Advice… Maybe Not

By Robin Weaver

In my head, this month’s theme was Advice on Relationships. The actual theme is Tips on Relationships. Which is a really good thing, since nobody really wants advice. Nor does anyone actually  need advice (even from Nora Roberts or Michael Connelly).  Advice is preachy. Advice is controlling.

What we need is factual, relevant information so we can make our own decisions.

See what I just did? I’ve backed myself into an impossible corner. How can I possibly provide information that is appropriate for a blog audience with varied needs?  Any advice?

Kidding aside, I can’t provide info that will be all things to all people, or even some people. The best I can do is give you tips* for how I’ve coped during a decade of writing, hoping, and writing some more. I'll describe what has worked—and not worked—and hope you find one iota of inspiration. After all, having one person get something meaningful from the written word is every writer’s Mecca.

Here’s what I’ve done to keep my sanity (sort of) while writing and attempting to publish the novel that will get noticed.

 1.       I found myself a good critique group.  For non-authors, critique groups are still essential; everyone needs a sounding board for life events, career decisions, child rearing info, good restaurants (yes, I’m hungry), etc., etc. For non-author events, I call my critique group Friends and Family. These folks give me a lot of feedback; even when I don’t ask for it. : )

a.       Don’t be offended by critique feedback. I expect feedback, not praise.

b.       If I am offended, I attempt to figure out why.

                                                               i.      Is it my ego? If the answer is “yes,” I get over myself.

                                                             ii.      Does the person doing the critique simply have a difference of opinion? If the answer is “yes,” I acknowledge the feedback and move on. Why acknowledge, you ask?  Because of the old adage: if enough people call you a goose, you should look for feathers.  If other people have the same criticism of my work (or life event), there may be more to the critique than a simple difference of opinion.  Upon hearing a criticism more than once, I go back to step i—is it ego? If not, I look for feathers. I do an honest, often raw, evaluation and a change usually results in a better paragraph/scene/chapter.

                                                           iii.      Am I having a bad day? If so, I put the critique aside and plan to review it the following day.

                                                           iv.      Is the criticism just mean?

1.       First time? Ignore it. It’s possible the person providing the critique was having a bad day.

2.       Recurring? Maybe reconsider the composition of your critique group.

2.       I kept my day job.  For me, this was a no-brainer since I actually like my day job.  But even if I weren’t so lucky, a non-writing career was important for numerous reasons:

a.       Writing can be stressful; I didn’t really need the additional stress of wondering how I’d pay for my groceries—especially now. Have you see the price of milk?

b.       The office environment provides an abundance of story ideas.

c.       I can always quit when I make it big. For you non-authors, this mean winning-the-lottery.  Actually, I think it’s the same for writers. 😊

3.       I counteracted boredom/frustration. For me, this means writing in multiple genres. In life and literature, doing something new or different always stimulates the old gray matter (by gray matter, I mean my brain, not the rest of me).

4.       I remembered my mantra: If life was fair, we’d all be stupid. As a writer, it’s all too easy to read a so-so best seller, or in some cases a “less-than-so-so” book and grow frustrated that we aren’t receiving the same success. It’s easy to lament, “Why them? Why aren’t people reading my book?”

When I find myself on the Woe-Is-Me Road, I remind myself writing is only one facet of my life and success is never measured by the NY Times (truly). Having a best seller also requires a lot more than good writing, and sometimes a lot of that “lot more” is simple luck. Hard work, marketing, and audience awareness are also essential, and I honestly haven’t done nearly enough of that. Still, doing the best I can is all I can do.

5.       Most important, I brought back the fun.

a.       It’s soooooooooooooo easy to fall into the deadlines/I must do this/I must do that trap.  Often, these deadlines and traps are self-imposed. I.E., “If I don’t get my novel done by D-Day, the editor/agent/Oprah won’t notice me.”  Thinking like this is stressful—possibly harmful.

Self-imposed hardships are also a problem in the non-author life. For instance: “If I don’t have as many Christmas lights as my neighbor, I’ll look like a loser.”

