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Adrik
waited in the guard’s room a couple of corridors along from Kornfeld’s
cell. There was only one way out, so the Jew had to pass this room. He
spun a Makarov on his finger, aimed at imaginary targets and thrilled at
the thought of using it. The gun was standard issue, but he would’ve
chosen it anyway. Totally reliable, pull the trigger and out pop the
bullets. The blowback design expels the spent case to the right and
loads the next cartridge into the chamber – easy. And fully armed with
eight rounds, he would use them all.
This
wouldn’t be his first killing and sure as hell wouldn’t be his last.
Kornfeld was a pain, and it was Otto who mattered. He would do anything
for him. Why should he care about some Jew who got in the way?
But
time dragged, and Kornfeld hadn’t yet made a show. For one horrible
minute he thought there might be another way out – but no, that isn’t
even possible. Calm down, be patient… Try as he might, he couldn’t, and
the idea ran around his head, irritating him beyond measure.
He
left the guardroom and paced the corridor outside. At first a short
distance and then a bit further into the next passageway. No good – he
had to find out what had happened. With gun in hand and footsteps
stealthy he reached the cell door – it was slightly open. Oh shit, did
that mean there was another way out? Or maybe Kornfeld had gone deeper
into the prison block. Or maybe he was in the cell hoping the element of
surprise would be with him.
Possibilities
ganged up. Kornfeld knew Lubyanka well. What if there was another way
out and that little bastard knew it? If so, Otto would kill him, never
mind the Jew. He kicked the door fully open, slammed it against the cell
wall, stood back and then moved in, pointing the gun around to make
sure Kornfeld wasn’t hidden on either side of the opening. The cell was
dimly lit and he found it difficult to see. He would stay put until his
eyes got accustomed to the light. A body, he saw a body. It was covered
with a greatcoat, on the bunk facing the wall.
He
was clearly supposed to think it was Kornfeld. In that case he’d be
under the bunk waiting… But then that’s obvious too, so he might be on
top with the guard pushed underneath. That made more sense – it would be
easier for him to make an attack from on top – but, shit, wouldn’t that
be what he wanted him to think?
To
be sure of the kill, Adrik wanted to shoot above and below – but he
couldn’t. How would he explain the soldier’s death? Oh, Otto, if only
Otto was there to tell him what to do. But he wasn’t, he had to make up
his own mind. The Jew was on top – yes, definitely on top.
Cautiously,
he edged forward, pointed the pistol to the back of the person’s head
and pulled the body towards him with gun steady and ready to fire. As
quickly as his huge form allowed, he pulled the greatcoat away.
Fuck!
The guard! No time to react. A leg came from under the bunk with
incredible speed and wrapped around the back of his. At the same time,
the Jew’s other foot came against his knees and pushed. Adrik had
brought his legs together when he tore the coat away and Kornfeld used
the imbalance to his advantage. Adrik’s arms went out. He hovered
awkwardly, then almost regained control, but Kornfeld pushed harder and
Adrik went flying backwards with his legs in the air. A sense of
suspension ended and he fell heavily, striking the hard stone floor. His
head bounced, shudders chased through his brain and he found himself
staring at the ceiling, wavering between conscious and unconscious.
The
pain pierced his skull and he noticed his head had rested in a pool of
warm liquid. He hadn’t seen that when he came in. Numbness consumed his
body; he couldn’t move. But then his blurred vision saw the bleary
outline of the Jew. Awareness came that his body was being rolled over.
He was paralyzed, but it didn’t stop the surge of fear that ran through
every fibre of his being.
Set
against the backdrop of Soviet, post-war Russia, Birth of an Assassin
follows the transformation of Jez Kornfeld from wide-eyed recruit to
avenging outlaw. Amidst a murky underworld of flesh-trafficking,
prostitution and institutionalized corruption, the elite Jewish soldier
is thrown into a world where nothing is what it seems, nobody can be
trusted, and everything can be violently torn from him.
Genre - Thriller, Crime, Suspense
Rating – R
I
have been steeped in the stories about my ancestors since my birth.
