Day 2 of Amazon Adventures: Museums, Manatees and Misery by Stuart R. West

Click here to read about the "wilds" of Kansas City!

Hola, fellow explorers! Herein resides more adventures in the heart of the Amazon River and Iquitos, Peru! I can't wait to get writing books set there...quite a stretch from my usual stomping grounds of Kansas.

Our second night, "Jungle Momma (the group coordinator)" told us to get lots of sleep because the next day would be jam-packed. I scoffed, nothing to it. Hey, I lived through a heart-pounding motokar city-wide trek!

Dumb. I'm soooo dumb. So very, very, very city-dumb.

I showed up in shorts. Jungle Momma chastised me, said "Nope. No. No way. You need two shirts, a long-sleeved shirt over a short-sleeved shirt. And long pants."

Grousing, dragging, I hauled myself upstairs and changed, wondering what the big deal was. I mean, it was a thousand degrees out and humid as Satan's sauna. Oh, what a naive, spoiled American I am!

First stop! The Belen market. The market is huge, supplying all of the food and goods for the entire city of Iquitos, population around 371,000 (plus ignorant tourists such as myself). 

But something didn't seem quite right. On the bus, there were two guards: one, a man strangely named "Clever" and a guy whose name I never caught. Clever warned us to watch our pockets, wallets, purses, and leave all but our necessities on the bus.

Hmm... Odd.

Ye gads, talk about overwhelming. More fish on display than an ocean could house, I wondered about the sanitation of it all. Clearly I needed to get over my Western way of thinking. Dogs and cats meandered about nonchalantly, inches away from food. Dead mice lay gutted at the foot of chicken corpses. Strange men mosied up, smiled, performed a kinda one-armed chicken dance. Ghastly things lay splayed out on merchant tables. Giant turtles were cut open with their eggs on display. Alligator heads and tails decorated tables.

 Thumb-sized larva and grubs ("Suri") wriggled about in baskets before being skewered and cooked. Like that annoying kid in eighth grade science class, I held one, showed it to the females until they "ewwwed." To get the full effect, I was willing to eat one until Jungle Momma shut me down.

Our guards stayed attached to us and I'm pretty dang glad they did. At the end of an hour-and-a-half, claustrophobia  set in. I couldn't move. An unwelcome realization dawned over me with the sledgehammer inevitability of a "duh" moment: "Hey, I think the locals might realize I'm a tourist." Not only am I the whitest guy in Kansas, but my Hawaiian shirt and camera were probably a giveaway.

Sweat began to percolate as we boarded the bus (air conditioning!). I thought I knew sweat. Turned out I hadn't even mounted the sweaty trail.

Up next was a visit to a medicinal herbal garden. (Our group was composed primarily of pharmacists, so it was kinda a big deal for them. Which made me arm candy, I suppose. Maybe more like an arm grub). But, I thought, "This will be a nice pleasant five minute stroll. We'll just drive up, park, get out, "ooh" and "ahh" over some plants, get back on the bus, and bask in air conditioning." Oh, naivete, your name is Stuart.

My wife grabs her purse, thrusts it at me to stuff into my backpack. (Embarrassing disclaimer: I've never worn a back-pack before. Back in my day {pay attention, whippersnappers!}, we carried our books.) Suddenly, Jungle Momma is tucking her pant legs into her socks. (The hell...?) Bug spray is lacquered on. Sun hats are strapped on. Shirt sleeves rolled down, buttoned, and double-checked. (Uh-oh...)

Just off the bus and already sweating, I follow the others' precautionary efforts. I don't really understand what all the fuss is for over a simple stroll through a garden. Right? RIGHT?

 That "simple stroll" turned into a three hour tour (worse than Gilligan's nightmares) through the jungle. And I'm wearing double shirts, long pants, and carrying my wife's forty pound purse (clearly she packed her bowling ball collection) in my backpack. Naturally, every intrepid explorer carries purses into the jungle.

On the left, my beautiful wife. I'm the guy wearing mustard so the anacondas can see me better.

We climbed up trails, slalomed down them, slipped through mud, dodged branches, the whole nine yards. I thought we'd never reach civilization again. I also thought a daily five miles of treadmill walking had prepared me for strenuous hiking. Such is the life of city sissies. Jumpin' Jehosophat, by the end of the tour--and with my "moobs"--I looked like I'd been hosed down for a wet t-shirt contest.

