Reggae Saved Me During the Pandemic of 2020 by Juliana Aragón Fatula

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Dear Reader,
Twenty twenty-one, the pandemic year, I turned 64 and officially became a viejita. A little old woman. But not la abuelita, not a grandmother. No that didn’t happen. I’ve been waiting for decades, but my one and only son had decided that he hasn’t found the one to settle down and raise a family. Not yet. I have hope. I’ll take the blessing of having a son and remember the choice I made to only have one child. My man child is now late forties and it will take a miracle, but I believe in miracles and magic. 
Music has always been playing like a soundtrack to my life. Like a comedy/tragedy, my life spills out in a blur that has included alcoholism, drug addiction, jail, recovery, abuse, survival, mistakes, success, love, happiness, depression, fear, spirituality, anger, bravery, melancholy, absurdity, loathing, jubilation, wit, and wisdom. Mine has been an abundant and holy moly journey down the what a long strange trip it’s been. 
The music of the fifties filled my ears and I danced with my older siblings to Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Elvis, and Fats Domino. 
The sixties brought the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, the Motown Funk, and the blues of Roy Orbison. 
During the seventies, I smoke, rolled, burned, and puff puff passed the doobies to the Doobie Brothers, the Allman Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, never could spell their name right. And of course, there was the Cosmic Blues Band and Janis, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Jackson Browne, Linda Rondstadt, Neil Young, The Eagles, and Joni Mitchell.
The eighties were for disco and punk music and the nineties were everything from rap to reggae to country to opera to tex-mex to Bollywood.
The twenties and the twenty-first century gave me a combination of blues and rockabilly. But in 2020, I dropped to my knees and asked the gods for deliverance and the answer came in Rastafarian Rap Reggaeton.
I danced away my Covid 19 blues and sang along with the Marley Boys. Collie Buddz gave me the inspiration to finish two manuscripts: One poetry book, Gathering Momentum and one murder mystery love story, The Colorado Sisters. I wore my Bluetooth headset religiously and danced under the clothesline, the grape arbor, the sunshine, the moonlight, and the rain. I sang and danced and grew giddy about life again. The music and the writing healed me like they always do. 
My friends worry I spend too much time isolated and not enough time Zooming and socializing on the websites, but I love being alone and listening to my music and writing my stories. It makes me incredibly devoid of anger towards covid idiots and non-believers in science and lets me trip around in unreality instead of the world we live in for real. The real world. 
So if you stop by and visit me, get my attention because my headset takes me to another world and I can’t hear a thing, not dogs barking, sirens blaring, kids crying, husbands yelling…
If you stop by, smell the roses and the tea simmering on the stove and sing along with me to the oldies as we grow old and tip toe through the tulips, or poppies.

WANTED: 3 BR, 2 BATHS, LOTS OF STORY INSPIRATION

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By Shari Randall 

 

When she beta-read my last book, a friend told me that I seemed more interested in describing houses and settings than I was in describing people. At first I was taken aback, but after reflection, I saw her point.

 

I adore all those tv shows about houses – buying houses, selling houses, decorating houses, rehabbing houses, even haunted houses. With my husband’s military career, we’ve bought and sold plenty of houses. I love a good house tour or decorator showcase. Even dollhouses fascinate me. When I was a little girl, my favorite toy was my Barbie Dream House. Although my kids flew the nest years ago, I still have custody of their dollhouses and, sorry kids, I don’t think you’re getting them back.

 

Why do houses intrigue me so? Perhaps a psychologist could explain. Maybe the dollhouse my dad built for me and my sisters, a replica of our own red Cape Cod home, set me on this path.

 

Perhaps homes reflect the people in them and the writer in me has stumbled upon a different form of characterization? What can I say, houses inspire me.

 

With COVID, I haven’t been able to travel to scout potential story locations and buildings as much as I’d like. Lucky for me that my corner of Connecticut is full of intriguing places, places that fire my imagination and will make great settings for my books.