They may have even seeped into me through the walls of the womb. Anna’s Secret is
a story I’ve heard many times from various people. The latest version
was from my Uncle Harold. He said that one of our own people was
suspected of the crime of murdering Anne Beaton with a turnip hoe. It
was said that she was no better than she should be and was doing a
little marital wandering with someone in the community. For a long time
the smithy was suspected. He was in custody for a period but was
finally exonerated and left Prince Edward Island for good. Ultimately
the authorities decided that the crime was perpetrated by a woman and
was in fact, a crime of passion. This last was pronounced with great
relish. They never found the person responsible. It seems that Anne
had greatly riled a wronged wife, and probably several.
The
story caught my imagination and I began to wonder: what if she wasn’t
who they thought she was? What if the reason for her murder was entirely
different? What if the murderer was discovered? Who would it be? Her
husband? The wronged woman? The man she was said to be involved
with? There was a lot to play with here. In a technical sense, how
close to reality could I be without offending descendents? Not too
close, I decided. Anyway, it’s more fun to write what pops into my mind
and see how it plays out.
As
I wrote, the narrative opened like a flower as I examined the
individuals who I decided were involved. Who were they? What
relationship did they hold to Anna and to her family and to each other?
How did Old Annie figure into it? After all she was a daft old woman
who had to be transported to gatherings in a wheelbarrow because she
couldn’t be left alone. Most of the time she didn’t know anyone and
lived in her mind very far in the past with people she knew in her
youth. What did she have to do with Anna’s murder? After all, she and
Anna had been life-long friends.
And
what did it do to the community? Their sense of safety was shattered
and people took to locking their doors, some even in the daytime. This
was in a community that never locked its doors even in my grandmother’s
time. I remember this from my childhood. The only time the door was
locked was if they were going to be away for an extended period because,
what if someone needed something and they weren’t home to give it to
them? I remember my own mother telling me a story about an old man who
peddled goods and trinkets door-to-door. He was a little simple as they
say here. They woke up one morning and discovered him asleep on the
lounge with a blazing fire in the stove. After the murder, people were
afraid to walk out alone at night.
As
the story progressed it took awhile for me to realize who the real
perpetrator was and the denouement was almost as much a surprise to me
as it will be to you.
Anna
Gillis, the midwife and neighbour in Mattie’s Story, has been found
killed. The close-knit community is deeply shaken by this eruption of
violence, and neighbours come together to help one another and to
discover the perpetrator. But the answer lies Anna’s secret, long
guarded by Old Annie, the last of the original Selkirk Settlers, and the
protagonist of An Irregular Marriage. Join the community! Read Anna’s
Secret and other novels by Margaret A. Westlie.
Genre – Fiction, mystery, historical
Rating – G
Why Blogging is Important
I
don’t know if blogging works or not. I have been told it takes five
years to build a viable book selling business. I’m in year one. I’m
taking on faith that some of these things are going to pay off someday.
For
me, blogging is important because it builds your reader base. I started
out with blogs about my adventures sailing down the coast to Mexico. I
got about two hundred hits per post and was pretty happy. Then I hit the
jack pot.
I live with my girlfriend and her Great Dane on my
56-foot sailboat. People always ask “How do you live on a boat with such
a big dog?” I decided to write a blog post about living with a Great
Dane.
One post became three. Then Odin, the Great Dane in
question, took exception to what I was writing about him and wanted to
set the record straight. He wrote about three blogs, to which I had to
respond.
During this blog debate, readers started flocking to my
blog. Dawn, my significant other, posted the blogs to her Great Dane
Facebook groups, I posted to my sailing/cruising groups and people just
appeared from nowhere. Suddenly, thousands of people were reading my
blogs.
Has it done any good? Not a lot. My book sales are still
pretty low, but I get email from readers saying things like “I really
liked your blog, so I decided to buy your book.” Now I just need to get
more people to follow suit.
If Clive Cussler had written Ugly Betty, it would be Hacker for Hire.
Hacker for Hire, a suspense novel
about corporate greed and industrial espionage, is the second book in a
series about Latino computer security analyst Ted Higuera and his best
friend, para-legal Chris Hardwick.
The goofy, off-beat Ted Higuera, son
of Mexican immigrants, grew up in East LA. An unlikely football
scholarship brought him to Seattle.
Chris, Ted’s college roommate, grew
up with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father is the head of one of
Seattle’s most prestigious law firms.
Ted’s first job out of college leads
him into the world of organized crime where he faces a brutal beating.
After being rescued by beautiful private investigator Catrina Flaherty,
Ted decides to go to work for her.
Catrina is hired by a large computer
corporation to find a leak in their corporate boardroom when the
previous consultant is found floating in Elliot Bay.
