Sizzling Sofa Stories by Stuart R. West's Sofa

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I am Stuart's sofa.

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

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

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

Frankly, watching someone write is really, really boring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old-Fashioned Thrills & Chills by Stuart R. West

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As a thriller writer in the 21^st century, several things gum me up. Like a bug caught in a fly-strip, though, I keep struggling, fluttering my wings over the keyboard.

Technology has stomped on good ol’-fashioned thrills and chills. Edge of the seat, run for your life suspense sequences have morphed into guys looking at computer screens. Bah. If I desired that as entertainment, I would’ve never left the corporate sector. (There is one minor plus, though: in books, you don’t smell the “cubicle odor.”)

I liked the old thrillers when finding a phone booth and a quarter qualified as a life-saver. Nowadays, characters stop at Starbucks, get their java on, plug in, and cybernetically—magically!—find whatever they want. Computers and the “geeks” who wizard over them pull off a seemingly endless stream of deus ex machina. There’s always a guy who can “hack” into any database.  Always. In nanoseconds! Like on all of those TV police procedurals where the stereotypical “goth” girl pulls up information on anybody with hi-tech equipment dreamed up in some writer’s head.

Having said that, I, too, have used “that guy” in my suspense series, Killers Incorporated. These days, it’s hard to ignore technology. But I generally strive to take the road less traveled, working hard to earn my thrills the old school route. Lots of chases, brawls, explosions, double-crosses, unsavory characters, etc. And yes, there’s still “that guy” when I get stumped on a plot point.

I try not to use “that guy” too much. As a writer, he makes me lazy. Predictable. Ultimately boring.

Sigh. But nowadays “that guy” is an unfortunate necessary evil.

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Another change I’ve noticed in thrillers is a heavy reliance on psychology. Back in the day, thriller writers never offered reasons why jerks threw wheelchair-bound old ladies downstairs. They just did it. Gleefully so. No reader really lost sleep over the reason behind it either. The villain just epitomized evil and that was good enough for an earlier, starkly good-or-evil (innocent in a way) era.

These days, readers want “motivation.” Background. Why are the villains evil? 

I dunno, ask my high school bullies. They never offered any reasons for their behavior. But it was always painfully clear who to run from.

Is it pure coincidence that the first four letters of “analysis” are “anal?” I think not. Freud, I’m looking at you. Regardless, nowadays more sophisticated thriller readers demand reasons behind villains’ psychotic behavior. Back stories involving horrible bed-wetting, whatever. Fine, I’ll cop to supplying background motivation to most of my serial killers in the Killers Incorporated trilogy. Except it takes out some of the mystique, the fun of their villainy. That’s why I never delve into “The Man with the Shoebox’s” past. Some things are better off left unstated and he’s one of my favorite characters for it (Just what is in his shoebox anyway?).

Today’s thriller readers like the world of high-tech espionage, populated with rooms full of spies punching buttons and breaking into covert databases. Me? I still prefer heroes who punch faces and physically break into evil corporations’ headquarters. That’s the Killers Incorporated trilogy, an ode to good ol’ fashioned thrills and chills, topped with a dose of sardonic black humor.

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The Importance of Villains by Stuart R. West

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I believe every book should have a villain. Every genre needs them, a crucial component to a compelling dramatic arc. Romance books should have them too, hence the requisite love triangle. Readers want to root for two out of three people to fall in love. What's the fun of reading a book about a beautiful, untangled relationship?

As a reader, at times I find villains more interesting, particularly when the heroes are sort of the bland, never-can-do-anything-wrong archetype. Definitely as a writer, I have more fun writing the bad guys. Call it a form of therapy, vicariously channeling my inner villain in safe ways.

There are many great quotes about villains. Tom Hiddleston, the actor who plays Loki in the Avengers movies (who knows a few things about villains), said, "Every villain is a hero in his own mind." Many writers have echoed this sentiment. And that's what makes the enemy interesting in fiction. (Um, not so much in real life, of course.)

The more humanized, the more empathetic, the more understandable a villain is in a book, I find myself nearly rooting for him/her at times.  There's something to admire about such unfettered villains, joyfully embarking upon their path of mayhem, unbothered by social restraints. Liberating, even. Of course I keep this unpopular sentiment quiet more often than not.

And it helps when the villain is charming, intelligent, witty and just wants to go on his sociopathic, merry way. When someone has that much confidence, it's hard not to root for them. As I said...I enjoy writing these types of villains. Fun!

Which reminds me of another quote: "A hero is only as good as their villain." (For the life of me, I can't find the origin of this quote! Some say it was Batman...wasn't Batman a great Greek philosopher or something?). So when I pick up a book with a fascinating villain, I expect the hero to hold his own. This means a flawed, interesting hero, perhaps even one step away from villainy himself. The temptation of a hero is always compelling.

Now in writing my Killers Incorporated series (Secret Society and Strike with a third one on the way), I sort of stacked the odds against myself. My (anti) hero, Leon Garber, is a serial killer. But he's one with a code of honor, a disturbed individual who preys only on abusers. He has his reasons. But my challenges were two-fold: how to make Leon a hero; and to create an even more despicable villain so the reader has no choice but to cheer Leon on. And what's worse than an evil corporation that sponsors serial killers? Did I succeed? Beats me, that's up to the reader to decide.

Long live villains! (Just in fiction, though. I don't wanna hang out with them.)

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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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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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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

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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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