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.