Ted discovers that Chris’s firm has
been retained by their prime suspect. Now he and Chris are working
opposite sides of the same case.
Ted and Catrina are led deep into
Seattle’s Hi-Tech world as they stalk the killer. But the killer is also
hunting them. Can Ted find the killer before the killer finds him?
Genre – Mystery, Thriller
Rating – R
Connect with Pendelton Wallace on Facebook
If
you’ve read my author bio somewhere on the Web, you know that I live on
a mountain ranch in Colorado and have a rather spirited Golden
Retriever named Shelby. She follows me everywhere and wouldn’t give me a
moment of solitude if I didn’t periodically assert my rights to be an
independent being and do things like going to bathroom by myself. But I
also have a wife who enjoys kanoodling with me from time to time, and it
isn’t very romantic if a Golden Retriever is simultaneously licking
your face. Fortunately, the young lady has her own, comfy bed on the
floor. That would be the dog, by the way, not my wife.
As
a writer, I clearly spend a lot of time at my desk, and Shelby is
always nearby. She spends most of her time in the media room adjacent to
my study staring out the French doors, monitoring our property for the
multitudes of deer who frequently chow down on our landscaping. If I
hear Shelby whining or barking in there, I know exactly what’s going on,
and I’ll jump from my desk to let her out so she can chase them away.
When she returns, she usually opens the door to let herself in and trots
into the study looking like she had just saved the world from a nuclear
holocaust.
You
would think, since pushing down the door lever is a piece of cake for
her, she’d also let herself OUT, but she doesn’t quite have the knack of
pulling the door open yet. It’s so much easier to push from the
outside. Then I have to get up and close the door again.
But
Shelby’s favorite little caper is to come into the study periodically
throughout the day and stare at me with a very clear message in her
eyes: “Dad, I don’t know what you’re doing in here, but it’s quite
boring, and I need you to stop it. Let’s go outside and do something far
more entertaining like barking at things that don’t exist.”
These
visits happen more frequently as the day goes on since we’re getting
closer and closer to “quitting time” (or at least dinner time if I plan
to return to work afterwards). Usually, after I spin around in my chair
and see her staring me down, I’ll call her over and spend a couple of
minutes giving her vigorous petties. That will pacify her for some
indefinite period of time, after which she comes back for an encore
performance, clearly hoping I’ll listen to reason this time.
I’m
not saying we don’t take occasional breaks during the day to play, take
a hike, exercise, or go for a ride in the car. We do all that. But I
still adhere to a regimented work day, which means no less than 8 hours
(and often 10 or more) at my desk, and that’s a lot of sedentary time
for a dog to endure. Sometimes she’ll goof around outside without me for
a while, especially if chipmunks or other nefarious creatures are in
need of chasing around. But in no time she’s back at the study, and I
need to get up and close the door, hopefully before those dastardly
chipmunks scurry inside.
Oh,
if you’re wondering why I harbor such contempt for chipmunks, just
check out my author blog at GoodReads.com and read about our
cutting-edge chipmunk relocation program. Then you’ll understand.
So
it’s safe to say that Shelby has no understanding of why I fiddle with a
four-screen computer workstation all day (I trade stocks, too), and I’m
sure she thinks we’d both be better off if I did something else for a
living. But my former career was in structured finance, which often
entailed 60 to 80-hour work weeks with barely enough time outside the
office to eat and sleep. If I went back THAT life, she would hardly ever
get to see me, and I doubt that’s what she has in mind.
Sometimes puppy dogs just don’t think things through.
"James Bond Meets Fifty Shades of Grey"
Immerse yourself in the world class novels that combine action,
mystery & suspense with tantalizing and tastefully written erotica.
You’ll find all your sensibilities roused at once with Kevin Sterling’s
ultra-sexy, action-packed Jack Lazar Series.
In
this fourth action-packed thriller, Jack travels to Denmark for a
business venture, but what seems to be a textbook transaction turns into
a nightmare after he gets involved with Katarina, a vivacious Danish
girl who apparently lacks a moral compass, not to mention an off button.
After naively believing their liaison was just a random encounter, Jack
discovers she’s connected to his business deal, and there’s a dangerous
political group with skin in the game, too.
Katarina makes a convincing case of being a victim, not part of the conspiracy, but can Jack really trust her?