I know longer permit myself to think these thoughts. Odds are, missing that deadline is not the reason we’re not being noticed, and if you add another string of lights to your two-story house, your neighbor will simply add two more.  If she’s smart, she’ll also run an extension and plug into your outlet.  Actually, pretend I didn’t say that last part. 😊  But remember, not hanging more lights means you’ll have more time to make mulled wine.  If you share, guess who will be the most popular woman in the neighborhood?

b.       Another pitfall my past-self has fallen-into is writing for the market. Vampires were hot, so I pulled out all the fangs, even though a DNA researcher keep demanding I write her story.  Anyway, when my vamp story was finished—yep, you guessed it—editors had put the stake into bloodsuckers because the market was blooded—er, flooded.

Now, I write what I want to write.  Don’t get me wrong, if a publishing house offered me big bucks (ok, even slightly-below-average bucks), I’d pen the novel in type O. Until then, my work-reward system requires something more substantial. As for me, my reward is having fun while I write.  Note: Salted caramel and mulled wine also work.

Recently, I combined two of the above, and IMHO, derived some of my best writing.  My critique partners and I created a compilation of short stories.  The anthology is called Three Perspectives.  For each of our 12 stores, we give you the plot from the perspective of the victim, the villain, and the investigator. We had a blast, and in the process, re-energized our Woe-Is-Us selves.

 To summarize, do something that makes you happy.  Your writing—and your life—will be better. Apologies!! That sounded like advice!  I meant, When I do something that makes me happy…

*Kudos to Judith and Sarah for actually defining the theme as "Tips" on relationships--not Advice. :)

*Being old doesn’t mean feeble, and hiring a gutter cleaner is a waste of money, but sometimes vanity can be criminal.
*A perfectly-imperfect socialite only wants to be adored. Which is a bit difficult after she’s found sprawled on a toilet. Dead.
*An aspiring writer wants to write a bestseller, but her critique partners have other ideas. Has one of them plotted the perfect murder? Hers.
*A retired schoolteacher conceals her lifelong secret. Until someone discovers she has insured her life for $5 million. There’s only one thing to do. Kill her.
* Don’t go into the barn. The one you love the most might kick the life from you.

These are just a few of the 12 compelling whodunnit mysteries inside Three Perspectives. Each tale includes the point-of-view from the victim, the villain, and the investigator, and will keep you guessing to the very end. And possibly awake—long after your bedtime.

What Did We Learn?

By Robin Weaver

Reflecting on 2020, I found myself reexamining Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Given the world’s current problems, old Maslow may be the last thing on your mind. But, isn’t the year we just “endured” a testament to the validity of the theory?

As most of you know, Maslow developed a theory of motivation which states that five categories of need dictate a person's behavior.  According to his findings, higher ideals—ego & self-fulfillment—can only be fully addressed once basic human survival is assured.  Maslow’s categories of needs are:

1.    Prior to COVID, most people in the Western World had climbed high on the hierarchy, past love and belonging, and were searching for Esteem and/or Self-Actualization.  We didn’t have to worry about food or water (physiological); safety (other than the ozone layer, which most people ignored) was pretty much taken for granted by most Americans.

Thanks to Match.Com and Doctor Phil, we’d also conquered romance. And, if we didn’t find our significant other online or at the gym, we bought a dog.  The increasing popularity of self-help books signaled that the masses were in hot pursuit of being our “best self.”

Then, the corona virus showed it’ ugly crown. And, BOOM!

Suddenly everyone (and I do mean everyone) was back at level two.  We weren’t safe. Forget about being a better person, we needed toilet paper to survive. And tons of it.   Forget about belonging (level 3); we started fighting over wearing masks. Those of us who diligently cover our face thought we were demonstrating concern for our fellow humans, but were we?  Did we even try to understand those who were defiant about covering the face?  Did we consider that a world filled with the unknown drives the need to feel in control? Even if that control mean thwarting good sense and not wearing the mask? And be honest, didn’t you secretly worry that a mask isn’t enough?

Once we can again “belong” without Zoom or Skype, perhaps we can self-actualize about what we learned during the year of COVID.  In fiction, conflict strengthens the story and gives the main character an opportunity for growth. Maybe I’m too low on Maslow’s hierarchy to figure out how to improve from this experience, because I’m not finding much good from 2020.  The COVID conflict has strengthened my resolve to appreciate all that I’ve taken for granted in the past.

Just when there’s a vaccine on the horizon, I find something else to worry about.  Something I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I could have met friends for coffee or attended writers’ conferences. I’m now worried about The birds.  I’ve just read that the avian population has dwindled by 29% in the last 50 years. 