Tired travelers, weary pharmacists, and soaking wet big dumb guys in mustard.

Back on the bus, I sucked down a bottle of water and juice in seconds, dehydrated as a shrunken head. But relief was on the way as the next visit turned out to be a relatively low-key visit to a nature habitat dedicated to saving animals on the brink of extinction (due to hunting, eating, other "civilized" products) such as manatees, turtles (of which we saw the grotesque end result earlier), monkeys (monkey-head soup's big), and others. Great cause. Still, it's outside. And once I broke my sweat-seal, I never stopped draining. In fact, between the three men on the trip, we had a bit of a sweating competition. Hands down, I won, glad to know I'm good at something.

A tour of two museums followed. First up was the Museum of Indigenous Amazonian Cultures. Amazingly, there are still 200 tribes in the jungle who flat-out refuse to "civilize." The not so amazing reason is due to white man unleashing a lotta diseases and vile behavior on the indigenous in the past. Honestly, after seeing some of the lifestyles in Iquitos (and boorish American behavior), I kinda think the tribes made the right decision. 

Our final stop proved to be the most grueling one yet, the Boat Museum. While fascinating, the displays and tour took place on a boat. In closed, non-air-conditioned rooms. During the hottest part of the day. Give me the jungle heat any day. Now I know why they're called steamboats.

Finished! Back in the room, my shower was perhaps the finest I'd taken in my life, definitely in the pantheon of Top Three Showers ever.

On the next blog post, we travel down the Amazon River to...Monkey Island!

Speaking of traveling, you guys ever been to Kansas? No. What're you waiting for? Kansas is a nice, exotic, wonderful, getaway of a vacation for... Ah, who am I kidding? Kansas is downright goofy. But don't take my word for it. Click here to read about some of its inhabitants.

A rollicking, good-natured mystery comedy.

Laughter is the best tonic---Tricia McGill

Find all my books here on my Books We Love Author page

When I look back at old family photographs, one thing stands out. We were always smiling. I grew up in a happy household with brothers who, although sensible, were also prone to silliness. They enjoyed a good laugh. This rings true to me today. I much prefer to watch a comedy on the TV. Sorry if I upset anyone but no one can produce comedy quite like the British. Even before TV came along in our household all the comedy shows on the radio were listened to and laughed along with by members of my family. My youngest brother was the prankster and his all-time favourites were The Goon Show and Hancock’s Half Hour. There were many others but these stand out when I recall him roaring with laughter at the complete madness of the Goons. He could impersonate every character and memorise every punchline. 

Shows like these were forerunners of other excellent shows we watched avidly once TV entered our lives. Shows like Porridge with masters of British comedy like Ronnie Barker playing Fletcher. Another favourite was Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em, the springboard for Michael Crawford into an amazing career in Movies and Theatre. And how can I leave out Faulty Towers?

I love paid TV as it has enabled me to catch up with old favourites such as One Foot in The Grave with grumpy old Victor Meldew and his long suffering wife. Or ‘Allo ‘Allo, and less ridiculous shows like To The Manor Born which when you boil it down had the makings of a good old love story. Poor Audrey Fforbes-Hamilton is forced to sell her stately home and we have a feeling all along that she is going to end up with the charming and handsome new owner of the manor.

Anyone remember The Good Life, where Tom Good and his lovely wife decide to leave the hectic world of the rat race in the city and settle in suburbia where they can grow their own vegies and even keep a pig or two.

I envy the children of today who have such a large variety of shows to watch aimed specifically at them. I have a few personal favourites that I wouldn’t miss for the world and often wish I was 40 years or more younger so that I could be a part of the world of animation. I admire the creators immensely. They breathe life into plasticine characters such as Wallace and Gromit. When one of my family members acquired a TV in the 50s with a screen not much bigger than a small laptop or tablet, we would all crowd around to watch shows like Muffin The Mule, The Flower Pot Men and of course there was Lassie where we could also sometimes shed a tear. All in black and white of course.

Things have moved on at a rapid rate and our TV tastes have obviously changed. I doubt my tastes have altered a lot though as I still watch shows like The IT Crowd and Miranda. You’ve probably guessed by now that I prefer comedy shows produced in the UK. Must be my inbuilt British sense of humour. 

Comedy helps us through the worst times in our lives and believe me I have lived through some dark days of loss and sorrow, as we all have to. But laughter is without doubt the best medicine of all, and it helps if we can laugh at ourselves.