The
firestorm gets out of control as Jack digs deeper, unearths the
convoluted plot behind it all, and discovers that innocent people are
being heartlessly killed. He’s not only horrified by the reason why it’s
happening, but how it’s being done, and there appears to be no way to
stop it from occurring again.
Then
the scheme’s real objective emerges, launching Jack into action with
intelligence operatives to prevent it. But that’s not so easy with
assassins on Jack’s tail, forcing him to struggle for survival while
trying to prevent Katarina from getting caught in the crossfire.
Genre – Action, Mystery, Suspense
Rating – R
My mind is like my office, cluttered with creativity. On one wall are two sets of book shelves sweeping the ceiling. A few of the shelves are filled with papers scribbled with writing for various books that will one day be written. There is one shelf reserved for notebooks where each notebook contains notes or writing for a particular book. I have piles of notes on the table next to me. These piles are for my current book I’m working on and for my next book.
I believe the mind has more than one subconscious. My theory is that the brain has a layer of them and I have a subconscious for each book I plan to write or have partially written. For me, writer’s block doesn’t exist. If I get stuck, I simply forget about it, knowing that the next morning, the writing will be there. My subconscious has written it while I was sleeping.
There are two times my mind likes to write. One, of course, is when I’m sitting in front of the computer deliberately writing but never forcing the words. The second time is, sometimes, when I’m relaxed. I’ll be at my Zumba class exercising and suddenly my subconscious will start writing. Dialogue or narration comes spilling out. Sentences, paragraphs, or plot will disappear if not put on paper as soon as possible. My mind only comes up with it once and then moves onto another part of the book.
When I go out to eat, I often have to write on napkins because my mind decides to become creative in the middle of a chicken salad sandwich.
I have piles of scribbling. I try to get organized and write in a notebook. I’ve got two notebooks laying around with writing for my current book. I have ten notebooks dedicated to future books with scribbling that came out as fully-written prose.
When I begin a new book, I go through the scribbling to find what’s already been written. Sometimes it’s dialogue or prose, or plot, or character development, or a sketchy outline of the story. Often it’s the ending of the book or the beginning.
My brain, also, likes to write when I’m driving. I’ve had to pull into parking lots to scribble on pads of paper. This doesn’t happen often any more since I no longer have to commute to a job but write full time. I once tried a tape recorder, but a different part of the brain does speech. As soon as I open my mouth, the writing vanishes from my subconscious, and I can’t remember a word or what it was even about. But if I write with my subconscious, the words flow.
When I’m trying to go to sleep, my mind will start writing occasionally. I have to keep getting up and scribbling on the notebook I keep on my nightstand. I sometimes finally tell my brain to shut up so I can sleep.
If I’m beginning a new book, my brain will go nuts and the words and voices spill out like a fountain.
The last thing Miranda ever expected was to see her brother’s ghost at the fallen Twin Towers.
It’s bad enough survivor Christopher Michaels scares her with claims that if one dies violently, his ghost will haunt the place that holds his name. And to top it all, one of those thousands of ghosts follows Miranda to her hotel. The only certainty is the ghost grabbing her under the covers is not Jake.
Their parents’ deaths separated Miranda from Jake when they were kids. Michaels insists Jake brought them together and it’s no coincidence that of thousands mourning at Ground Zero, it’s his best friend she bumps into. Some best friend. Michaels is more like a moocher. The cheapskate never has money, just a blood-stained wallet he broods over. Miranda has no choice but to hang out with the weird Michaels in order to unravel her brother’s past.
As Miranda spends time with Michaels, she begins to wonder who he really is. Against her better judgment, Miranda becomes emotionally entangled with Michaels, a bitter alcoholic with a secret linked to her brother and that blood-stained wallet.
I Will Always Love You is part mystery, suspense and romance, a novel that will keep the reader turning the pages!
Genre – Suspense, Mystery, Romance
Rating – PG
That night Harkin, Etch and I meet up at a military bar in Littleton called GI Jodie’s. It’s small, crowded, and bristling with sad, angry, hungry men like us. Ceiling caked in nicotine, head-shaped holes in the walls. On the way in we do the preliminary sweep, the three of us fanning into the room like wolves, eyes hunting, reading: non-combative, non-combative, drunk, aggressive, non-com, non-com. When we’re fairly certain that everyone is going to behave, and that everyone who isn’t, isn’t sober enough to be a serious problem, we snag a booth in the back corner. The waitress saunters over, the staccato crack of her gum popping like attraction dying on her bug-zapper face. Etch smiles politely, says, “Pitcher of Coors, please.”