Egads! Time for a romance novel.

Happy 2021 everyone. May your new year have you climbing to the top of Maslow’s hierarchy.

Re-spinning a Holiday Classic

By Robin Weaver 

It's a Wonderful Life is truly one of the all-time great holiday films, but let's be honest, the plot is hardly original. As a writer, I have been conditioned, since I first put my fingers on the keyboard, to always deliver the unexpected, so let's add some twists to this classic tale.

 

Having a fat old man be an angel is unexpected, even by today standards, so we’ll leave Clarence as is. No, wait. An angel is a bit predictable no matter what his shape. What if we made him a shape shifter? Hmm, that will screw up the plot. We want Clarence to evolve, not be dinner.

 

If not Clarence, who hears when George wishes he’d never been born? I know, he can wish on a penny. Oops—that’s absolutely predictable. Let's make it a dollar bill instead.

 

So George finds a dollar and… He simply cannot wish he'd never been born--even to a dollar bill. I mean seriously, how many times had that been done? Let's have him wish he'd been born a woman. To which the dollar replies, “The PMS alone would kill you. I like horses. What if I make you "my little pony" instead? 

 

And poof! Before George can protest, he’s got hooves and a shiny teal tail. He trots down the street, running into his mom—who falls and breaks a hip. Predictable, but what else can happen? Grandma has just been run over by a horse. She’s screaming, “Bloody horse murderer!” because she doesn’t recognize her son. Did I mention he’s a horse?

 

Anyway, George’s mom is rescued by Uncle Billy—who hasn’t been institutionalized because the Building and Loan is still going strong.  Don’t get me wrong, the Building and Loan collapsed (just like in the original story), only the government bailed out the financial institution. Billy splints mom’s broken hip and then kicks George the horse (didn’t expect that, did you? Evil grin).  Billy threatens to call--eh, can't be the police. Too ordinary. Instead, let's have Billy call the Evil Vet, Horsible Lecter. BIlly pulls out his mobile telegraph (hey, no cellphones in this era) and asked for Horsible.  The second George hears that name, he knows he's in deep manure and gallops home.

 

Mary will help him. Hold on, we have to make Mary less predictable, too.  She can’t be some lonely, scared spinster. Maybe George was holding her back. She’s gone to Vegas and become…a champion bull rider (Gotcha. You were expecting a showgirl, huh?)

 

So George realizes he shouldn’t have wished he was dead. Or a woman. And a bell rings—only let’s make it a bullhorn. In the old story, we all know the angel got his wings. In our story, the angel becomes…hmmm, how about a boy wizard.

 

Okay. You’re right. The original is better. Maybe with a classic, predictable is okay. Only let’s not call it predictable, we’ll call it tradition.

 

Hope your traditions are wonderfully predictable. Happy holidays, Everyone!

 

He Who Shall Be Praised

By Robin Weaver

Without a doubt, Voldemort is my favorite villain (at least this week).  While he’s in good company – Mr. Hyde, the Jaws Shark, Becky Sharpe, Alexis Carrington, Jeanine from Divergence—the Dark Lord easily edges the competition into trivial backstory. I mean, come on, the man (critter, snake, demon) has it all. He possesses every single characteristic of a good villain:

A.   First and foremost, The Dark Lord has a great backstory.  Who can’t sympathize with a poor little orphan whose mommy croaked and Muggle dad, despising all things magic, ran for the hills? Even with the humblest of beginnings, Voldey (aka Tom Riddle back then) excels at Hogwarts Academy, becoming, Head Boy and receiving a Medal for Magical Merit. One could successfully argue if Dumbledore had given Tom the same support he heaped on Harry Potter, Voldemort might have been the hero of the story—of course there’d been no story, but that’s another…em, tale.

B.   He’s both handsome… And butt ugly.  As Tom Riddle, he’s a real cutie, but as He Who Stays Alive Via Horcruxes, he’s more terrifying than anything on Alien, the Body Snatchers, or even the Exorcist.  And don’t we secretly love to be terrified?

C.   He Who Shall Not Be Named is a worthy opponent. Seriously, it took eight books to defeat him. 

D.   He’s clever, or more specifically, a downright genius. If we’re honest, Voldemort is much smarter than our boy, Harry—although Hermione might give him a run for his money.