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It's a Man's World...Unless You're a Praying Mantis by Stuart R. West

No science here! Click for humor and suspense!

And you guys think you have it bad!

Pity the plight of the poor praying mantis. Gather around for a little science lesson...

The other day my wife and I are sitting on the back deck. She's tending to a potted plant and says, "Hey! A walking stick!"

"Kill it," I scream, because everyone knows sticks shouldn't walk, a mutant aberration of science gone awry. And because everything I know about science I've learned from cartoons.

Upon further exploration, my wife says, "No...wait... It's a praying mantis."

Which is even worse. "Squish it! Get rid of it! For God's sake, destroy the beast!"

"No," says my wife, "praying mantises are good. She'll eat the bad bugs."

Hmm. "What in the world makes you think it's a female?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes, says, "There's a huge difference between male and female praying mantises."

I reached deep into the darkest pockets of my useless and dusty stored facts and plucked out something horrific. "Oh, yeah! It has a head, right? Because after the mantises procreate, the female eats the male's head."

"That's not the difference I'm talking about, but, yes, they do that."

"But why?" I knew the females feasted on heads, just couldn't figure out their motivation. "Are the females tired of a lifetime of male oppression? Are they into weird insectoid, extreme S&M and get carried away? Do they hate males?"

At this point, my wife's not a firm believer in the adage, There's no such thing as a stupid question. "They're just bugs doing...buggy things."

Ever the scientist, my wife gives it more thought. "I imagine the males' head is full of protein and good for the eggs. Mantises only mate once, then it's off with the males' head."

"So...you're saying that the male kinda just hangs out, has sex once, then at the peak of his short life, he gets his head eaten?"

"Pretty much."

"...No wonder they pray all the time." 

For more strange science (not really) and weird wonders of the world (or at least a spooky lil' Kansas town in the sixties), check out Peculiar County by clicking....wait for it...RIGHT HERE! 

A World of Weird Awaits Just One Click Away!

I am...the Great Indoorsman by Stuart R. West

CLICK HERE FOR SPOOKY OUTDOOR SHENANIGANS

Let's get something straight. I don't camp. The closest to camp I come is watching the old Batman TV series.

I'm a civilized chap, rather fond of climate control and beds. Beds were created for a reason. I believe it blasphemous not to use them. And cable TV, a must for survival.

Several years back, my wife talked me into a camping trip. We're talking really roughing it. Staying in a cabin in the wild woods of Oklahoma. The sheer Jeremiah Johnson-ish of it all! Sure, the cabin had a hot tub and a VCR player, but, man, I felt so...primitive. I mean, honestly! A VCR player, for cryin' out loud!

It was at this savage cabin I saw my first "walkingstick." Totally freaked me out. I screamed like my name had been called on "The Price Is Right." Sticks aren't supposed to walk. And people can't understand why I don't camp. Duh.

I suppose my Great Indoorsmanship began at an early age. Against my better judgment (and because kids are never given a choice), I was set to go on a cub scout weekend camping trip. Thankfully I came down with a stomach virus and missed the "adventure." On that ill-fated trip, my fellow scouts blundered into a wasp's nest and rolled through a thatch of poison ivy. If I even look at poison ivy, huge blisters develop on my eyelids.

Invariably when people try to convince me how wonderful camping is they fall short of selling it. Usually, their tales are rife with horror (Mosquitos! Flooding! All sorts of Biblical plagues!), hardly a convincing argument.

When you wake up freezing or sweating (both equally awful sensations), I hardly see that as a bonus. Campers are just opening themselves up to the Zika virus or a Bigfoot ravaging. Not to mention the various demented serial killers who lurk in the woods. I know, I've done my research. I've watched lots of horror movies. 

I gained my Indoorsman legs the hard, practiced way...on the sofa. Many hours spent on many a different sofa have toughened me into the sofa-sitting man I am today.

And I have the best job in the world, too. Writing. I never have to leave the sofa again. (Well, maybe to wheel the mini refrigerator and microwave in next to the couch, but you know what I mean.) 

Jury Duty: Torture or Writing Research? by Stuart R. West

Much more fun than jury duty!

My wife got the mail that fateful day, said "uh-oh," as she tossed the inexplicably foreboding government letter toward me. Surprise! I'd been chosen for jury duty! (Cue the wah-wah-wah-wahhhh mocking trombone).