She says, “Whatever.”
Harkin shouts: “Marry me!” as she’s walking away, and if she hears him, she doesn’t show it.
People noises hum through the bar, college basketball on the TV drowning in the country music piping through the speakers. For a few minutes, we sit in that comfortable silence that only people who really know each other can pull off. The Bug Zapper floats back over to the table, slaps the pitcher down in between us, three glasses, and floats away before anybody can, God have mercy on them, ask her for something else. No one can blame her for being hostile. Jodie’s works like this:
Active duty servicemen from Fort Carson and ex-military shitheads like the three of us come here to drink, which makes the place inherently dangerous. There’s been at least one fight every time I’ve walked into the place, and the bouncers generally just let whoever’s fighting work it out, and sweep up the mess when it’s over. Keep in mind that I refer to fights in terms of quantity and not quality. Military training does not make you a good fighter. I once had a Combatives instructor who told us that Military Basic hand-to-hand combat training teaches recruits just enough to get their asses kicked in a bar. What military training does give you, however, is a nasty temper, and a willingness to use violence, suddenly and efficiently, whether or not the occasion calls for it.
We work on our pitcher while the bar dissolves around us. Watch a navy derp get knocked O.U.T. by an Infantry derp. Watch both of them get tossed out by the general public around them. Etch is working on a new lead. Denver Metro’s 50 Most Wanted Sex Offenders was updated yesterday, and one of the asshats popped up on Myspace. He passes Harkin and me a napkin with the guy’s name (Joe Orenthal) and the URL for his Myspace page. Harkin’s gonna pick up the slack on the guy’s record; I agree to put together some leads on his whereabouts, and maybe stake him out for a few days. We pocket our intel napkins, order another pitcher. Over the bar noise I hear “Low Rider” by War, sharp and tinny, and Etch scrambles for his phone, wiggles it out halfway into the chorus and moves away from the table with his finger in his ear.
I ask Harkin how the Stacy situation is going. He says, “Nope.” He’s looking at the table.
I say, “Huh?”
“I’m fucking done.”
“What does that mean, though?”
“I’m breaking up with her.”
“Oh.” This is where you ask why. I don’t ask why. I know why. Because they’re both nuttier than squirrel shit, and fighting fire with fire only works on paper, and not with actual fire. Harkin is a retired Army Ranger, who, when asked why he joined the army will reply, “To shoot people in the face,” and when asked what he misses about the army will look at you like you’re stupid, because the answer is clearly: shooting people in the face. Stacy is… Well, Stacy is dating Harkin. I’m sure she has other reasons for being insane, but I don’t know them and, bottom line, it doesn’t matter. The two of them do nothing but scream at each other until the neighbors call the police and have make-up sex until the neighbors call the police again.
Harkin says, “I’m just sick of all the bullshit. I’m gonna dump her ass tonight. I already changed the combination on the gun safe.”
“Good thinking, man.” As Etch finds his way back over to the table, I add, “Hide the silverware, too.”
Etch is glowing, which isn’t an easy thing for a burly Mexican guy to do. Etch is on the other side of the spectrum as far as relationships go.
“That Jen?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He can’t seem to stop smiling, and Harkin looks like he’s trying to set the surface of the table on fire with his brain.
“How’s the hospital? She gonna have room in the ER for Harkin?”
“Fuck you, Parks,” Harkin spits over his mug.
“The question is: has she ever sewed a penis back on after pumping it out of a stomach?”
Jen was a dispatcher when Etch was a volunteer firefighter, before he joined up with the navy as a combat medic. They’ve been dating for about six years now and, unlike Harkin and Stacy, the two of them are happy with one another 90 percent of the time.
Etch asks Harkin what’s going on with Stacy and gets waved off.
“Don’t worry about it. Same old shit,” Harkin grumbles. Asks, “What are you so happy about?”
“I’m not totally decided yet, but—”
Suddenly, there’s a Jarhead at our table. He’s swaying slightly, and his eyes are glazed and he wants to know if Etch is looking at his girl. Before anyone can respond, Harkin has stood, turned, and head-butted the fucker O.U.T.
The bar keeps moving. Harkin rolls the Jarhead onto his side, and we settle up the check.
