The Hardest Thing About Writing by Stuart R. West

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Everyone loves lists, right? So who am I to stand in the way of love? Here we go...

As an author, the hardest thing for me is writing action scenes.

Wait. Scratch that...

To me, the toughest thing about writing is trying to pen something while imbibing. I know, I know, it's a bad idea, but the holiday season is upon us and pass the eggnog already! It's too bad I end up with writing such as the following: "He approached the basement stairs, felt a chill zip-line down his spine. With a flick of the switch, he hesitated, then set foot on the top zzzzzzkkkkkkkkkkkrrrrrrrrrr....." It goes on like that for a while, but you get the general idea. Usually I wake up with the keyboard imprinted upon my face and gobbledygook in my manuscript.

After that, the second hardest thing about writing are action scenes. Hold on... No, no, there's a new writing faux-pas to add to my list: Never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, write while nursing a hang-over. This goes hand-in-hand with the first item on the list, so naturally should ring in at item number two. Writing with a hang-over can be perilous to your tale. There's a thundering headache suggesting that you just wrap things up quickly. With a hang-over, any build-up of suspense is thrown out the window.

Let's journey back to my previous sample of writing, shall we? "He approached the basement stairs, felt a chill zip-line down his spine. With a flick of the switch, he hesitated, then set foot on the top step. Down below, down in the darkness, the moan continued. Fred tripped, tumbled down, and broke his neck. THE END."

See what happened there? Not much of an ending, but it's all the muse, Hang-Over, could tolerate that day.

Finally, the third toughest thing about writing are action scenes. Which is kinda weird since I write scenarios that involve them a lot. For me, it's hard to bring something new to the game every time you write a fist fight or a car chase. But I keep trying. I keep plugging away looking for new variations that will hopefully interest the reader and myself. In my new book, Nightmare of Nannies, I composed a chapter-long chase sequence involving a man's desperate quest to retrieve his stolen tear-away pants (it's complicated). I tried my best to make it breathless, non-stop, and funny. And, boy, was it ever tough.

Dialogue's easy. Just put yourself into your character's mind-set and it practically writes itself. But action? Going forward, I constantly feel the need to one-up myself.

If erotica authors work by that standard, I pity them. I mean, come on... What do you write to top the LAST sex orgy you just composed on your laptop? Let's pause for a moment and consider...

Whew. That was grueling. My imagination just doesn't bend far enough that way. I think we can all be grateful I'm not an erotica writer. Merry Christmas!

So. What have we learned?
1) Don't write while drinking;
2) Don't write while hung-over;
3) Action is hard to write;
4) Don't EVER encourage me to write erotica.

This has been a Stuart R. West PSA.

Click here for an erotica-free zone!

The Show-Stealing Sleuth by Stuart R. West

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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.

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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
 

 

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.

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These Days Everyone's a Writer by Stuart R. West

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"Everyone has a book in them, but in most cases that's where it should stay."

The quote is most often attributed to Christoper Hitchens (1949-2011), a famous journalist and intellectual. Some sources argue the origin of the quote. Regardless of who said it, I couldn't agree more.

It's not that I'm snobby or believe my writing's the cat's pajamas. On the contrary, I'm always striving to improve my writing. And I've been more than willing to help out new writers. After all, every writer should be given a chance. Or so I used to think.

Over the past several years, I've had people crawling out of the woodwork asking me to read their Great American Novels. People I've never met before. People who have no business writing. People who become a little "stalkery."

I took on many cases until it became overwhelming and more than a little discouraging.

I worked on one guy's coming of age (groan!) novel for more than two years. At the end of our trial by fire, he still didn't get it. It was a mess, more head-hopping than a psychic's convention. I tried telling him what he was doing wrong. Every time he'd respond, "Oh, yeah, I get it now." Then he'd continue to do the same thing.

My mother, a "snow-bird" in Florida, has a new suitor who's a writer! He's written a spiritual self-help book. Wants my opinion. I honestly don't know how I could be of help to him when I'm writing jolly serial killer books and what-not.

Recently during a medical exam with a tongue depressor lodged into my mouth, a young doctor told me he's writing a book about government mandates on the beautification of homes and lawns. I said, "Really?" He said, "Yeah, it's a comedy." Not exactly water-cooler talk.

The other day my neighbor told me he's writing a book.

"Cool!" I said, while inside I died a little bit. But trapped as I was, I pursued it.

"What's the book about?" I asked.

"Well...that's hard to say...something about a Christian alien planet."

Noooo! "Huh. Okay, let me read it."

"I'm just starting it. But I will."

I told him I couldn't wait, ran inside and locked the doors.

Some of these writers take my advice to heart and actually work at improvement. All writers should. But some of my other pet projects? I've had a few writers get quite angry regarding my commentary, yell at me, then take their toys and go home.

The advent of "self-publishing" is a double-edged sword. While it opened up an alternate venue for fledgling writers who may not have had a chance via the traditional "over the transom" route in the past, it's also full of people who are absolutely clueless.

Which is why I appreciate dedicated publishers like Books We Love who uphold a high level of quality in the books they put out.

From now on, though, I'm closing the door on new writers who hit me up. (Except, of course, for my neighbor's upcoming epic about an alien Christian planet!)

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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.

AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE HERE.

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