E.    He has many of the same characteristics of the hero, but they’re misdirected.  Harry and Voldemort are literally joined at the…brain.  You don’t get more similar than that.

F.    He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants.  Let’s be real. This dark wizard keeps going, even when he’s just a parasite on the back of Quirrell’s head.  Don’t know about you, but if I had to live as covered by a turban, I’d probably pack it in.

G.   He’s persuasive and inspirational.  Just look at all the followers the Dark Lord inspired.  Among the most notable is the fiercely loyal Bellatrix Lestrange, whose name is Latin for “female warrior.” This in-your-face, psychotic witch wasn’t afraid of anything, anybody, any spell, or even the Dark Lord himself. Her crazier-than-crazy antics never failed to drop jaws.  She escaped prison, killed the noble and almost unstoppable Sirius Black, and she tortured the Longbottoms.  How can anyone portrayed by Helena Bonham Carter not be a villainess we love to hate? Admit it didn’t you feel a bit regretful when Molly Weasley stuck-it-to-her?  I better stop now or I might change my mind about my favorite villain.

When all is written and “the end” is embellished, Voldemort’s true evil was being me-centric (yes, I made up that word).  Harry P. had friends, a group of witches and wizards who cared about others, even Muggles.  Friends who cared enough to die for the greater good.  The Dark Lord had only had followers—a band of evil-doers who put self-interest above all else.  And isn’t “me-first” at the core of all the world’s evil?

Honoring Our Eighth by Remembering Age Eight

By Robin Weaver

Eight-million congrats to the Genre-ists on our "Eighth Anniversary!!"  A special thanks to Judith
and Sarah for inviting me to be a part of this awesome group.

Time really does fly.  In honor of our eighth, I'm re-posting one of my previous blogs about when "I was eight (or close enough)."  Hope you enjoy.

Near-Death After School Program

I grew up in the middle of nowhere, and since my parents worked long hours and had a lengthy commute, my non-school time involved very little supervision. In those days (and it really wasn’t that long ago), leaving eight- and ten-year-old children alone during the time between school bus drop-off and arrival of the parents after a day at the factory didn’t constitute child-neglect. My eight-year-old brother had a more structured existence.  He was supervised by ten-year-old me. Translation: it’s amazing we survived childhood. 

What could possibly happen in those three hours each day? We had chores to keep us busy, right?

Here’s what we actually did…

• Had races. On real horses. At full gallop, through the woods.
• Had tin can fights. Did I mention we loaded the cans with rocks because the weight made the throw more accurate?
• Went swimming in the lake. Said-lake had been created from a gravel pit, and thus had a very deep drop-off.
• Went fishing in the beaver pond. Several water moccasins enjoyed the same water.
• Had contests to see who could climb the highest tree. And jump down.
• Played circus knife-thrower. You guessed it—with the kitchen butcher knife.
• Tried to create fire by rubbing stones together. Fortunately for the hundred-acre forest, we never succeeded.
• Had target practice with B-B guns. Enough said.
• Played Zorro. Sword fights involved sticks sharpened with the circus-play butcher knife.
• Tested bed sheets to determine if they could be used as parachutes. Testing involved jumping from the roof. Note: Bed sheets do not make good parachutes.
• Drove the tractor to the neighbor’s house (in first gear the entire trip). Note: The neighbor gave us a lecture but never ratted us out. I don’t think the tractor ever ran the same.
• Made up stories. Probably the only safe thing we did. At least until we turned the stories into live-action plays.

Did my mom know about our activities? Of course not. She would have killed us.

My childhood didn’t seem like a near-death experience at the time, but a few years later, I freaked because my five-year-old daughter went roller skating without a helmet. I guess times really have changed. J

You might also enjoy what happens to thirty-eight & forty-eight year olds who try to date after divorce, loss, and bra fat.  Take a peek at The Boy Box.

A Funny Thing Happened...

By Robin Weaver

A couple months after my husband died, a well-meaning friend suggested a book might help—a self-pubbed collection of grief memoirs written by my friend’s friend. Somehow, I managed to don my polite face, while I inwardly cringed. And re-cringing. And cringing again.

First, nothing was going to help but time; I had accepted that. During that period, the only way I could get through my day was to play happy music and pretend my grief didn’t exist (in full disclosure, a lot of Ben & Jerry’s was also involved).  Yet this friend wanted me to read about more death? I already knew I wasn’t alone in my experience, but to this day, I don’t really understand how people think hearing about another tragedy can possibly make another person feel better.