Sebastian Parks is drowning in a flood of his own creation. Dishonorably discharged from the Army, he’s wracked with night terrors and an anger that he can’t abate. Unemployable and uninterested in anything resembling a normal job, Parks makes his living in fugitive apprehension, finding wanted felons on Facebook and thumping them into custody with his ex-military buddies John Harkin and Eric “Etch” Echevarria. When the body of a teenage Muslim boy is found in front of a downtown Denver nightclub Parks, Harkin and Etch are called on to do what they do best: Find bad men and make them pay.
First-time author Kellen Burden serves up edgy humor, brutal action and characters you can’t get enough of. Flash Bang will keep you turning pages until the end.
Received “Honorable Mention at Los Angeles Book Festival 2014″
Genre – Thriller, Mystery
Rating – R
Suddenly, a loud voice bellowed upstairs. “Bastard!”
Charles raced up to the third floor and found Arthur Hurst sitting at a desk, rummaging through drawers. He clutched a piece of paper in one hand, shaking with rage as he looked up at Charles.
“Businessman, hah! This man, Black is a British agent! Here’s the proof of his duplicity. Where is he? It’s time to put an end to the vermin.”
Charles gasped in shock. The entire charade was unraveling! He tentatively leaned toward the desk and reached for the note. “What do you mean? What evidence?”
Hurst glanced down at one of the drawers. He reached inside and picked up a ledger. “Wait a moment. There’s something else.”
Charles’ eyes darted toward the window, knowing Black lay outside, unconscious and defenseless. Quelling an urge to run, he pretended to be curious and slowly edged around behind the man, as if to look over his shoulder. What could he do? Desperately his gaze searched for an answer until he spied a letter opener. In one motion, he grabbed the dagger and plunged it into Arthur’s back. The rotund body jerked upwards, dropping the notebook. He tried to turn around, but instead, slumped forward onto the desk.
For a moment, Charles stood shaking in disbelief at what he had just done to his sister’s husband.
William Darmon and wife Elizabeth were powerful figures who in 1818 set society’s pace from expansive grounds known as Mayfair Hall. When a family member is murdered, a mysterious pendant is found containing a long lost request by Napoleon Bonaparte for an American mission to burn down Parliament buildings. The couple sets out on an action filled pursuit of the killer. While interviewing Henry Clay in post-war Maryland about the failed mission, they uncover evidence of a conspiracy to free the Emperor from exile. The Darmons infiltrate the cadre, but a shipwreck off the coast of Scotland, a firestorm at the Darmon’s Manor and a harrowing assault on the Island of St. Helena loom before the mystery can be unraveled.
Genre – Mystery, Historical, Thriller
Rating – PG
The unknown figure’s back was to them as he connected the wires to the detonator. Will shoved Tom.
Only minutes remained.
They located the last connection point where the blasting caps were wired to two sticks of dynamite. The wires to the plunger snaked up the hill. The connecting strands were twisted, tightly, as with pliers. Tom snatched a rock, but Will grabbed his hand and pointed up the hill. Tom understood. The man would hear the pounding. They each took a twisted connection and tried to pry it apart with their fingers. They would need to break only one.
The wires resisted. Tom gritted his teeth, then remembered his pocket knife. He pulled it out, flipped the blade open, and wedged the tip between two strands. He twisted and the blade snapped. The sound startled the man. He whirled around and stared directly at the boys. Tom forced the broken blade into the gap in the wires. Will put his finger on top of one and pulled as Tom twisted. Blood ran down Will’s hand as the metal bit into his finger. They strained, and watched the man. His eyes darted in all directions. Then he made his decision. He pulled the plunger up, hesitated a moment, and slammed it down.
Genre - YA/Mystery
Rating – PG – 13
My One Paranormal Experience:
On my last visit to France, I made a return pilgrimage to Auvers-sur-Oise, a town a little to the north of Paris where Van Gogh spent the last three months of his life, and where he completed seventy-seven paintings.
With all his conflicts and suffering, his productivity was amazing.
With me on this second visit was Sandra, my dear friend from Eugene, Oregon. For her it was not only the first trip to Auvers-sur-Oise, but to France. She wanted to spend most of her getting to know Paris, but I said we should see a small town as well. She loves Van Gogh, and the town is close, though the trains are finicky.
It's a charming town, with reproductions of Vincent's art set about the sites he painted in the town and on the pathways leading to the wheat fields and the cemetery, and a museum in the Auberge Ravoux, the inn where he lived and died.