 

One of my characters likes to “collect castles” and so do I. Gillette’s Castle, set on a hill called the Seventh Sister overlooking the Connecticut River, is one of my favorite places to visit. Designed by William Gillette, an actor famous for his portrayal of Sherlock Holmes, the castle’s décor, construction, and grounds reflect the eccentric brilliance of its owner. This place inspired another pocket-sized castle in the second, as-yet-untitled book in my Ice Cream Shop Mystery series.

 

Here’s a charmer that is slated to be the childhood home of the main character in Ice Cream Shop Mystery #1, The Rocky Road to Ruin. 

 

This mini-castle is tucked into a neighborhood a block from the ocean. Not your typical beach house, is it? I can only imagine the character who built this place. I feel a story coming on!

 

Writers: People or places – which do you find easier to describe? Readers: Are you as crazy about real estate as I am?

Shari Randall is the author of the Lobster Shack Mystery series from St. Martin’s Press. The first in series, CURSES, BOILED AGAIN, won an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. The first in her new Ice Cream Shop Mystery series (written as Meri Allen), THE ROCKY ROAD TO RUIN, will be published on July 27, 2021.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sixty-Four by Juliana Aragon Fatula

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Sixty-four years ago, my mother was snowed-in, nine months pregnant with me, and was surrounded by family. My cousins shoveled the driveway for my mom twice and drove her to the hospital or I would have been born at home like my ancestors. 

My father worked in Colorado Springs for the Federal Government at Fort Carson as a civilian employee. He carpooled with several men and women from our home town. In 1957 on April 2, my journey began and what a long, strange trip it’s been. My father convinced the State Patrol who were turning traffic around to let his vehicle pass the roadblock on Highway 115. He told the trooper his wife was having their first baby. He had three children from his ex-wife, and my mom had three children from her ex-husband. I was my parents first child together. I’ve always been loved.

Today I’m a mother and wife. My son is 48. My husband is 59 and we’ve been married almost thirty years. Yes, it’s been a long strange trip. I had my son when I was fifteen. I married my husband when I was 34 and he was 31. I’m content to stay home and write and read and study and garden and bake and create herbal remedies. 

In the seventies, I wore the label of hippy. Today in twenty-twenty-one, I’m a hippy again being myself and loving life. Just happy to be alive. But I have struggled all of my life with severe depression, so I’m mentally ill, not insane, well a little insane, not dangerous to others or myself, but I get the blues real bad and the only thing that helps me, beside anti-depressants: music therapy. Oh, and puppy therapy, of course. My puppies and kittens keep me feeling loved unconditionally. Even though my parents have been gone for many years, I still feel their presence in my life. My dad lived to be 76. My mom 86. 

This year is the last year I can say I’m in my early sixties. Next year I’ll qualify for Medicare and Social Security and will be officially a vieja. A viejita. Although I don’t have any grandchildren, I do have nieces and nephews with children, so I’m technically  what is known as a tia abuela, or tia abuelita. Juliana la tia abuelita. I like that label, it fits me. 

I wear my hair in waist length braids wrapped in otter furs and leather. Often I wear a beaded headband and silver, copper and turquoise jewelry, I wear moccasins because I like them, always have. I make my own shampoo, conditioner, hair rinse, salve for my arthritis, and medical edibles. I admit it, I love the ganja. I’ve been documenting my journey as an herbalist and a cannabis farmer and it’s legal now. 

My father would call me a marijuana. Feminine noun for a woman who likes to smoke, vape, eat cannabis. He wouldn’t understand that I grow it for my aches and pains and depression and fatigue. He grew fruit trees and vegetables. Mom grew flowers, houseplants. Their yard was the garden of Eden. Seriously. Today, my backyard is the sanctuary that keeps me sane and peaceful. I mind my own business, garden, sing, dance, cook, and celebrate my ancestors by telling their stories. 

Si se puede. We can do it. We can beat this virus and political nightmare and begin to let the diversity and magic of cultures blend into harmony and healing. I pray for love instead of hate. Wisdom instead of ignorance. Peace instead of war. One world One Love. 