You can relax, I’m climbing off that soapbox. 😊 But on to the next… Second, (and I repeat: “Second!”) he wanted me to read a collection of memoirs? By an untrained author? Was he nuts? Maybe my friend was trying to kill me.

Anyway, I accepted the book with a semi-smile, and promptly donated it to Goodwill.  Only a few months later, at a music festival (yes, the music actually helped 😊), I met the memoir author. And formed an instant connection. Not only because we had a shared widowhood experience, but because Mary is actually one of the coolest people alive.

Even so, I still couldn’t read her book.  My philosophy is to never intentionally do something that’s going to make me sad. And knowing the author would make Mary’s pages even sadder.

Only Mary decided to turn her Loss World Monologues into a play. And I was asked to participate.

“Say what?” It’s like these people don’t even know me. What part of I can only handle grief with humor did my friends not get? Even worse, haven’t they heard my squeaky voice?  And even though I can get loud with the best of them, squeaky voices do not project.  Not to mention my acting experience is zero.

Not being able to say, “NO,” or even no, or “I don’t think so,” I auditioned, thinking I’d finally found my way out.  Only I didn’t realize (THEN) I had a major advantage—I could memorize quickly. In hindsight, I might have flubbed a few of those lines.  More important though, I had lived through the subject matter.

Anyway… I somehow survived the three months of rehearsals; rehearsals which entailed hearing (and speaking) about the despair that follows the death of a spouse. Despair I felt but didn’t want to acknowledge. And before you ask—no, it didn’t help. After every rehearsal, I’d go home and play Bon Jovi and Def Leppard at earsplitting volume. That helped.

What did help was the lasting friendships I formed, especially with the Mary. When we were celebrating the end of a successful show, someone jokingly asked, “When are you and Mary going to write the sequel?”

I replied honestly, I can’t do this weepy, but if you want to do a comedy, I’m in?”

One of Mary’s monologues detailed her boy box—a cigar box that she used to keep the cards of guys who asked her out out after her husband died. After ten years, she had a lot of cards.

Thus, The Box Box was conceived.  😊

The ebook is scheduled for release April 9^th, and the print book will follow shortly.  If any of you in the RTG world would like to be a beta-reader and provide us some feedback, we’d love to send you a free electronic copy.

Until then… Happy Wednesday!

    What would you do if the undertaker’s son made a pass at you?

At your husband’s funeral?

    Jana Byrd stuffs the cougar-hunter’s card into a box and forgets him.

As she struggles to focus on one-day-at-a-time after her husband’s death, Jana acquires several dozen cards from wanna-be-lovers, friends-seeking benefits, and the occasional nice guy.  All the cards remain in the Boy Box, until Jana’s friends decide they should all date again and decide to draw names from the box.

    Forty-something Jana scoffs at the idea of seeing other men.  She’s still in love with her five-years gone soulmate and chats with him daily.  

Her BFF Nanette Meeks is equally appalled by the dating scheme.  How can she possibly date again after her ex-husband divorced her to marry his bimbette-a mousy little thing barely out of her teens?  What man can be trusted? Other than her former spouse’s younger brother?

    Faith Chanton, a former Miss Georgia and jet-setting preacher’s widow, refuses to be thwarted by her friend’s dating resistance.  She demands the four ladies draw cards from the Boy Box and “get back out there.”

The hot blonde, with loads of charisma and an even bigger bank account, shouldn’t need a Boy Box card to have men worshipping at her temple.  Only the man she seeks doesn’t exist – one who walks on water and is deliciously devilish in the dark.

    Faith’s dating enthusiasm is buoyed by Sapphire Bellona, the youngest of the group.  She exudes the overconfidence that only occurs at age twenty-eight, and believes she can have any man she wants. Sapphire is continually mystified when date number two never happens.

    Only nothing is as it seems.  Will the friendships endure as the four women start the arduous journey of dating after death, divorce and bra fat?

As If By Magic

By Robin Weaver

This month's theme--My Writing Dreams Come True--instantly made me think of magic.  Because the fulfillment of any of my dreams: authoring a bestseller, having one of my books scripted for the big screen, or simply having a reader say, "I enjoyed the read," would indeed be magical.


