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

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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...

Farewell to My Loyal Writing Companion, Zak by Stuart R. West

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Not too long ago, we lost our beloved dog, Zak. Zak sat at my feet non-stop while I wrote eighteen novels, the best muse a writer could ask for. The perfect sounding board with no mean criticism. 

More than that, he gave us ten joyous years of love, loyalty, and play, while the eleventh year was fraught with emotion, and at times harrowing as we saw him go through four major surgeries, one amputation, rehabilitation, and finally, loss.

Zak was an absolutely unworldly ball of energy finally done in by the limitations of his physical body. He simply couldn't be contained within his aging body. His high-level play did in his back legs.

He will be sorely missed. He is missed. This is the hardest blog post I've ever written.

But I don't want to mourn, but rather celebrate Zak's wonderful life.

Zak was a rescue dog. At six months old, we found him rummaging through trash cans, love at first sight! The first night we brought him home on a trial-basis, I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, laughing hysterically as he licked me with wild abandon.

I said to my wife, "I really, really like him."

"Yeah," she answered, "we're keeping him."

And we were off! What an adventure we had...

Alas, because of Zak's breed--half pit-bull terrier (the other half never determined and it didn't matter to us one bit)--he faced a life-time of prejudice. My mom, brother, a good friend, even strangers on the street when I walked Zak, were terrified of our dog. We had to be extra careful with him.

Not that we needed to. Zak was the best-natured dog we'd ever met. The only threat from him came from loving you to death, smothering you in kisses. Everywhere Zak went--doggie daycare, the vet, the nail clipper gals at Petco, physical therapy--he received lots of compliments and made fans. Everyone fell in love with him, his good nature, his loyalty, his temperament. Even my mom finally came around (and she NEVER comes around on anything), proclaiming him, "such a sweet, good dog."

In his years of life, Zak only bit two people (not bad odds for any dog): one, a mower in the next yard, who definitely deserved it for taunting Zak; and two, a cable guy who I wanted to bite. Hey, Zak was just doing his job. Loyalty like his couldn't be bought. He took his protection duties very seriously. Just ask the mailman. Dunno what it was about the mailman, but it was pretty much the only person Zak never liked. Even on our walks, Zak could spot the blue uniform several blocks away and wanted to assure the postman stayed far away from invading our turf.

Zak shared with everyone a universal desire to be loved. And we did; we loved him so much that this has been a very painful farewell. Clearly Zak returned that love in bunches. Once, while I sat on the deck, he ran up to me, something draping from his mouth...two rabbit legs. He dropped the half-carcass at my feet. Wiggled his tail, golden eyes full of hope for kudos at his gift to me. A gift presented out of love. Unfortunately, I responded with girlish shrieks. But I understood the intent. It was the kind of dog Zak was. Very giving in many ways. Whenever my wife screamed at seeing a spider, Zak beat me to her rescue.

Oddly enough, Zak was never very food-oriented. Playing was his bag. And play he did, hard and fast and furious. When he was younger, he ran whip-fast, crazy-eights in the backyard. He'd actually pounce--pounce!--on his hind legs like a kangaroo. The first time I ever saw him "play" with another dog, I was horrified; it looked as if he wanted to tear the other dog apart, all growls, nips, rough and tumble worse than a no-holds barred Black Friday shopping spree. But I also noticed Zak never bit the other dogs. Even in the unrestrained passion of play, he withheld himself. When the other dog would take a bite, Zak would just back-off, tail wagging. He loved dogs, never met a dog he didn't like. Except for maybe my daughter's brat of a beagle. Which is weird, because they started as friends (my daughter insists it stems from an unseen backyard bone incident).

In his older age, Zak still maintained his energy and that's what ultimately did his back legs in. Both of them, one by one. We tried to repay Zak's unflagging loyalty. We did everything we could to save him. But my wife saw he was hurting. And the remaining back leg had developed another bone infection, one that antibiotics couldn't stop.

 Seeing that wonderful, loving, playful, force of great-natured energy stilled on the vet's table was hard. So very heart-rending.

Over the last six years, I'd spent nearly every minute of my life with my friend, Zak. As a full-time writer, I wrote eighteen novels with him always beside me. 

I'll miss him greatly. My friend. My companion. My dear loyal, furry love.

Here's to you, Zak. *Tink* I hope you're happily chasing stupid angelic rabbits and mailmen with wings.

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!

Ghosts of Gannaway by Stuart R. West

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Gather round the pumpkin patch, boys and ghouls! It's time to tell a lil' Halloween ghost story.

Can you hear 'em? The ghosts of old miners clambering down the road? Don't believe me? Go take a look at the local mining museum. Just make sure you visit in the daytime. And don't give no never mind to those moving pictures on the wall. And just what in the world's goin' on down in those mines anyway?

Ghosts of Gannaway. The perfect ghost story for Halloween reading.

Ghost whispers echo through the mines of Gannaway. They have a story to tell. It’s the story of a town torn apart by greed, pollution and vanity, by racial discord between the Native Americans and the invading miners, by the Great Depression, by the violent union strikes of the 1930’s. That’s not all that brought Gannaway to its knees, though. Not by a long shot. Because something—else—lives in the deserted tunnels of the mine, something dark and evil. Something that breathes life into the Ghosts of Gannaway.

'Ghosts of Gannaway takes the reader on a journey they won’t forget.' ~ Paranormal suspensewriter Gail Roughton

'Filled with tension, excellent characterization, suspense, ghostly presences and enough twists and turns to keep you glued to the last page.'   ~ Thriller author Catherine Cavendish

'Captivating...a ghost story full of surprises.' ~ Mystery writer Joan C. Curtis

(Psst...for more Halloween reading, try Peculiar County, a more gentle YA approach to the ghost story...)

CLICK FOR GHOSTS, THRILLS, CHILLS, AND MYSTERY!

*Stuart R. West’s brand-spanking new website!
*BWL Publishing author page.
*Stuart R. West's (totally inconsequential) blog: Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley
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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.

CLICK FOR MORE EXCITEMENT AND STUPIDITY!

Chili Run by Stuart R. West

Run, don't walk (or at least click here), for thrills and laughs.

More about author Stuart R. West than you ever wanted to know!

Stuart R. West is a lifelong resident of Kansas, which he considers both a curse and a blessing. It's a curse because...well, it's Kansas. But it's great because…well, it’s Kansas. Lots of cool, strange and creepy things happen in the Midwest, and Stuart takes advantage of them in his work. Call it “Kansas Noir.” Stuart writes thrillers and mysteries usually tinged with humor, both for adult and young adult audiences.

Amazing Blurb-o-Rama!

When Wendell Worthy decides to blow off laundry for the day, he has no idea he'll soon be running across downtown Kansas City in his tighty-whities.

But a murderous, psychotic drug dealer has his brother and the ransom's a cup of chili that has to be delivered within two hours. The catch? There are rules in place: no rides, no money, no help. And Wendell has to do it in his underwear. Regardless of the rules, he knows he can’t go it alone.

The only person downtown who might help is Alicia. Too bad their one and only date ended in disaster. Wendell can run like the devil’s on his tail, and he’s gonna’ need to, because all sorts of hell’s about to break loose.

Chili Run: The perfect thriller for the reader on the go.

Where you, too, can add this book to your collection and proudly show it off on your coffee table!

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

*Amazon Chili Run page

*Stuart R. West's (totally inconsequential) blog: Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley

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