This is the year twenty-twenty-one and it’s speeding by like a rocket on its way to Mars. I watch the days zip  past and I wonder where all the time has gone. I was once young and vibrant and sexy and silly and scary. I’m still those things only now I can add wise to that list. I’ve learned a few things about life. I’m a survivor and I have a new goal. My goal is to finish The Colorado Sisters and the Atlanta Butcher and then I can feel I’ve accomplished something spectacular. I write poetry. I’m a confessional poet. But my mystery/love story is something different. It tells a story about women fighting for equality in a world dominated by some men who sometimes don’t see women as their equals. But as RGB said, “All I ask is that you take your foot from my neck.”

Wish me luck with my first mystery. I’m determined to write a great story, not a good story, but a great one. Otherwise, why bother, que no?

Plotting Party

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 by Bethany Maines

Last weekend, I reached peak pandemic and hosted a gathering in my carport. It was a writer’s gathering, aka a Plotting Party, so there was a lot of sitting and staring at our notebooks. And also snacking and freezing. But, as with other joint writing gatherings I’ve hosted, we did use each other to work through problems in our outlines. No one asks more “but why?” questions than a writer except a four-year-old trying to stall bedtime. But why do you want a ball in your story?  But why is she in Ireland?  But why did the killer drain all the blood? Each story has it’s own answer and it’s fun to hear the reasoning that went into each one. 
Of course, being the writer in the hot seat isn’t quite as much fun, but it does serve an important purpose. Searching out the answers to those questions forces me to examine the clues in the story I’m writing as well as my intention for writing the character or story that particular way. When another writer points out that my characters motivations seem implausible I’m forced to confront why I want that scene or why I want the character to behave that way.  Being faced with well-intentioned friends who simply want to understand my story is the equivalent of Law & Order level third-degree. Pretty soon I’m caving and confessing that I just like something and I’ve been ignoring my characters motivations all along. 
But the added benefit of a plotting party is that I have additional minds to help me brainstorm. And with brainstorming comes encouragement and a cheering section that is irreplaceable. The pandemic has put a lot of things on hold, but creativity and friendship clearly haven’t been one of them. I see more outdoor plotting parties in the future, particularly as the weather gets warmer and I wish all of you a carport full of friends of your very own.
**

Bethany Maines is the award-winning author of the Carrie Mae Mysteries, San Juan Islands Mysteries, Shark Santoyo Crime Series, and numerous
short stories. When she’s not traveling to exotic lands, or kicking some
serious butt with her black belt in karate, she can be found chasing her
daughter or glued to the computer working on her next novel. You can also catch up with her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and BookBub.

Behind

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 by Bethany Maines

 

As I write this, I am very far behind on writing my fourth
book in the San
Juan Island Mystery series. I have a title, a nice first chapter, and half an
outline.  Which is at least half a draft
short of where I wanted to be at this time. 
And in other news, there’s a pandemic and my child just started back to
school, but for some reason school doesn’t start until 9:45.  Why this is I have yet to determine, but it
delays the start of my work day by a significant chunk of time.  I would love to say that those two events are
causally related, but they’re really more corollaries. They are linked and
related through the reality in which we wade, but, as much as I would like to,
I can’t actually say that my school districts scattershot, indecipherable
response to the pandemic is actually to blame for not sticking to my schedule.  I may be able to blame the pandemic itself,
which has sent me head long into escapist fun writing and sees me closing in on
finishing a trilogy of paranormal romances, but I think, in the interests of
truthfulness, that’s as far as I can pass the blame.

Me trying to escape the pandemic through writing.

