Hello and Happy New Year whether you celebrate or not,

I know this is a few days early but that’s okay. I got a nice note a couple of weeks ago from an impressive agent who, as you probably already guessed, did not take my book on but did say a few nice things about it or about Owen and suggested I join a writer’s group to have the book critiqued because there were issues of mechanics she felt didn’t make the book ready for a publisher. I took the news well, you have to as a writer because rejection is the main part of the business, other than the writing. I thought about her advice, joining a writer’s group, but nixed it a little later; for one reason, there are no writer’s groups in my area and my life is a little too hectic now to fully participate in any group let alone a writers where I would need to find the time to read others work and give thoughtful, credible evaluations, I would hate not to take someone else’s work seriously and give it the attention it deserves.

Another reason, I don’t think I’ll be good among other writers because I haven’t been around many. I’m use to writing on my own, I wouldn’t know how to act or how to share my work, or how to take criticism or I'd take it as law and change whatever someone suggest I change. Maybe, I’m just making too much of it. I decided not to join a writer’s group—unless I stumble across a terrific one and have the time for it—and to seek out a terrific editor instead. I feel this solution is just as good; maybe better, it’ll be a one-on-one process with someone who will “see the forest” where I, as a writer, can’t and who will help make the book as close to perfect as it can be. There is usually a solution and one should always be found when it comes to making your good book, terrific and I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to make my novels wonderful, novels that people truly want to read.

I’ll finish the second novel, find a terrific editor that would help make the book just that much better and keep writing. Keep writing, that’s always the ticket.

Writing either can help you stay sane or make you insane, your choice.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Holidays for those who celebrate,

Just an early note; are you writing? I am and it feels wonderful, I hope to have at least the first draft of my book down and done for the holidays, I just have to keep at it and make it happen. Writing is always work but what makes it good work—if you’re lucky, blessed—are a number of things: you’re writing a story you love, it surprises and excites you while you’re getting the words done and you can’t wait to get to the next page to see what happens next; knowing those pages—sometimes good other times awful to be discarded later—are just part of the process of creating five pages, ten, fifty, one-hundred, a novel; and finally in the end a work that is complete and you still feel wonderful about it.

May you write many good novels , many good stories,

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Hapy Friday,

Try it, I hope you like it. Any comments good or bad, let me know.