Only... Do I believe in magic?  

Do you?

If you’re geekishly inclined (like moi), you might want to pause before you respond with a resounding “NO.” While we hardcore logical types tend to mistrust anything we can’t reduce to an equation, I ask you to consider the following:

Soundwaves: Most of us have some understanding of the principles of sound. We agree our cellphones can transmit data, voice and images across the country because of science. But exactly why do soundwaves (radio waves, microwaves, etc., etc.) exist? Why do they work the way they do? One could successfully argue that the existence of this phenomenon is, in itself, magical.

The Reproductive Process: An egg is fertilized, cells start to divide and grow. For humans, a new member of our species is delivered nine-plus months later.  Pure science, right? But exactly what drives that cell to divide? For that matter, what drives mankind to reproduce in the first place? We call it the “miracle of birth” for a reason.

Our Habitable Planet: We can explain, in scientific terms, what makes life possible on Earth, but think about the exact combination of factors that must exist for humanoid life:

            **  We must be the right distance from the sun.

            **  A magnet field is required to protect us from deadly radiation.

            **  Water (and carbon, and a host of other stuff) must be in plentiful supply.

            ** An atmosphere is essential.

            ** We need rock; not to mention our planet must be the right size, with a molten core, and tectonic plates.

            ** A moon, rotating at the appropriate distance from the planet.  The big, shiny object in the night sky is directly responsible for the Earth's orbital tilt angle, and thus responsible for our climate and tides.  Without the Moon, the Earth would wander in response to the gravitational pulls of the sun and Jupiter. Translation, no more life as we know it. In other words, we’d be Mars.

            **  Etc., etc., etc. While all the reasons for our planet’s habitability can be explained scientifically, the combination of unique factors that must coexist to constitute our living planet is mind-boggling. Perhaps our uniqueness id the reason we’ve found no other signs of humanoid life in this vast universe.

Falling in Love: Enough said.

Dictionary.com defines magic as:

“the art of producing a desired effect or result through the use of incantation or various other techniques that presumably assure human control of supernatural agencies or the forces of nature.” If you substitute “invention” or “industry” for the word “incantation,” isn’t that also a definition for science?

Until we magically get the answer (to this question and a plethora of other philosophical ones), I will simply "hope" your dreams come true.

Happy reading!

Robin

My Crazy Route to Romantic Suspense Publishing

By Robin Weaver

Not me, but could have been.

In sixth grade, I had a best friend who created a book of short stories. Well, not an actual book, but a compilation of typed pages, hole-punched and joined together by pronged fasteners. Even so… That was the coolest thing ever.

Note, this same friend later decided he’d sleep in a coffin every night.  And did. But that’s a topic for another blog.

Anyway, Pudgy (my childhood nickname—I’m not sure why) decided then and there… “I, too, will be a writer.”

My parent’s reaction…

 

Being at that impressionable age, I didn’t then realize I was

giving up a dream, but I did pursue a more practical degree.

Until… About ten years ago, another friend showed me a compilation of short stories. This was an actual book (headers, footers, page numbers, etc.—the whole ISBN). Again, the coolest thing ever.

Thus my dream emerged from the ashes of my geeky IT existence.  A few months later, a genealogy quest uncovered my great-great Uncle Noverta.  That’s when I decided I must write mystery-suspense (not that I hadn’t already decided that—being a Nancy Drew/Colombo/Linda Howard/John Grisham fan girl).

But back to Noverta… You see, the District Attorney decided ole Verta had murdered his wife—in the coldest of blood. No matter that Noverta’s folks, and even his inlaws, insisted the poor wife committed suicide. Maybe the neat little bullet hole in the middle of her forehead was coincidental.

Okay, confession time. There’s no evidence of a neat little hole. You see, the deeply buried writer gene cannot resist embellishing an already cool story. Anyway, Noverta’s jury didn’t buy the suicide defense and Great-great Uncle went to Parchment Prison in Jackson Mississippi. Not only did Noverta not serve his time-before-my-time, he escaped from that maximum security cell easy-peasy.

Stranger than the strangest fiction… (Did I happen to mention Noverta’s last name, like my grandfather’s, was actually Strange?)