But as school starts back up there is a lot of twittering
about the kids being behind. Or not being behind. Or being able to catch up no
problem!  To which I say… yeeeeeah?  Maybe. 
The truth is that private schools have been in person and in session for
much of this time.  So if you could
afford private school, which generally means that your kid (who was already looking
at better outcomes than a public school kid) is, in fact, ahead.  Yes, the public school kids will bounce back
and they’re already in similar boats to each other, but let’s just say that
some kids have better rowers on their team than others.  Yes, everything will work out in the end, but
the rah-rah “no one is behind” cheer strikes me as particularly delusional when
I can point to a whole contingent of children who are receiving a better
education due to finances. The pandemic has distinctly widened the gulf between
the haves and have-nots. 

But back to me.  Am I
behind?  My deadlines are relatively
self-imposed.  I can flex them.  Is it sooooo bad to be running late?  Maybe if I type for two days straight I can
catch up?  If I can learn anything from
the school debacle, it’s that no, probably sprinting to catch up is not the
way.  Writing consistently is probably a
better way to get quality work.  But
having already not done that, it’s probably best to go the public school route and
tell myself that I’m not behind and that everything will work out in the end.

***

Bethany Maines is the award-winning author of the Carrie Mae Mysteries, San Juan Islands Mysteries, The Deveraux Legacy Series, and numerous
short stories. When she’s not traveling to exotic lands, or kicking some
serious butt with her black belt in karate, she can be found chasing her
daughter or glued to the computer working on her next novel. You can also catch up with her on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and BookBub.

This Christmas by Juliana Aragon Fatula

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Dear Reader,

Here I sit in my kitchen 

by the woodstove 

dreaming of being on stage 

performing my one woman show. 

I’m serious. 

Not a dream. 

A frickin’ nightmare. 

Mylifesuchatragedycomedy. 

That should be the title of the play. 

Mylifesuchatragedycomedy.com should be my author website. 

Just sayin’. 

Ok, here is my holiday rant about my dysfunctional family I love and dislike. 

Spoiler alert, they’re no angels. Hope you enjoy my holiday tale. 

This priceless photo could be titled Juliana’s Vata Locas Book Club 

or You can’t spell SCHOLAR without CHOLA. 

This Christmas I remember the family gatherings at my parents’ home in Canon City, Colorado. I had two half-brothers and four-half sisters from my parents’ previous marriages. My little sister and two little brothers came after I was born in 1957. Counting my parents, there were twelve of us. I never met my Dad’s oldest daughter. She only lived ten minutes away, in the next town, but she was estranged from my father and lived with her mother. 

My oldest brother and two older sisters , were my mother’s children from her first marriage. We were far apart in age and didn’t grow up in the same house. They were married and gone by the time I was old enough to remember them. We never grew close in all my sixty-three years on Earth. 

I established a relationship with my father’s second daughter, Irene, and his first son, Steve. Irene was a surrogate mother to me and Steve being only four years older was my bestfriend growing up and into my teen years. He left when he was 18 and I was fourteen. 

My sister, Irene, became my favorite sister until the day she died at 42. I was 32 when she died and it hit me hard. I’ve never grieved for anyone like I did for her. Even when my father died on Christmas day in 1992 and my mother died on Christmas Eve in 2008, I didn’t feel it in my core like I did the day Irene died. 

I’m remembering all of the times we spent together and the conversations we shared. She took care of my son when he was a little boy and I worked full-time. We became part of her family. We wrote each other letters when I returned to Canon City and she remained in Denver. I cherish those letters and the love and confidence she gave me. I miss her this holiday and I miss her daughters, my nieces. 

My son, Daniel, turned 48 this December. He adored his tia Irene and grew up with her daughters babysitting him and being like big sisters to him. This Christmas I think about the conversations we had together, Irene, Daniel, and me. The love we shared. She left a huge void in my heart but it wasn’t long before I filled that hole in my heart with new sisters. Tracy, Aimee, Alice Denver, Judy, Denise, Maria, Lizzette, Debra, Yolanda, Crissy, Corinne, Eva and many other women have come in to my life and upon meeting these incredible women, I instantly knew that we would become life long friends, sisters. 

I don’t have close relationships with my siblings, except for my brother, Steve, who lives in Long Beach, California, and my cousin, Aimee, who lives in Camino, California. I have kept those two in my life because they support and love me and my other siblings have fallen by the side because we have nothing in common other than the same parents. 

