Predator or Prey

Earlier this week I went to my friend's book launch. As in any relatively small community, I know most of the readers who turn out to support local writers. When I walked into the meeting room, one friend pointed to my sweatshirt and laughed. I wore my favorite book shirt: Careful, or you'll end up in my novel. My friend asked if she could be in my novel. I told her I was writing a tongue-in-cheek novel about a female serial killer. I then asked if she wanted to be predator or prey. She said, "Let me think about it."

After the book talk, Q&A and book signing, my friend walked up and said, "Both. I want to be both predator and prey."

Now that was a new answer. Both, huh? I told her I'd think about it. And think about it I have. I can make my friend a killer who the main character eventually realizes has to die. Maybe the main character has a god complex. Maybe she's a vigilante. Maybe she's just evil. Time will tell.

I can tell you it was a challenge to find a plot twist where my friend can kill someone and then be killed herself. I woke up at four yesterday morning and realized just how to do it. Now, I have to write that chapter. I won't give anything away but it involves one little old lady, one bigger less-old lady and the main character. Maybe my friend will recognize her idea. Maybe not. I'll have fun writing the scene no matter what.

And Kay, you don't have to worry about me being dangerous. I'm not, but my main character is very, very dangerous. Thank you for a wonderful suggestion.

Book Review: The Taste by Alan Orloff

Okay, so cannibalism isn't for every reader. I get that. I wasn't sure I wanted to read Alan Orloff's The Taste, but once I got past the fourth page, I was hooked.

Jake Wheeler recently lost his mother. In order to connect with her family in West Virginia, he travels to the small town of Dark Springs. It doesn't take long for Jake to be told the family's secret: they eat dead people. At first, Jake is repulsed by the news until he learns his mother secretly fed him human flesh his entire life. Between inner-clan battles the likes of which most haven't seen since the Hatfields and the McCoys, Jake's pacifist family runs afoul of a renegade group which doesn't want to wait until people die to "harvest" the flesh. The group wants to hunt its supper.

Jake finds himself at the top of the mad leader's hit list. As he struggles for survival, he struggles against himself. He doesn't want to believe he's a cannibal, but he is.

Some reviewers liken The Taste to horror books by Peter Straub,Dean Koontz or Stephen King. I think it's much closer to Thomas Tryon's Harvest Home.

The Taste is available from Amazon in Kindle format only.

Incorrigible Thieves

Writers are incorrigible thieves. We steal every chance we get.

Let me explain what I don't mean. I don't mean that we plagiarize. Some do, but reputable writers don't do that. It's a writer's deadly sin. And it's illegal. And it's lazy.

One way writers become incorrigible thieves is that we gather what we call "material" wherever we are. What's material? It's something that sparks a creative thought we capture to use sometime in the future. It can be the way a man walks through a crowd. It can be a child puzzling over that keeps air in a balloon. It can be  half a sentence overheard in line at Starbucks or at the grocery. Material for a writer is everywhere. Sometimes we are receptive. Sometimes we are incredibly dense, but when we are in our receptive mode, watch out. Anything we see or hear is fair game.

Last week I nipped out to a local shop that sells decent coffee. I needed to get away from my desk for an hour. I needed to turn off my brain and let it rest. I needed to leave my keyboard behind.

Luckily for me, I had a small notebook in my purse, along with a pen. Conversations bubbling around the cafe were too interesting to ignore. So I shamelessly eavesdropped. I heard great phrases I will use with a minor character in Max 2 to give him more flesh. I saw a colorful combination on a tyke who had obviously dressed herself that day. I gave the mother credit for letting the little girl create her own look and wear it proudly in public.

I overheard half an argument. From the half I heard, the person on the other end of the cell phone wasn't in a kind mood. Many bad words used in creative ways. Hmm, I can use these. Into the notebook they went.

If you see me sitting quietly, real book in hand, notebook and pen at the ready, beware. I could easily be stealing your words, your look or just the way you smell. You'll never recognize yourself in a final work, but I will be forever grateful for your inspiration. Thank you.

The Sociopath Next Door: Book Review

Martha Stout's The Sociopath Next Door explains in common language why you think that creepy guy who lives next door may be a sociopath.

We use the terms sociopath and psychopath interchangeably, although Dr. Stout does point out an ongoing medical community discussion about one being the product of upbringing (sociopath) and the other being the product of heredity (nature). She doesn't dwell on the differences but asks the reader to use sociopath as the term for both. She is quick to point out that not all sociopaths are serial killers. In fact, her statistics of one in twenty-five Americans is a sociopath leads to that conclusion, since one in twenty-five Americans is not a serial killer.

She points out that many, if not most, sociopaths are "ice people," those who have no emotion. That is not to say these people do not display emotions, but they are not true. They are faked to make people feel sorry for them, trust them and want to help them. She cites behavior from a highly successful businessman who had no qualms about stealing from his friends and family, all in the guise of helping them. Think Bernard Madoff. Madoff wasn't upset that he'd run a Ponzi scheme that bilked his friends out of their life savings. He was upset about getting caught and losing everything.