It was raining lightly in the morning and early afternoon, grey, wet, and cloudy, but not very cold.
The greyness and rain proved an advantage for our venture into the tiny Vincent Van Gogh museum. There were no crowds of tourists this time, the building was all but empty! Most of the ground floor is taken up by the restaurant. There is a small gift shop on the premier étage (our 2nd floor), where you may buy tickets and memorabilia. The woman in charge explains that the room is mostly empty, but is very "emotional." And so you climb the stairs to the little attic room.
The first time I was there, I expected to be moved to be in the room where Van Gogh had lived and died, but not with the weight and intensity I experienced as I climbed the stairs and entered the room. I was overwhelmed with grief. At first, I told myself that I was probably projecting my natural sadness at such an amazing life cut short with no recognition. But, in reflection, it felt like something that entered me rather than the familiar sensation of sadness welling from within.
I was curious if I would feel a similar sensation again. For all my fascination with the occult, I don't think I am particularly sensitive compared to many of my friends. But I felt the same sensation as I began climbing the staircase, even more intensely, for I was very aware of it as apart from me, a weight descending on me and filling me with devastating sorrow. The few other people in the room did not seem to feel it—except for Sandra. We looked at each other and it was all we could do not to burst into tears. The feeling went as soon as we left. There was only the lingering amazement at having felt so distraught, and the memories it stirred of Vincent's difficult life. We felt our own sadness that his life ended so unhappily, but not this other weight of emotion.
After his death, the room was never rented again, supposedly because the rooms of suicides are considered bad luck. But I wonder if other people did not feel that resident grief, and find it impossible to stay there. I believe what we experienced is known in the paranormal world as an imprint. I did not feel the presence of a person—a ghost—but of a despair that had penetrated that tiny room. There is controversy now whether Van Gogh committed suicide, or was the victim of an accidental shooting. There appears to be evidence both ways.
Down the hall is a larger room where we watched the movie they have about Auvers-sur-Oise and Vincent's time there, with images of the art he painted, since the little town can't afford to own one now. We went down to the restaurant to have lunch.
One of the saddest moments I felt at the Auberge Ravoux was not Vincent's room with its lingering imprint, but a quote in the restaurant of Van Gogh saying that perhaps, one day, he might have a show in a little cafe like this. That quote brought the far more familiar sense of sadness welling from within. Though there were these moments touched with unhappiness, the visit to the town and the inn were overall positive and happy. After our pleasant lunch, we wandered through Auvers-Sur-Oise where Vincent did so many wonderful paintings. In the pattering rain, we went on up past the church along the road to the cemetery. Beside the road you see the wheat fields he painted.
Vincent is buried with his brother Theo beside him. Two simple white gravestones with lots of ivy growing over them. Sad, but in a peaceful way.
When we left the cemetery to walk back to the town, the rain had departed, the sky was bright blue, filled with fluffy clouds, and the sun was shining bringing out all the colors of the leaves and flowers. We caught the last train back to Paris, after our sweet and sad day in Auvers-sur-Oise, the memory imprinted in our hearts.
Young American painter Theodora Faraday struggles to become an artist in Belle Époque Paris. She’s tasted the champagne of success, illustrating poems for the Revenants, a group of poets led by her adored cousin, Averill. When children she knows vanish mysteriously, Theo confronts Inspecteur Michel Devaux who suspects the Revenants are involved. Theo refuses to believe the killer could be a friend—could be the man she loves.
Classic detection and occult revelation lead Michel and Theo through the dark underbelly of Paris, from catacombs to asylums, to the obscene ritual of a Black Mass. Following the maze of clues they discover the murderer believes he is the reincarnation of the most evil serial killer in the history of France—Gilles de Rais.
Once Joan of Arc’s lieutenant, after her death he plunged into an orgy of evil. The Church burned him at the stake for heresy, sorcery, and the depraved murder of hundreds of peasant children. Whether deranged mind or demonic passion incite him, the killer must be found before he strikes again.
Genre – Historical Mystery
Rating – R
Writer’s block is something every writer experiences, especially those who create fiction. It’s like hitting a roadblock in the middle of a story with no clue as to which way it should go, the frustration building and building as we rattle our brain for the answers. And if there’s an impending deadline involved, we feel like throwing in the towel, shamefully admitting our failure to responsibly meet the reasonable due dates we were given.