Lori


GHOST TOWN

By
Lori Mathews-Shabazz
mathewsla@hotmail.com















“The phone rang while Detective Owen Story was making love to his wife.
“Leave it,” Lorna slid her hands up his chest as he rose toward the phone on the bedside stand, “It’s one in the morning.”
She looked into his eyes, the look in hers a mixture of passion and the moon light gently lighting the room. She’s beautiful Owen thought, gazing down at her before glancing at the ringing phone.
Who the hell was it? He wasn’t on duty tonight so it couldn’t be the station. News of a dead relative? Pop? But they’d seen him only a few hours ago and he’d been fine. I should just let it ring until the party on the other end gives up, but it rang again and again as he and Lorna stared at each other.
“They’re not giving up,” he said. “I’ll just get rid of whoever it is.” Lorna plopped back onto the bed as he picked up the receiver.
“Owen,” he heard and knew the voice, its sound clearing his mind.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I need your help.”
Without hesitating, “All right, in forty-five minutes at Babe’s.” He hung up, gathering himself before turning toward her. She’d turned on her side, her back to him.
“Giordano,” she stated it cold with bitter resignation. “Only he would have the nerve to—”
He put a restraining hand on her hip, “I promise not to be too long.”
“You haven’t seen him in more than a year, he calls up out of no where and bang; you’re gone.”
He rose off the bed and over to the closet pulling out jeans, a sweater and dressing quickly.
“Hey,” she rolled over, a slow inviting smile turning up her lips as she drew the sheet down her body, “I’ll be asleep when you return.” Her voice was soft, alluring, lighting the challenge in her green eyes, “And then it’ll be too late.”
He stumbled putting on his shoes as he silently cursed his friend but saying only, “I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Grabbing his jacket, he left the room without looking back.
“Already too late,” he heard her say as he closed the door behind him.
Forty minutes later, cold and furious at himself for leaving her, he stood behind Babe Brothers Car Emporium staring at empty brand new Chryslers and stomping his feet for warmth. I’m crazy, nuts; look at me, out here freezing-- by myself--while my wife is naked and warm at home and if I were there together we would—he shut off the thought closing his eyes; there was no use thinking about what they could be doing right now, hell, what Lorna may never do with him again, it was only making this night that much colder and him feel just that much more a shit.
Ten minutes later, a dark blue Econoline van with the word’s Rudy’s Reliable Carpet Company printed on its side pulled up, the passenger door falling open. Inside, Owen looked at the man he hadn’t seen for a long time. Giordano hadn’t changed much still looked like the young man who’d laughingly helped him fight off bullies eons ago; before life had given up a world of choices before kicking your ass for choosing the wrong ones.
“I need you to go with me back to Straw Martin,” Giordano said pulling away from the lot out onto the highway, his eyes on the road. Owen stared at him surprised as Giordano calmly glanced back, “Hopefully, this won’t take all night.”
“I haven’t been back,” Owen admitted, “not since the funeral.”
“Welcome home then.”
Without another word, Giordano headed the van toward their old stomping ground, the small town of Grange, Long Island and Owen’s old neighborhood, a place he hadn’t though about—at least not pleasantly—for six years, not since he’d buried his mother there.
As they made their way through, Owen sadly saw it had deteriorated even more than he remembered: more streets made up of second hand furniture stores, pawnshops and boarded up buildings sitting beside rickety, run down apartments and dilapidated houses with saggy porches and peeling paint.
Nearing Straw Martin, Owen realized he’d never wanted to call it home, though it had always been the residence of blue-collar workers living from paycheck to paycheck because they had no choice; who made do with what they had; who rented rundown apartments; who paid for the necessities on a week-to-week basis; who rarely looked toward the future because they couldn’t afford to or believed they didn’t have one. He knew it well, the neighborhood and them because he’d been one and feared he’d always would be.
Giordano turned the van onto Wasford, a street Owen didn’t know; lined with small apartment houses and storefront businesses with thick iron gates pulled across their fronts. The street looked better than most they’d passed through, though signs of poverty and desperation were still clearly visible in the empty shops and broken down derelict cars haphazardly parked.
Giordano pulled the van around back of a small variety store. Through a small window on it side Owen thought the place looked dark and empty. Giordano parked next to the backdoor and got out, Owen followed as Giordano opened the van’s backdoors wide before entering the shop.
Looking from the van’s open doors to the store’s dark entrance, Owen stayed put; he was bothered by the set up without knowing why.
“ Come on,” Giordano stepped out into a strip of moonlight that brightened one half of his face leaving the other side dark, hidden and Owen jumpy at the sight. “It’s all right.”
Finally stepping over the threshold Owen glanced once over his shoulder as he and stomped on the urge not to go any farther, to turn back, no-- run back--though it was already too late and he’d known it the instant he’d gotten in beside Giordano. He followed him down a narrow hall into a large room brightened only by the ambient lamp light coming through the small window.
“Wait, I’ll hit the switch,” Giordano said.
A few seconds later the lights flared. “Oh shit,” Owen expelled a shock of air as his gaze fell on the body of an obese man sprawled face down on the grimy linoleum floor. A pair of steel framed glasses lay bent and broken underneath half the man’s face. “Oh, shit,” he repeated. “Is he dead?”
“Should be,” Giordano answered as he came over and stood beside him. “If he isn’t, he’s doing the best imitation of a dead guy I’ve ever seen.”
Owens’s eyes moved over the swelled heavy body which lay covered in a fine white dust reminding Owen morbidly of the laughing, playful doughboy on the cookie commercials. Scanning the table the man part way beneath; he took in the scattered baking utensils and the spilled box of flour suddenly realizing he was looking at a murder scene, though he saw no weapon or any other sign of what caused the man’s death.
“Dare I ask who he is and what happened?”