Noooo! (Rendering it an even larger injustice, for years my wife has actually longed to pull jury duty. It's a cruel world).

Well, I'd managed to dodge the jury duty bullet twice before in my life time. (Years ago, I'd written the Government that my dad was in a wheelchair {true!} and that I was needed to take care of him {kinda true, but not really!}. It'd worked twice.) Feeling invulnerable, I figured I could dodge the bullet a third time. I wrote that my mother was ailing (true and constantly!) and that I was "on-call" at all times to take care of her (sorta' true if you kinda smudge the boundaries of what's "true" and whatever). This time, the cold-hearted judge didn't take pity on me.

So, on a recent bitter, snow-storm threatening Monday morning, I hauled myself through gridlocked highway traffic to the Kansas courthouse. Like lemmings driven to their death, tons of people grumpily shuffled across the sidewalks toward the courthouse. As it was Monday morning, I'd never seen such a collection of bleary-eyed, clearly hung-over, grumpier people together at once.

At the security check, I de-shoed, unbelted, emptied my valuables into a bucket, got beeped at, then was sent through the puzzling labyrinth of the courthouse. Worse than a rat in a maze, I had to go down a flight of stairs to a room, up another flight, down the hall, down another flight, then up another flight. Finally, I entered the courtroom.

A woman who made Fran Drescher sound absolutely dulcet directed us toward assigned seats. She looked at my paperwork and laughed. Actually brayed! "You're juror number one," she managed between sadistic guffaws. 

This didn't bode well. So much for a fast exit. All week long, I'd been working on a strategy to be dismissed during the "voir dire" process (oral and visual examination of the potential jurors). I figured I might try a surly and crazed "hang 'em all and hang 'em high" attitude. But all now seemed lost as I settled into chair number ONE.

And there I sat for an hour. By my estimation, over a hundred potential jurors crammed into the courtroom. Grimly, I stared at my non-existent wristwatch. An older man sat down in front of me, flying his flannel and sporting a mess of Grizzly Adams beard and hair. My peer. Breathing like a pneumatic nail gun, his face redder than a fire hydrant, he turned around and angrily huffed at me like some kind of out-of-control Lifetime movie husband. At that point I figured it was gonna be a long trial.

Not Fran Drescher did her best to entertain us, answer questions, and warn of the oncoming snow storm. While she couldn't get into the specifics, she did say this was a criminal trial--a big one!--and could take up to several weeks. I had a sudden change of heart. Even though I didn't want to be there, the trial might provide some excellent writing research and ideas. I began to brainstorm a courtroom thriller! Because I had nothing better to do!

Some woman asked Fran Drescher's twin how they picked potential jurors. "Driving and voting records and bad luck," she answered. The woman's question was two-fold, however. "This is the fourth time I've been here this year," the woman implored. "What's up with that?"

Pseudo Fran Drescher responded, "That sucks." (A truly governmental response if I've ever heard one.)

Suddenly a yuppie--flashy in Friday casual wear--took the podium. He said he was our judge (No robe, no liver spots, no tremors while rattling a gavel. Feh. Not my kinda judge.) and apologized for keeping us waiting. Apparently they'd reached a plea agreement and we were free to go.

What?

Just as I'd resigned myself to a long drawn-out affair, almost excited about the sordid adventure awaiting me, then POOF, we were ushered out of the courtroom (and up stairs, then down stairs, then up again, and...).


Oddly disappointed, I trawled home. But at least I wouldn't be called again for another year. Then again...that "rule" didn't hold true for the poor four-time lottery loser in the courtroom.

A jury of reading peers has found Bad Day in a Banana Hammock guilty of hilarity with a finding of a 4.2 rating. 22 jurors surely can't ALL be wrong.

Hear ye, hear ye, click here to read the book in session!

The Smell of Romance by Stuart R. West

Something smells very, VERY funny. Click to explore that scent.

“The Smell of Romance.” Hmm…

Let’s consider that for a moment. Doesn’t really evoke love, does it?

Yet as a writer, I stubbornly—stupidly?—keep striving to incorporate all five senses into my tales while my characters grapple and rassle in the name of romance. 

Sight? Easy-peezy, lemon-squeezy. Sound? Sure: heavy breathing, groans, moans, and hands ruffling over corsets and what have you. Taste and touch I’ll leave to the erotica writers.