The mistake most of us make is relentlessly pushing ourselves to keep going, which just makes the situation worse. What we need to do is step back, realign our thinking, and move forward anew.
How does one do that? Here are a few suggestions.
- Breathing. I’m not just talking about taking a few deep breaths, although that never hurts. I’m suggesting we follow the advice of Andrew Weil, MD, who tells us that we transform our mind and body into optimum functionality when our breathing is deeper, slower, quieter, and more regular. The goal is to make this a lifelong practice and transform our breathing whenever it crosses our mind, like when we’re driving, standing in line, watching TV, waiting for an appointment, etc. The idea is, if we do it often enough, our bodies will eventually start functioning that way automatically. But to get us past this CURRENT mind fog, we need to treat it more like meditation. So we close our eyes, focus entirely on our breath, and slowly count to five with each deep breath in and out, keeping the pace regular and soft. If our thoughts get distracted from our breath, we gently bring them back. Do this for 10 to 15 minutes straight, and you’ll be in a completely different frame of mind.
- Questions and Answers. The nature of writer’s block is a disconnection from our story and characters, right? So let’s open up the lines of communication and get it back by whipping out a legal pad and hand-writing questions and answers about what’s stumping us (no computers for this exercise). If it’s a plot issue, write something about “how could this incident have happened despite these conditions?” If you’re having trouble with a character, start a conversation. Ask them why they’re so mad, or can’t figure out what to do, or don’t want to follow your storyline. I find that my characters bloom into their own, real personalities, and sometimes they have to do what’s right for them, whether I like it or not. So it’s important for me to take steps to understand them better, and sometimes I have to adjust my story accordingly.
- Images. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a half dozen should easily get us through a chapter or two, wouldn’t you think? Before I start each book, I find a picture of someone who personifies each main character, and sometimes it really helps to pull them up on one of my screens and stare at or talk to them when I’m looking for answers. The same is true for settings. If a scene is going on in Paris, and I don’t know where it’s headed, I’ll pull up some images of Paris and see what they inspire. If you need more stimulation, try a little video that resembles where you are in your book. For example, if I’m having trouble writing a car chase, I might put on that scene in “The Rock” where Sean Connery steals the German guy’s Humvee, and Nicolas Cage chases him all over San Francisco in a Ferrari. If that doesn’t get me going, I don’t know what will.
- Theme Music. Do you know why Hollywood pays so much money to composers to score the perfect background music for a motion picture? Because it evokes emotion and immerses us in the moment. So, if we hop onto iTunes and buy the soundtrack for a movie that has similarities to our book, it simply has to get us in the right mood. Let’s use the example of “The Rock” again. Since I write action/mystery/suspense novels, that soundtrack can really get me going.
- Distraction. Everyone knows it’s occasionally necessary to take our mind off the subject at hand to get more clarity. But I think mindless activities don’t help because a portion of our brain is still actively trying to solve the problem. I suggest truly engaging our consciousness elsewhere, thereby blocking our thoughts from the issue so we can come back fresh. For me, this is a good time to work on other book-related activities like marketing, blogging, cover designs and book trailer concepts. It all has to be done, so we can’t possibly feel like we’re spinning our wheels.
Not everything works for everyone, nor does anything work all the time. But I encourage you to try a few of these recommendations when writer’s block leaves you stranded and let me know how they work for you.
Happy writing!
The Jack Lazar Series has it all from mystery and suspense to action, humor and romance
Jack heads to Egypt to investigate a crash-landed World War II fighter plane that was recently discovered in the middle of the Sahara. But something remarkable was left onboard, and people will stop at nothing to possess it.
An Egyptian Girl with Blue Eyes? Just Stunning.
But Jack soon finds himself in the middle of a hornet's nest as he becomes enthralled with Dalia, an exquisite woman of Egyptian and English descent whose father is the Egyptian Head Consul to the UK, not to mention a formidable ex-agent with the Mukhabarat. The man's skills and weapons come in handy as he and Jack join forces to battle a faction that has plans to kill millions of innocent people and subject the world to their twisted ideologies.
A Race Against Time
The trail leads to Northern Europe as all hell breaks loose. And before long, it's up to Jack and Jack alone to cheat death as he struggles to save Dalia, her father, and scores of unsuspecting people from the plot of a deranged madman.
Genre – Action, Mystery, Suspense
Rating – R
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