Hold on, the story gets even better.  Our escaped con somehow made his way to Colorado, where he became the deputy sheriff. That’s not my writer gene, that’s the truth and nothing but.  I swear on a stack of mystery books. Noverta served in law enforcement under the pseudonym Charles Boltz for over thirty years.

I Decided to Finally Write that Book.  How could I not? Only research proved far more difficult than I anticipated. Apparently, Google didn’t exist in the 1930s. Sigh. I did find a distant cousin in Colorado, who was Noverta’s great-grand daughter (we are Facebook friends). The Colorado Boltz’s knew nothing of the Mississippi con man.

Anyway, when I couldn’t fill in all the pieces of Noverta’s story, I decided to make it fiction (somewhat). Only once I started writing Framing Noverta, the tale took over and the novel became the story of Sheriff Cal Henderson—a baseball hero turned cop who does his best to prove Noverta has been—you guessed it--Framed.

You do get part of Noverta’s story. Like the real-life character, good ole Vertie gets tried, convicted, and framed. He escapes and heads out west. Book 2 of this series, Saving Noverta, is expected to be released this November. The tale picks up in Colorado with a former-salon-gal-turned-maid finding something strange In Sheriff Noverta’s house.

We all have at least one…interesting character in our family tree. Hope you have as much fun  as I did chopping down the branches.

Happy hunting, happy reading.

Robin

Available at Amazon and Wind Tree Press

How can you uphold the law when following the rules will destroy everything worth protecting?

Weary of D.C. murder and mayhem, Cal Henderson trades in his city badge for a sheriff’s star. Regrettably, his Tennessee hometown proves anything but peaceful—a woman is shot dead in her bed and the only viable suspects are his best friend, Noverta, and the love of Cal’s life—the current Mrs. Grace Gardner.

Noverta escapes from jail, making Cal question his efforts to prove the man’s innocence. As more evidence points toward Grace’s involvement in the murder,

Out of the Mouth of Babe...the Blue Ox

By Robin Weaver

Okay, this month's theme is "out of the mouths of babes." Or at least it was when I created the first draft of this piece.  I might be the only person blogging about babes, but you know I still have to put my spin on the topic.  So, I thought I’d talk about a big, big babe—Babe, the Blue Ox.

As a child, the legends of Paul Bunyan were my absolute favorite tails, err tales. The stories were the epitome of tall tales, and my early reading preference might explain my life-long love for the ridiculous.  According to the legend, when Paul was born, he was so big it took five storks to deliver him; the Mississippi River was created because a tank of water Paul carried sprang a leak; and, as an adult, the pipe he used was so huge, he needed a shovel to pack in his tobacco (obviously, the surgeon general will have something to say about that).

But still… You can’t make this stuff up.  Well, okay, someone did, but you see what I mean. So where does Babe come in? Obviously, a man the size of Paul Bunyan can’t simply have a dog, right? So, when Mr. B spots a spunky little ox frolicking in the snow, he just has to take him home.

Side note: oxen are working animals, typically castrated bulls, even though they can also be cows.  Ignore the confusion and suffice it to say: it’s pretty much impossible to find a baby one. But let’s not go down that cattle trail. We are talking about an animal snacked on thirty bales of hay, wire and all. According to the tales, it took six men with pick axes to floss Babe’s teeth.

The best part (just my opinion, but it should be yours 😊) is Bessie! Babe caught a glimpse of a pretty yeller calf daintily chewing her cud, and…hold the milking machines! We got us a case of love at first sight, Babe refused to work until Paul purchased Bessie. Uh-oh…Bessie isn’t a free heifer. Guess that’s a story for another day.

Bessie grew to the appropriate size to be Babe’s mate (again, I say mate, ignoring that castration thing). Bessie was so big, her long yellow eyelashes tickled the lumberjacks standing on the other end of camp when she blinked. And yes, that cowhide did make her butt look big.

A big blue ox and his feisty little cow with yellow lashes—too cute, huh? So why aren’t these tales still in favor? Why isn’t there a Disney animated feature or a My Little Ox action figure?

Probably because the Ikea generation doesn’t understand lumberjacks. Logging is a thing of days gone by.  Heck, there might not even be a 2x4 in that ginaormous Ikea maze.

Even so, the tales of Paul Bunyan are worth another look.  Here’s a link to a cute story that will appeal to your children and to us kids-at-heart. http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/babe_the_blue_ox.html

In the meantime, happy logging.

R