But the sense of smell’s a curious quandary, a puzzle for this writer. Generally (and without trying to sound sexist, gotta be careful these days), women writers are more successful in describing the scent of love than men, I think. Yet—and I see this constantly—most female writers who dare to venture into olfactory romantic territory, tend to comment on the male partner’s scent of “musk.”

Well, I dunno from “musk,” but I’ve been in more than my fair share of men’s locker rooms and the only scent that comes to mind would be dirty socks (and that’s putting it politely). I looked up the definition of “musk.” Ms. Google says “musk is a pungent and greasy secretion from a gland in the male musk deer.”

Go figure. Even if men could secrete such an odor, I wouldn’t think it’d be an attractive one. I don’t see a lot of musk-scented air fresheners hanging in cars. Yet I read about this masculine scent... All. The. TIME.

Sometimes I even see men’s odors described in books as “musty.” Again, my assistant, Ms. Google helped me out. “Must” is even worse than “musk.” The definition reads “having a stale, moldy, or damp smell.” Ever so eloquent, Urban Dictionary goes on to add “the smell of armpits.” Clearly, you ladies don’t like the smell of us men. (Psst…you would be right).

Male writers, on the other hand, stumble around, attempting to describe how female characters smell. A lack of male vision keeps the scents narrowed to two options: some kinda floral arrangement or food. Which says A LOT about where men are coming from: their stomachs. I’m guilty of it, too. “She smelled of vanilla, touched with a dash of cinnamon.” (Apparently my character's ready to eat the female character. Just toss in some fava beans and a nice chianti and we're set.)

So, class, the takeaway from this lecture is men smell like armpits and women smell like food. There’s gotta be more to it than that. And as a writer, I vow to go on olfactory high alert until I’ve upset the cliché cart and created some new scents.

In Peculiar County, everything smells fishy...

When to Put a Stake into Santa by Stuart R. West

Click for comedy, suspense and the world's greatest tear-away pants!

Every year around this time, my family invariably finds themselves wrapped up in the same holiday conundrum: When is it time to quit playing at Santa Claus?

Oh, sure, I know some of you are of the mind-set that you're never to old to believe in the magic of Santa Claus and all that eggnog-inspired hoo-hah. But notice I said "playing" at Santa Claus and not "believing."

My parents kept up the Santa mythos for a long time. An embarrassingly long time. We were well into college and my folks would stay up late on Christmas Eve, secretly wrapping Santa's gifts, and always leaving one half-eaten cookie on the cookie tray. Fooling no one. My brothers and I went along with it, rolling our eyes, goofing on it good-naturedly.

But when we saw how tired Mom looked, it was time to put a stake into Santa's giving heart. We told her enough's enough and just how old did she think we were anyway? My Mom was hesitant, big on tradition, but short on the cold, hard truth.

Which is kinda sad, really. Not for us, not for we "kids." But it was heartbreaking for my mom. Clearly, she enjoyed the exhausting ritual more than we did.

I also think it's sad that kids today have a tougher time believing in Santa. When I was growing up, all we had to stand in the path of our belief was common sense or classroom talk.

Now, kids just have to turn on their phones, and boom! They find out Santa's a myth. Plus modern kids are much more sophisticated these days, grade school minds already set on climbing corporate ladders and leaping into piles of stocks and bonds, no time for silly, antiquated traditions.

Last Christmas, my niece--the last in my family to discover the truth about Santa (and I'm not a grandfather yet; no need to rush things along!)--told me where it all went belly up for her. "Well," she said, "my friends were saying that it's just our parents pretending. Then I started thinking that it's kinda impossible for one guy to go down everyone's chimney in one night. And what's up with the Easter Bunny? That's really creepy."

She kinda had a point. A giant bunny sneaking into people's homes? Creepy. And Santa's not much better: a large man who spies on people, keeps lists, and not too far removed from the current "leader of the free world." Plus, Santa only comes out at night and breaks into people's homes. Sorta like a vampire.

So...when is it time to put a stake into Santa and kill the myth? Whenever you want to, I say. But, maybe we should first put a stake into kids' unlimited access to the internet.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Feliz Navidad, Joyeux Noel, Habari gani, happy holidays, and whatever you celebrate, may there be peace where you reside.

Gonna get coal this year? Stick something fun and light-hearted in your own stocking!

The Hardest Thing About Writing by Stuart R. West

Click to purchase!

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

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE!

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.

CLICK FOR MORE EXCITEMENT AND STUPIDITY!