I had to leave family behind in order to keep my sanity and I’m glad I made that choice to leave them and find love from people who love me for who I am. My brother, Steven, doesn’t understand how I can abandon family and love strangers like Tracy, Judy, Maria, Denise instead of the sisters I am blood related to. Aimee and I are blood related on my Father’s side. But I made a choice and I don’t regret finding new family. I’m happier because I chose my sisters and they get me. I don’t have to worry about them being racist, or homophobic, or xenophobic, or liars, or thieves, or abusive to me. I chose the women in my life because they are like me. They are educated, intelligent, open minded, and most of all liberal like me. 

This pandemic and this 2020 election have divided families, neighbors, and the country. I can’t respect anyone who believes putting babies in cages and separating families at the border is acceptable. I respect their right to their religious beliefs but not against humanity, not about a woman’s right to choose. 

This Christmas, I’m staying home, sheltering in place, wearing a mask in public when I venture out my door, and practicing safe distancing. This Christmas my neighbors and family have shown me their true colors and they have the right to choose to follow their beliefs but they do not have the right to tell me how to live my life. 

I hope this Christmas you are able to love who you love and fight for what you believe in. In 2021, life will change. My hope is for those families who were separated at the border to be united, somehow, someway. And for the family I’ve lost, I wish you happy holidays and a prosperous new year. We can agree to disagree and go our own ways. 

TURNING TO OTHER WRITERS IN TIMES OF TROUBLE

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by Linda Rodriguez
Like
most writers, periodically, I struggle with my work. Often it’s
because of physical health problems. Often, it’s because of family
issues. Sometimes it’s because of the world around me.

Right now,
that world around us all is stressful, troubling, and even
frightening. In these times of difficulty, I turn to the wisdom of
other writers, and so today, I offer to all of us a collection of
things that writers who came before us have said about this
profession we all share.


“A
house uncleaned is better than a life unlived.” – Rebecca West

“Exercise
the writing muscle every day, even if it is only a letter, notes, a
title list, a character sketch, a journal entry. Writers are like
dancers, like athletes. Without that exercise, the muscles seize up.”
– Jane Yolen

“Write
all the time. Rework what you write. Hack it to pieces, cut and
change. Writing is a self-conducted apprenticeship.” – Martha
Gellhorn

“Don’t
try to impress or show off. Just tell the story. Tell what happened
as you would to a friend.” – Maeve Binchy

“Every
new book is a challenge and requires different problem-solving for
the characters.” – Phyllis A. Whitney

“Discipline
is simply remembering what you want.” – Judith Claire Mitchell

“I
don’t think you have time to waste not writing because you are afraid
you won’t be good at it.” – Anne Lamott

“If
I quit now I will soon go back to where I started. And when I
started, I was desperate to get to where I am now.” – Flannery
O’Connor

“You
may as well write what you want because there’s no predicting what
will sell.” – Judith Guest

“Fiction
writing is a kind of magic, and I don’t care to talk about a novel
I’m doing because if I communicate the magic spell, even in an
abbreviated form, it loses its force for me. And so many people have
talked out to me books they would otherwise have written. Once you
have talked, the act of communication has been made.” –- Angus
Wilson

“A
word after a word after a word is power.” – Margaret Atwood

“The
most important thing about art is to work. Nothing else matters
except sitting down every day and trying. … This is the other
secret that real artists know and wannabe writers don’t. When we
sit down each day and do our work, power concentrates around us.”
– Steven Pressfield

“It’s
the writing that teaches you.” – Isaac Asimov

“There
are no rules except those you create page by page.” –Stuart Wood

“I
take writing terribly seriously, and sometimes that just gets in my
way. Writing is about the Shadow, which is about play. I just have to
learn that again. And, in my own life, it’s like I can’t learn
that I’ll rise to the occasion. I do rise to the occasion, but I’m
never sure that’s going to happen.” – Sue
Grafton

Linda Rodriguez’s Plotting the
Character-Driven Novel, based on her popular workshop, and The
World Is One Place: Native American Poets Visit the Middle East,
an anthology she co-edited, are her newest books. Dark Sister:
Poems will be published in February, 2018. Every Family Doubt,
her fourth mystery novel featuring Cherokee campus police chief,
Skeet Bannion, will appear in August, 2018, and Revising the
Character-Driven Novel will be published in November, 2018. Her
three earlier Skeet novels—Every Hidden Fear, Every
Broken Trust, and Every Last Secret—and
her books of poetry—Skin Hunger
and Heart’s Migration—have
received critical recognition and awards, such as St. Martin’s
Press/Malice Domestic Best First Novel, International
Latino Book Award, Latina Book Club Best Book of 2014, Midwest Voices
& Visions, Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award, Thorpe Menn Award, and
Ragdale and Macondo fellowships. Her short story, “The Good
Neighbor,” published in the anthology, Kansas City Noir, has
been optioned for film.

Rodriguez is past chair of the AWP
Indigenous Writer’s Caucus, past president of Border Crimes chapter
of Sisters in Crime, founding board member of Latino Writers
Collective and The Writers Place, and a member of International
Thriller Writers, Wordcraft Circle of Native American Writers and
Storytellers, and Kansas City Cherokee Community. Visit her at
http://lindarodriguezwrites.blogspot.com

The Four Fs of November

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By Kimberly Jayne

November is my favorite color. And it’s also the combination of family,
fun, football, and the Frustration 50. Let me explain.

Family, of course, because of Thanksgiving gatherings; there’s
nothing I love more than being with my family members and feasting and fullness—usually
too-fullness. Fun because it’s my favorite season, and while the painted canopies
flicker in the sunlight and blanket the ground with fall magnificence, I can
rejoice in jeans, boots, and sweaters—what I call finery. November is also for
football. Woot! And FF for Fantasy Football, fall’s double whammy.

Finally, there’s the Frustration 50, because NaNoWriMo. If
you know what that is, I feel your shuddering from here. If not, let me fill
you in. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month, and it dares us to write a
novel of 50,000 words November 1–30. That’s 1,667 words a day for 30 days, yo.

Close to half a million people are participating in
NaNoWriMo this year, and across America people are gathering in coffee shops
and online to discuss words and stories—and their frustrations at trying to
meet this demanding word count in so little time. And I’m one of them.

It’s haaaaaard! After the first week, I’m reluctant to
announce how behind I am in words and how overflowing I am in caffeine. I knew
I would be (and as the saying goes, if you think you will, you’re right!). Hey,
I have the complications of a day job that eats up 10 hours of my day,
including travel, and the foils of after-hours fatigue because of said day job,
so achieving the daily 1,667 word count precisely defines “challenge”
in the dictionary. Feeling my Frustration 50 reference now?

As of today, I should have written 11,669 words. I’m not
even close. I’m at about 4,000. But they are 4,000 words I didn’t have before, so
I’m not a complete failure. If I keep at it, I surely will finish in record
time the last two episodes of my dark fantasy Demonesse: Avarus. And I’m determined to finish because it’s my
favorite time of year, I’m happiest and most motivated in November, and I’m up
for a dare.

November is also for foolish, but that’s a whole other post.

What about you? Are you braving the challenge of NaNoWriMo?
__________________________________________

Kimberly Jayne writes humor, romantic comedy, suspense, erotica,
and dark fantasy. Her latest foray into a dark fantasy released in episodes is
as much an adventure as the writing itself. You can check her out on Amazon. Find
out more about her at ReadKimberly.

Books by Kimberly Jayne:


Take My Husband, Please: An Unconventional Romantic Comedy
Demonesse:
Avarus, Episode 1
Demonesse:
Avarus, Episode 2
Demonesse: Avarus, Episode 3
All the Innuendo, Half the Fact: Reflections of a
Fragrant Liar