter of perception, a writer’s source of conflict. 

In 1935, Tommy Donnelly, hero extraordinaire, has his perception muddied by rose-colored glasses. He’ll do anything to help his men in the mines, naively refusing to believe that anyone could possibly be evil. Noble to a fault, it’s a hard lesson Tommy learns. Because of his misperception.

Finally, there’s Claire, Tommy’s wife, a truly ferocious force of nature who’ll do anything to protect her family. She makes some bad decisions to attain her goal. Which have consequences. Is she wrong in her perception that nothing matters beyond her family? Absolutely not, not to her.

Comedies (particularly romantic ones) are built upon a series of misperceptions. Suspense thrillers rely on misperception as well, sometimes to have humanly flawed characters make very bad (and dangerous) mistakes. Perception’s a great way to unbind characters trapped with one foot into cliché-land, a writer’s secret weapon.

But I’m still pondering the size of Mickey Mouse.

Ghosts of Gannaway can be purchased now for the limited sales price of .99!

Brand spanking new and creeptacular trailer: http://bit.ly/1Icbj0N

 Stuart R. West's BWL author page.

Stuart R. West's Blog: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley