April 9, 2010

I have this dog. He’s an odd mixture of things—Doberman, Labrador, and maybe part horse. We’re not entirely sure.

Now, I also live in a house that is somewhat of a “fixer-upper”.

It happened that one day my husband was replacing the back door, which opens from the kitchen onto our small back porch.  Trim was removed, the old door was taken off, and the new door was set into place. Shims were tapped in to square the door and when—sixteen hours later the door was set—my husband stood back and admired his handiwork. It was a beautiful door.

He had a rapt audience throughout the day. Apollo (the dog I mentioned above) grunted and snorted and watched with avid curiosity, occasionally putting his big, wet nose into the small piles of sawdust that collected on the floor. He’d look up at me, his eyes wide, flecks of white dotting his black face.  Sometimes, he’d sneeze in great growling bursts that left him disoriented, wondering where he was afterward.

After the sawdust was cleaned up and the tools were put away, the foaming insulation was brought out to seal the cracks. Once it was dry we could replace the trim and be done with it for good. Apollo was fascinated by the tube of insulation. He sniffed and poked at it and, once he deemed it was safe for us to use, he backed off.

“You know,” my husband said, shaking his head, “that dog is going to stick his nose in this stuff as soon as I fill these cracks.”

So Apollo and I had a talk. We discussed foaming insulation and the havoc it could wreak on the nostrils if inhaled. We talked about looking and not touching. And when he looked depressed I reminded him of the fun he had with the sawdust. That cheered him a little.

In the end I decided to put him in another room just to be safe, but his crying was so pathetic he was allowed to return to the kitchen.

I’ve heard people say, when talking about their children –I’ve said it a few times myself in fact—“I only turned my back for a second.”  The words are uttered from disbelieving mouths of people surveying things like ketchup squirted all over the bathtub or baby powder in the toilet or nails in the coffee table.

In our case, it was a pair of giant black nostrils stuffed with bright white foaming insulation. Even now, a year later, I don’t know how he did it. I never left the kitchen, never wandered out of view of that great animal sleeping with one eye open, waiting for his chance. He’s not one to do anything silently. He grunts when he gets into a standing position or when he lays down. His footsteps send off small vibrations through the house.

And yet—and yet – it happened.  I saw the dog sitting and watching me. I turned to fill the coffee pot a mere ten feet from where he lay.

I have to give him credit—he tried really hard to look casual and innocent. He tried to look as if it didn’t bother him that great white clouds of foam were growing from his nose, getting larger even as I watched.

He just opened his mouth and began to pant. I could hear his thoughts. “Wow, is it hot in here or is it just me?”

He refused to look guilty, even when we questioned him. He simply looked around, wondering if we were actually speaking to him. “Who me? I don’t know anything.”

We cleaned out his nose. It required a dremel and sculpting tools but we got it done. I think the important thing here is that Apollo learned something. That day Apollo learned that foaming insulation clings to all surfaces.

So why am I telling you this?

Because sometimes inspiration comes from strange places. Weird things happen every day and as  writers sometimes we are so busy staring at a screen full of words we neglect to pay attention to what is happening around us. Characters are everywhere. Stories are everywhere.

Inspiration is everywhere—even up a dog’s nose.


Sequel Started

February 1, 2010

Good news! The sequel is off and writing . . . we got our outline done late last week and we have begun to put our fingers to the keyboard. Stay on the lookout for updates here.

We’re moving as fast as we can!


Billy Craig on Characters

January 25, 2010

Please welcome Billy Craig, my guest blogger for today. Bill has a gift for character creation as well as in depth prose. Today he discusses characters.

Characters: Making them real


Bill Craig

When any author sits down to write a book, there is one thing he needs before he can even get started. That is a character. At least that is where I start. I create the character and then build the cast around them and then pretty soon they are creating the story. In my very first novel back in 2000, I created the character of Jack Riley. Riley was a Chicago Police Detective Sergeant with a shadowy past that included time working for the Central Intelligence Agency in Central and South America. He was divorced and had three grown children that his ex-wife had done a good job of convincing that he was the Devil Incarnate.

Now, what kind of character did I need to compliment Riley and give him someone to play off of. Next came Ken Alston, a former Navy SEAL turned cop and Riley’s partner on the CPD. Alston was a divorced father raising two young girls. Next we needed a love interest for Riley and Moria Clark was born. Moria was an investigative reporter for the Chicago Sun and Riley’s off and on girl friend. Next came the hook. Moria’s brother was missing. He was a pilot, working for an oil company doing oil exploration in the Arctic Circle. Moria’s brother makes a discovery in the Arctic and sends her a video tape of what he has found.

The Oil company in the form of its CEO Harlan Esterhaus doesn’t want that tape to get out and sends mercenary killers to retrieve it. Cue the music and start the action and Valley of Death is running like a freight train towards a slam bang finish.

The cast of the Riley books continued to grow, with the introduction of Julie Carr, a cross between Indiana Jones and Lara Croft. Julie made her debut in Mayan Gold and appeared in every book after. The growing ensemble included Riley’s grown son Josiah, a rookie cop on the department, living in his father’s shadow. His older sister Liza also showed up working for the FBI.

Then in the final book of the Riley series, The Mummy’s Tomb, one more character made his debut appearance. Pulp hero Michael “Hardluck” Hannigan made his very first appearance as a former mentor and family friend of archeologist adventurer Julie Carr. Hardluck Hannigan was an interesting character and I liked him so much, it spawned him his own series.

The Fantastic Adventures of Hardluck Hannigan started with Emerald Death and we meet young Mr. Hannigan for the first time as a young man on a tramp steamer as it arrives in the Congo. In The Mummy’s Tomb, Hardluck Hannigan was in his eighties, so this gave me the opportunity to explore the character and the events that forged him into the man he would eventually become. To say the least it was a daunting challenge.  Because it made me have to go back and look at where exactly Mike Hannigan had come from.

Mike Hannigan was born in a small town in Indiana. His father was a war hero in WWI and a member of the elite Fighting Hawks led by Colonel Dane Hawkins. As he got closer to 18 years old, Hannigan ran off to New York looking for adventure. Carrying a .45 that was a gift from his father, Hannigan found work as a strong arm man for one of the Irish Mobs. Not exactly heroic right? But then this series is about the coming of age and the transformation of boy into man into hero. After a run in with the Mafia and the death of a mobster’s son at the hands of his friend, Hannigan finds himself shouldering the blame and is given the option of fleeing the country by his boss. He takes it and takes work as a seaman on the tramp steamer The African Queen heading for Africa.

One thing about working on a series set in the 1930’s and 40’s is that it allows room for certain in-jokes, especially if you happen to be a fan of old movies like me. The African Queen is one such joke, an homage to the Bogart movie. On the voyage to Africa Hannigan has made friends with the ship’s Russian first mate, Gregor Shotsky. Gregor is an interesting character in his own right, a Russian expatriate who fled Russian with the fall of the Czar. Gregor is a man of science, but also a warrior in his own right. His is the voice of reason that more often than not off-sets the younger Hannigan’s brash fly by the seat of your pants way of doing things.

Together the two men find themselves drawn into a quest to recover an enchanted gemstone said to carry the power to grant eternal youth. The catch, they aren’t the only ones after it and it happens to be held by the legendary Priest-King Prester John deep within the dark Jungles of The Congo. Along the way they meet an interesting assortment of characters from river pirates to a sailor named Rhino Hayes, and a Priest working as a missionary that fought along side Hannigan’s father in the Big War. The priest has an adopted daughter that catches the eye of Hardluck Hannigan and hangs his nickname on him because “you have the hardest luck of any man I ever met,” the lovely red-haired Bridget O’Malley tells him. From his introduction to the end of Emerald Death, we can see a transformation in Hardluck Hannigan. From a man on the run, to a man with an appointment with destiny.

In each of the subsequent books, more cast members have arrived, and Hannigan is well on the way to becoming a hero. He is guided by a deep sense of responsibility for his friends and is not especially sure he likes being forced into the role of a leader. The second book The Sky Masters hails the arrival of Abigail Grayson, and heir to the house of Greystoke as Hannigan’s new love interest. This time Hannigan and his friends face off against a flying legion that are using flying saucers recovered by the Nazi’s from a hidden base in the Arctic.

The third adventure finds the intrepid adventurers traveling to the Amazon to search for the legendary adventurer Sir Percy Fawcett who had vanished in the Amazon while searching for a fabled lost city said to be the last Atlantean outpost. It was interesting writing a real character from a fictional pov. Figuring out Fawcett’s personality and mannerisms from books and reports was certainly interesting. The relationship continues to grow between Hannigan and Abigail and it reaches a pretty serious place.

The fourth title in the series reveals a secret that Abigail has been keeping from Hannigan, and it starts to affect their relationship. Gee sounds almost like a real couple doesn’t it? Through words and actions, you can make your characters very real, not only to yourself but to your readers as well. The fifth Hannigan book which will be out this spring, brings Hannigan face to face with his first love Bridget and that causes certain tensions with Abigail. The Curse of the Kill Devil will be a pivotal point in the development of Hardluck Hannigan and will affect his future for a long time to come.

I started my third series because I wanted to try my hand at writing straight mystery without the high adventure stuff getting into the story. To do that, I needed a private eye, one that had a lot of connections. Sam Decker, P.I. was born. Decker is a former DEA agent that “retired” himself when he got fed up with watching the crooks walk away after getting their hands slapped. He took up residence on a small island in the Florida Keys called Scorpion Cay. He has had a off and on romance with Monica Sinclair the Chief of Police on Scorpion Cay.

One of the most interesting characters that I have come up with is Joe Collins. Self-contained, quiet, doesn’t say much unless he has something to say. With Collins you learn more from his actions than his words, but his words are important. Collins is the cop hero of my noir suspense thriller The Butterfly Tattoo. Collins is a man that is driven to do his job. His wife was murdered, possibly by the very serial killer that he is hunting. Is he too close to the case? Or not close enough? Will he be able to handle the truth if he finds out? Or will he totally lose it? All important questions that need to be answered by both the character development and the plot itself. For example, here is how the reader is introduced to Joe Collins.

Joe Collins looked out at the night. Raindrops splashed against the window then flowed down in small rivulets to the ledge, pooling there until the pools grew too large and then flowed over the edge. He picked up the tumbler of whiskey and ice from his desk, sipping it as he watched the rain. Charlie Parker was playing on the stereo, the soft melodies haunting the room and his mood like the ghost of an old friend. Soon he would abandon this refuge to go out into the streets.

Collins studied his reflection in the window. Dark hair, chiseled features that cast sharp dark shadows over his flesh in the room’s half-light. His eyes were cobalt blue, piercing looking, almost black in his reflection. Somewhere, out there on those rain swept streets was a girl in grave danger. Danger she didn’t even know about, but marked nonetheless by a killer with a burning passion.

One thing marked her, just as it had marked his other victims; a butterfly tattoo. The whiskey burned its way to his belly, despite having been poured over ice to cool and dilute its fire. He needed the fire in his belly to warm him, to help focus him on finding ‘The Butterfly Killer’ as the press had taken to calling the newest serial sensation to grip their attention. Four young women from various walks of life, no known connection between them, yet all linked by two things: they were embellished with a butterfly tattoo and brutally murdered.

That introduction sets the tone for the character and lets the reader know that he is a man who will pursue his quarry to the bitter end. It also gives the reader a visual impression of him that they didn’t get from the cover because he doesn’t appear on it. They know instantly that Collins is a cop to be reckoned with. All of my titles are available on Amazon.

Good Morning all!

I’m happy to introduce today’s guest blogger, Elizabeth Sweetman, second place winner of my Redemption contest. She wrote a great story about . . . well, you’ll just have to go back a few entries and read it. And keep reading here because she’s going to tell you about it below!

Have a great day,


“Tell Me About It. Maybe I’ll Give You a Book”

by Elizabeth Sweetman

J.B. Kohl invited me to write a 500 word story about a flawed character on the Second Wind Publishing group on goodreads. An invitation I just couldn’t resist. The contest was about my two favorite things: reading and writing.

I’ve been reading and writing for most of my life. The wonder of words on a page which take the reader to places never imagined was incredible to me as a four year old and it’s a marvel that continues today. As a kid I decided I loved stories so much that I should write my own. Aside from plagiarizing “The Emperor’s New Clothes” (a gift to my second-grade teacher; I adored both the story and Miss Maguire equally), I’ve been writing my own stories, essays, journals and observations ever since.

This invitation from Ms. Kohl galvanized and worked the story “Lying in State” into a 500 word piece of exactly what I wanted to write about a funeral home getting struck by lightening because it really happened in the summer of 2008.

There was no warning on that humid day and I had never experienced a supercell of weather. When lightening struck less than a block away from our house, it felt like a bomb exploded. It intrigued me that the chimney of a funeral home was hit. The fire department was there within less than five minutes and from what I could see, only the chimney was blasted apart, although they were hosing down the roof and the lawn. The newspaper carried the story the next day, just a small piece which was more about the weather. It did mention that the inside of the funeral home was coated in ashes. I wondered who, if anyone could have been lying in there to elicit such a strong message from the powers that be? There was my story.

Unfortunately my story went nowhere when I started writing it. I was getting bogged down in details of why the flawed character, Royal Hellmann Dorset III was such a creep and his saga was barely limping into what was supposed to be an explosion that reveals this bad guy in his final resting place. The more I added, the less flawed and more boring my character.

The invitation to write in 500 words or less was a challenge to be certain. My first attempt at shortening it resulted in a far better tale but it was over 1.500 words. She wants the impossible! I thought of Ms. Kohl but started I whittling away at it and discovered that less was more with this story. I am delighted it came in second.

I had an art teacher in high school, a gifted artist who once said she would die if she couldn’t paint. That statement had a profound impact on me. Was there anything I do that would cause me to die if I couldn’t do it any longer? It was her passion and conviction that struck me more than her actually dying if she couldn’t paint. As a high school kid, I was certain I would die without music, running, my friends, my LL Bean boots…and I wrote all about it in my journal. I love to write, I need to write.

I am not a writer by profession, I work as a registered nurse to help buy the things we like around us: a house, cars, food, heat and clothes. It’s a good job. It’s difficult and demanding but always interesting. I wasn’t called to it, I didn’t want to be a nurse from the age of four. I became a nurse when I was thirty after realizing that while picture framing was the best job I ever had, it was a tough way to make a living.

There have been stretches of time, years even that I’ve done very little writing except keeping a journal. Life rears it’s beautiful or ugly head and takes my concentration and time. Creativity must be directed to more concrete things, mostly family and work, then beekeeping, baseball and bicycles although not always in that progression. We have two dogs that keep me pretty busy too.

I’ve had more time and inspiration lately as well as a desire to write much more. Most of the writing I think is worthwhile goes on my blog: I have a second blog on wordpress for finished writing which is I’ve been posting on an incredibly fun blog, which challenges one to put a story to a picture. It’s not just that I write a story to these fantastic pictures, I’ve read some extraordinary poetry and stories from other writers as well, it’s very enlightening.

The importance of writing well has come from what I read. My influences are Jane Austen, E.M. Forster, W. Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh, Henry James and E.B. White. In this amazing modern age we live in, I am still trying to figure out how to manage putting my work in the right place.

In closing, I have this to say: J.B Kohl is as a remarkable woman. She’s a gifted writer, I’m reading One Too Many Blows To The Head, co-written with Eric Beetner (congratulations on that successful joint venture–I’d never successfully co-write, I’m tyrannical in writing). I am struck by her reaching out to other writers for the contest of the 500 word short story. I imagine the response must have been great, like any general call for authors. I can’t imagine going through all those entries and I had a good laugh at her 2nd rule: “Prose should be lighthearted and humorous. It’s the holiday season and I don’t want to get all suicidal”. The guidelines made “Lying in State” good but nothing beat the thrill of being recognized by a published author. Sweetman, 1/13/2010

Contest Winners

January 7, 2010

Congratulations to J. Conrad Guest and Elizabeth Sweetman, winners of our latest short story contest. The mission: to write a 500 word story about redemption that dazzled. I’m posting the stories here for your entertainment.

On Monday, Mr. Guest will be blogging from here. Ms. Sweetman will also be posting from here, so keep checking back.

And now, here’s some great work:

A Case of Writer’s Block

By J. Conrad Guest

I once had a life outside this park. Years ago, and it was a pretty good one, too. I’d been a private investigator and some of the cases I worked on would’ve made good reading had they been fictional. As a matter of fact, my last case had started out as a simple missing person—an attractive young woman from Gramercy Park had hired me to find her missing father.

It seems her father had, for six years, been on the lam from a very elite overseas group. When I finally caught up with him, he spun a wild yarn about an alternate reality future in which the Nazis had won World War II. Of course the story sounded crazy to me, and I hadn’t believed any of it, but I couldn’t disbelieve the two Germans after him—I’d met them both.

That was 50 years ago and all I remember until …

I first noticed the tall man passing through the gate at 86th Street. Obviously he was a tourist, with a Yankees cap pulled down over his eyes, wearing a University of Michigan t-shirt, and holding hands with a pretty woman who had eyes only for him. He looked familiar—slender with broad shoulders and gray hair showing from beneath the edges of his cap. Because I have a good mind for names and faces, I knew I’d never seen him before; yet I felt we had unfinished business between us.

Our eyes met as we passed, going in opposite directions, and I saw brief recognition in his eyes followed by a look of shame mingled with guilt. The woman holding his hand, oblivious to the look we exchanged, laughed and whispered, “So do you love me just a little, J. Conrad Guest?” and the name registered, although I couldn’t say from where or when. That feeling of unfinished business grew stronger.

I followed the two of them across Central Park, not intending to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help but hear bits and pieces of their conversation—two lovers on vacation from someplace in Michigan, and something about an unfinished novel and the writer’s block that seemed to have crippled the man’s creativity.

Just before they exited the park from its west side, the tall man glanced back at me. I considered pretending I hadn’t noticed, but somehow I knew I couldn’t pretend anything in front of him: he had known I was here from the moment he entered the park. Even from a distance I could see his nearly imperceptible nod. A smirk came to his mouth; a moment later he winked at me and turned to leave the park with the woman.

The exchange puzzled me, yet it seemed to comfort me as well. Somehow I knew this tall man who seemed familiar but whom I had never met, knew me intimately. I also knew that he wouldn’t forget me in this park, and that one day soon my life outside its walls would resume …

Lying in State

by Elizabeth Sweetman

Royal Helmann Dorset III was lying in state at Colbin’s Funeral Home dressed in his navy wool suit, a crisp white shirt and his favorite silk tie. In his hands was a small, new bible. Jack Colbin had done a nice job with Roy, his final resting pose was dignified. His face had the same expression in death as it did in life, he didn’t look dead.

It was quiet at Colbin’s. In two hours the hushed gathering of mourners would stand in small huddles, murmur it was a blessing Roy didn’t suffer and solemnly shake Luella’s hand while telling her they were sorry for her loss. The wake of Royal H. Dorset III would last about 3 hours. In accordance with his final wishes, all mourners would have to file past his open casket (it was their choice to pause or kneel) to pay respects to Luella Jeanne Hastings Dorset.

The weight of the silence in Corbin’s pressed in on the windows and doors. Suddenly the air was exploded! The deathly stillness was destroyed by a supercell which broke directly over Cobin’s Funeral Home. Lightening struck the chimney, made a hole in the roof which smoldered while bits of burning wood, shingles and brick pelted the green manicured lawn.

The fire department responded within five minutes. Thankfully the lightening strike didn’t cause the whole building to blow up. The damage was limited to the chimney, a small area of the roof and to the main room with the fireplace. Ash and cinders blew down coating everything in a layer of gray dust. Some cinders scattered about the fireplace and made small burns where they landed. The very unfortunate thing about the room was the body of Royal H. Dorset lay in it. Damage to the room was superficial, Colbin’s staff would have it ready for the wake that afternoon. But the body, there was no quick fix to that.

The corpse’s skin was singed and peppered. The blast had retracted his lips from his teeth and caused his hands, comfortably clasping the small bible, to pull back and upward. His head, which rested on the soft white pillow rose several inches. His peacefully glued-shut eyes were wide open. It looked like good old Roy had gotten a hard glimpse at his future and it wasn’t pretty.

Jack Colbin could have, with time and hard work, repositioned Roy back to his comfortable repose but there was nothing he could do about the skin or lack of lips and eyelids. As it was, all Jack could do was slam the lid of the casket closed and inform the Widow Dorset that it would be impossible to fulfill her departed husband’s wishes for an open casket.

Not one single mourner present at the wake (which took place one hour late due to the unexpected weather) was disappointed with the closed casket of Royal Helmann Dorset III. No one wanted one last look at that smug face.

Merry Christmas!

December 25, 2009

Season’s Greetings to one and all!

If the turkey (or ham or whatever you eat on this holiday) is in the oven, everyone has opened their gifts and you have a few minutes, sit down, take a load off, and read something.

Each and every member of my family asked for books this year. Our oldest son, Nathan, now 17 years old and taller than his dad, asked for authors like China Mieville, Neil Gaiman, and H.P. Lovecraft. I believe he received over ten books as gifts this year as well as a hefty gift card to Amazon.

Eric, age 13, and obsessed with weaponry designed to kill zombies asked for Neil Gaiman too, but for a younger crowd. We got him The Graveyard Book, about a boy raised by ghosts. He also got The Zombie Survival Guide so the next time we go to Home Depot, we’ll know exactly what we should by should the Zombie Apocalypse of 2012 come to pass. I wonder if I should be concerned that he’s had the book less than 24 hours and is on page 150.

Maisy, age 10, asked for the Guinness Book of World Records for 2010. We spent some time yesterday studying the longest fingernails, the longest hair, the biggest tumor . . . it only goes downhill from there.

Chris, my husband, got stacks of books: gem and rock books, landscape painting, travel guides, Stephen King, and I can’t even think what else.

And me? Of course I asked for books. Mary Rhinehart, Agatha Christie, all the 2W authors, and even Neil Gaiman for me as well.

As everyone opened their gifts I marveled at how many books we’ve added to our libraries in this house. I don’t mean to make our kids sound like they are total nerds . . . of course they play video games and these were asked for (and received) this Christmas. But they all asked for books. And isn’t it amazing what a great gift a book is? To give a book is to give another world, another life, another amazing set of experiences totally different from that of the recipient and yet something that will affect him / her for a lifetime.

I’d like to take the credit for instilling a desire for reading in my children. But I can’t. I encourage them, of course. The school encourages them as well. But in the end, I believe it is what can be uncovered in books that sells itself to people. Because anything can be found in books. Anything. And everything.

So while I’d like to beat this dead horse a little longer, I’m can’t. I’ve got some reading to do.

Merry Christmas everyone!
J.B. Kohl

The Meaning of Profound

December 9, 2009

Years ago my father drove a great deal for his job. If he was in a small college town, he’d bring me a spiral-bound notebook with the college crest on the front for me to use as a journal. I filled numerous notebooks from the University of Nebraska at Lincoln, Kearney State College (it wasn’t a University back then), Dana College, Doane College, Wayne State College . . . you get the idea.

They were simple notebooks and I filled them with rants about high school frustrations, job issues, stories, and even the occasional poem tainted with the romantic delusions of a teen-aged girl. (ahem)

Anyway, I didn’t care what I wrote. I didn’t censor myself or criticize myself. I just wrote.

When I was in college, my older sister gave me a beautiful journal with a picture of Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Starry Night on the front. Like all the notebooks I used before, this was spiral bound. But instead of a cardboard front, it had a thick, glossy cover and screamed TALENT and ART and DON’T PUT ANYTHING ON THESE PAGES THAT ISN’T PERFECT.

Understandably, it sat unused. When I started medical school, I copied, cut, and pasted anatomical figures, lists, class notes (typed, of course) inside and used it as a pocket reference during rounds. I refused to touch a pen to the pages lest anyone think I was pretentious enough to believe I had talent.

However, even though I was engrossed in class work geared to take me in a scientific direction, I still wrote in secret, scribbling thoughts on scraps of paper when the mood struck, writing funny Christmas cards, thinking of funny characters and the like. People bought me journals for gifts . . . beautiful journals with cloth covers and perfect pages. But I continued to hide my desire to write like some sort of leprous lesion and I rarely brought any of those journals out or used them.

Occasionally I tried to document (yes, document) the first words of my children or funny stories or even feelings . . . but everything sounded clinical. Too afraid to make a mistake on the pages, I wrote carefully, determined to keep my thoughts organized and numbered, just like I’d been taught in school. If I had nothing profound to say, then I had nothing to say.

Eventually I grew up and got over myself. Writing will always be something I do. My words may not change the world; they may not stop global warming or clear up acne, but they are my words and it is okay for them to matter to me.

I’m thinking of my oldest son as I write this. He’s an incredibly talented writer. Several months ago we gave him a leather journal to write in. When I noticed he wasn’t using it I asked him why. He said he felt he had to write something “profound” inside. “Profound.” That was his exact word. I was only too happy to show him the journal I use now . . . a beautiful, refillable, leather-bound journal with hand-torn pages . . . a gift from my husband and kids last year.

He looked at the cover and said only, “I’ve seen that before. You got it last year.”
So I opened it up for him and let him have a good look at what I write these days. Today, my beautiful book contains story ideas, shopping lists, sketches (and I can only draw stick people), funny stories, first chapters for books I’d like to write someday, angry rants, reminders, ticket stubs from dates with my husband, playbills, and too much else to name here. In short, my journal contains all sorts of things that make me who I am. I’m not afraid to put words inside a beautiful book. My words don’t have to be profound; they just have to come from me.

I hope if you are a writer you don’t let the appearance of your notebook intimidate you. I hope you don’t shy away from writing in public because you are embarrassed to want to share your craft with others. And I hope you keep writing because life is short and filled with so many good things worth dreaming and writing about.

—J.B. Kohl

So my pal, Eric had a book signing at Mystery Bookstore in L.A. about two weeks ago. A minor hitch occured and there were no books for him to sign at the actual signing.

Thus, in an unprecedented (I am sure) maneuver, the dedicated author hoofed it door to door to deliver to the folks who ordered it.

Check it out.

Hand delivering signed copies of One Too Many Blows To The Head from Eric Beetner on Vimeo.


So a year ago . . . October 22, 2008 to be exact, Eric and I crossed the last ‘t’ and dotted the last ‘i’ of One Too Many Blows To The Head and began sending it out into the world to make friends and maybe find a home.

Publishers tended to shy away from such an unusual collaboration– a book written in two first person narratives by two people who have never met? Would it work? Would people read it?

I’m thankful and proud to say that Second Wind took a chance on us. And One Too Many Blows To The Head isn’t the only book being sent out into the world right now. We are honored to share the spotlight with JJ Dare and Pat Bertram.

JJ Dare is the author of False World, the second title of the Joe Daniels trilogy. Dare is sponsoring a contest for a book giveaway. Scare her real bad in fifty words or less and you could win a free book.

Pat Bertram’s new release is Daughter Am I, a story about a girl, her inheritance, and the danger she finds herself in when she starts poking around in the past.  Bertram is sponsoring a treasure hunt on her blog. The prize: the one and only proof copy of Daughter Am I.

Eric Beetner, soon to be proud father of not one, but two beautiful daughters, is also hosting a contest. Prizes: newest thrillers from Second Wind.  Answer a question based on the central theme of each book, wow him, and you win.

And since I love a good contest and a great story, I want you to try to wow me as well. Give me a story about a flawed character, any flawed character who is in need of a second chance or a “do over”. Click here for full information.

Rules for my contest are:

  1. 500 words or less (I already said that but I’m saying it again)
  2. Prose should be lighthearted and humorous. It’s the holiday season and I don’t want to get all suicidal.
  3. Material needs to be original (That goes without saying, of course.)
  4. Deadline is December 15.
  5. Send story to

First Place gets a signed copy of One Too Many Blows To The Head and a signed copy of The Deputy’s Widow. Second Place gets a signed copy of One To Many Blows To The Head.

Both winners will have their material posted on my blog, “Toeing and Typing the Line.”

But wait, there’s more! I love meeting writers. I love hearing about other writer’s methods for work. Winners will be presented with a guest appearance on my blog to give us the lowdown about writing habits, methods of success, opinions on writing, aspirations, etc.

So do you think you’ve got what it takes? Huh? Do ya? Do ya?

That’s all I’ve got. I’m heading back to my bowl of Chex Mix and dreaming of pie. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving folks!


I married a Nordic god. He’s tall, blond, rugged, chiseled . . . all those things you read about in a romance novel that make you sigh. He’s also brilliant, which is a good thing in the Oracle database world.

Unfortunately, he suffers from what many brilliant people suffer from . . . it’s a little something I call “the butterfly effect.” (No, not the real butterfly effect . . . something else entirely as you will see.)

In his Belgariad series, David Eddings describes a situation when the protagonist, Garion, is coming to terms with his powers. He has embarked on a quest with a group of warriors. On the journey, they rescue and adopt a young colt.

Garion, unsupervised, decides he will attempt to hurl a boulder with his mind. Aparently in the world of magic, the same laws of physics apply as in the normal world. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The boulder is tossed and Garion finds himself sunk into the ground to his neck and unable to move.

Being the wizard that he is, the boy telepathically summons his horse to go for help. He links his mind with that of the colt and sees . . . flowers, butterflies, bees, birds . . . and senses the young colt scampering off in pursuit of these follies instead of bringing the trapped Garion the help he needs.

This, my friends, is the butterfly effect. And my husband has made it a sport. He, in fact, is its top athlete.

He will exit the front door. His destination: mailbox. Distance: fifty yards. Twenty minutes will go by. Twenty become thirty. Thirty become forty. I’ll peek out to check on him only to find he is standing waist high in prairie grass studying a spider web or a sapling or a flower in our daughter’s butterfly garden, a stack of mail tucked safely under his arm.

He is a considerate man, my husband. “Do you need anything, honey?” he asks. “Love a Diet Coke,” I say. “Sure thing. Right away.”

One hour later, he’ll join me in the living room, knowing only that we spoke sometime earlier . . . although he can’t quite remember what was said.

If we go to Jamestown or Yorktown to see the sites or on a guided tour, he lags behind, savoring every moment, examining every artifact. When he’s done with that, he studies the trees and the dirt and the plants and anything else he can see or touch or smell.

Now, you may think I’m poking fun at him . . . and I guess I am. But what you need to know is that these things set an example for me.

In her book, If You Want To Write, Brenda Ueland stresses the importance of recognizing the need to pay attention to “now.” “What is happening to me now.”  She recognized that writers spend a lot of time inside their own heads, hosting conversations between characters, dreaming of plot, pushing forward. We forget to stop and smell the roses.  And sometimes, the best ideas for scene description or mood in a chapter can come from the things we observe if we’ll only take the time to look.

I try to be like my husband. I try to be more observant. Often I fall short. I cannot be the athlete. I can only be the athletic supporter.

What about you? Is there someone who sets an example for you, forces you to slow down a little bit? Someone who influences you in weird ways?

I’d love to hear about it.