Dr. Stout writes that sociopaths lack a conscience. No matter how they look like they care, they care about themselves and no one else. They will lie, cheat, steal, manipulate and, occasionally, murder those who get in their way. Some have extremely high IQs; others have normal intelligence. Some manipulate others to get something they want; others do so to control their subjects. By identifying characteristics of those who lack a conscience, Dr. Stout guides the reader in how to protect herself from these predators.

We probably all have met sociopaths in our lives. They don't "sit right" with us. They don't treat us as we want to be treated, but they can be so charming that we have difficulty breaking their hold on us. They aren't all sexual predators or child molesters, or other type of abhorrent criminal. We work for them. We live next door to them. If we learn who they are and why they behave as they do, we can keep them at length. Rhett Butler aside, the last thing any of us wants to do is get involved with someone who doesn't give a damn.

Worth a careful read if you want to know more about people whose behavior "creeps you out."

Moving Week

With a tip of the hat to Anne Lamott, more of my shitty first draft for a novel went into the cyber dust bin this week. Why? Because when I write the first draft, I put everything including the kitchen sink in. Redundancies. Contradictions. Redundancies. Characters whose names change mid-story. Junk that sounds perfect in the first draft.

This has been moving week for the draft. All the plot elements are there, just not in the right place. I've been moving chapters all over the place. Each move involves a rewrite of the relocated chapter. I foreclosed on some chapters by moving them into the parking lot, where stuff that no longer works lurks in case I can use it later. Oddly, the overall word count hasn't changed significantly, but the words themselves have.

I'm a multi-draft writer. Up to twenty or more sometimes. Some chapters get more attention than others during the dusting and cleaning phase. The polishing phase tweaks more words, cleans up ugly sentences. I try to remember the difference between lay and laid, even though Rod Stewart really screwed up our use with his "Lay, Lady, Lay." I remove commas that, don't belong. The rule I try to follow is when, in doubt leave it, out. I'm in love with semicolons and colons, just not always in fiction: because colons are most often used incorrectly.

I take out my sword and slash and burn empty words. There is, it is--past and present tense. I take out white spaces where two characters are speaking for a page or two. I fill that white space with actions, not dialogue tags. I have people do something while they are speaking. Oh, you don't think people do things while they are talking? Just go to a restaurant and watch. People wave their hands, look up at televisions, wipe their hands on napkins (or pants), etc. We all twitch. I try and capture the twitches and itches people have.

Later, once I'm convinced the foundation, the structure of the story, is right, I'll begin polishing. I'll added words that evoke the five senses. Well, six, because one of the characters has a form of ESP. I'm make sure the location is a character because it influences so much of the action. I'll make sure the themes of racism, forgiveness, understanding and slavery are interwoven throughout the plot.

And then I'll start over again with more editing until it's ready to go to my agent. Until then, you'll find me at my desk, keys on keyboard, thesauri and grammar texts at the ready.

Book Review: First Time Killer, by Alan Orloff

First Time Killer by Alan Orloff, writing as Zak Allen, takes a radio talk show host down a path to murder. A dark book, the story is set in a radio station and the characters on air and behind the scenes. When someone begins killing people who work at a station that is trying to land a huge satellite deal, people think this is all about ratings. With a nod at the great Network, First Time Killer stands alone with a sadistic killer who calls into the station to get on the air and tell his story.

The killer targets one of the talk show hosts as his mouthpiece, refusing to talk to any other on-air personality. As the murders mount up, everyone at the station lives in fear. When it becomes clear one of their own or one of their standard listeners is the killer, the book plunges the reader into a morass of suspicion and tension.

When the killer calls the show at the start of the book, he identifies himself as a long time listener, but a first time killer. That sets the stage for this noir mystery. This is a re-release in Kindle format. Well worth the time to follow the unraveling of a mystery.

In Jail, Again

Mocha here. Still a bit grumpy today. My mom and dad dumped me in "camp" again for a week while they went to play in a big, sandy cat box. I spent the week in jail.

Don't get me wrong. The girls at Smith Mountain Lake Animal Hospital treat me really nice, but they keep me in a cage. They give me scratches behind the ears, plenty to eat and an upper cage, because they know I like to be up high.

One of my favorite perches in my house is at the top of the stairs. I look through the bars down at the living room. I can also see outside from here. The front of the house is all glass, so I can watch the birds at the feeder. I complain, but I really like this perch. Besides, it's close to my dishes and my litter pan, too. All is goodness when I'm up here.

But, back to Mom and Dad. THEY LEFT ME FOR A VACATION. My cage is not camp. It is a cage. I listen to Mom when she's fussing over the right word for her story. Calling my cage "camp" is like calling Rush Limbaugh a wuss in touch with his feminine side. Jeez. Who do they think I am? I ain't stoopid. I listen. I learn. What I want to learn, that is.

So, yesterday they brought me home. I got even. I pushed the shed button and left piles of me all over the green carpet. Mom groomed me twice, but it wasn't enough. I was a Velcro kitty. I went everywhere they went. I lay on my mom's lap at night. I reclaimed every space of the house. It's my house. I pretended I was starved in jail and demanded more food. I rubbed up against any available leg, leaving blond hairs behind.

Must go. Time to pretend I'm starving. Maybe Mom will give me more food. If not, I'll press the shed button again. Meh.