Giordano looked at him shrewdly, “Are you asking as my friend or as a cop?”
“A cop?” Owen snapped, angry now instead of scared half out of his mind. “Would I be here if I let my being a cop get in the way?”
Giordano grinned, “Take it easy.”
“Christ,” Owen said; he’d been a detective-third-grade for only six months and was sensitive about it. “Who is it?”
“Someone my father used to know.”
“You do this?”
Giordano shook his head, “My old man put him out of his misery, but it’s up to me to take him to his final resting place; with your help I hope. Because as you can see it won’t be like moving a piano.”
“More like two at once.”
They didn’t speak for a long time, just stared at the body, weighing the circumstances and contemplating what they had to do at its most basic level, putting aside any questions--having no choice but to do so--of rightness or morality, there wasn’t time for them and at this point, staring down at a murdered guy how do you turn back?
What am I about to do here? Owen caught the tail end of the question as it skittered across his mind into the darkness. This is a crazy, unreal, nuts for chrissakes. Yet, he’d known the moment he stepped into the room, whatever he was getting into wasn’t a quilting bee.
“Wait a minute; I thought you and your father had parted ways because you don’t want anything to do with his business.”
“No change there,” Giordano’s dark eyes flickered with quick pain before smoothing out again. “We’re still at opposite ends of the world on just about everything; but this here is different, this I had no choice. He was Peter Costello and when my father was twenty-two and sent up for the first and last time, this piece of human waste product,” he nudged the body with the toe of his right shoe, “along with a couple of his buddies, raped and nearly beat my old man to death.”
Owen was stunned as his mind quickly ran over the solid, unchangeable images in his head of Roberto Giordano: old, with gray beard and hair never having been young, who played the grand piano with bony arthritic fingers in the early mornings to sooth his soul; melancholy, mourning a wife gone for years; frail and thoughtful who looked with long, loving impatience at a son so unlike himself; a man with a rare and beautiful smile who never once questioned his son’s friendship with a poor and defensive nobody whose family cared only about surviving day to day.
“I’m the only other person in the world who knows, besides you. He thought this man was dead like his buddies; he’d checked over the years and found nothing but could only inquire so many times without questions being asked.”
“I was with him when he laid eyes on this tub of shit for the first time in almost forty years. We were at the farmer’s market in Hadley Commons; you remember that one? It comes through every other Saturday. He called me up to drive him over because he wanted fresh spinach to make wedding soup for these cold nights. We hadn’t spoken for a while, had argued…and well you know the story, Owen. Lucky me right?”
“Anyway, I’m standing there looking at these tomatoes bigger than my head—grown with what I don’t know—when I look over and he’s sweating and white as a sheet; I thought he was having a heart attack. I rush over and he acts as if I’m not there; doesn’t say a word just stares at Costello who is standing a few rows over buying eggs. I ask, ‘What is it? Where does it hurt?’ He just shakes his head and tells me to take him home. I didn’t hear from him again until four hours ago.”
“He all right?”
Giordano shrugged, “When I got here I found him shaking all over, unable to catch his breath. He had strangled Costello with his bare hands. Can you imagine that? Over sixty, got high blood pressure, arthritis and he’s a quarter of Costello’s weight, but he manages to kill the fat fuck. After he told me what happened he wanted to stay and help me take care of this but he was in no condition. I sent him home; he could barely put the car in drive. And after a while I called you.”
“Thanks a hell’va lot.”
“You’re welcome,” Giordano laughed then sobered. “You’re the only one I can trust with this.”
“Why move him at all?” Owen looked around the kitchen. Costello obviously sold homemade products making the food right there and selling it out front. “It looks as if he could’ve been the victim of a robbery gone bad or some kind of assault. We could just get out of here and call the police.”
Giordano shook his head, “A robbery couldn’t of happened here; not on this block, not on this street. Almost every store or business around this neighborhood has been held up, five, six times, but not this one; it’s never been touched and never would be.”
“You have to be kidding me?” Owen shook his head, “No.”
“Yes,” Giordano nodded, “Connected. Big time. The Gianconna Brothers in White Plains. So he’s got to disappear; it’s the only way.”
The rules and regulations of gangland life, Owen thought bitterly as they stared down at the dead man.
“This won’t be easy to do,” Giordano said.
They were silent again as their minds rummaged through the possibilities of how they could handle this.
“We’re going to have to hide him in plain sight,” Owen finally said on a deep, weary sigh.
“Not in any of the usual places,” Giordano said. “No new construction sites. Not the dump.”
“Definitely not the dump,” Owen added.
“Or in one of our quaint Long Island bogs.”
After a moment they looked at each other and grinned.
“The cemetery,” they said in unison, ignoring the sheer graveness and possible insanity of the idea just glad to have come up with a solution to their big problem.
“Lakeview on Highland Road,” Giordano suggested. “The front gates are locked at this time of night but there’s a back way few people know, behind the oldest part that’s been more or less abandoned. Come on; let’s get this over with its getting late. Which end you want?”
Owen laughed, the sound almost hysterical, “God, I can’t believe this,” he managed to control himself but had a hard time doing it. “I’ve just made detective, shield not yet blemished and I’m going to commit a crime and get rid of a body; I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, life is funny,” Giordano said and repeated. “Which end you want?”
His eyes closed briefly, Owen said, “I’ll take the bottom half; get his glasses.”
Giordano pulled them from underneath the man’s head causing his face to flop sideways onto the left cheek. His eyes were open and they stared useless and blank, Owen looked away and watched Giordano grab the man under the armpits.
“Okay,” Owen lifted the man’s thick legs up against his sides, tightened his knees and back and prayed. “On three. One, two, lift. Ahhhh,” he grunted. He’d been right; it was like picking up a piano or two by himself. “Jesus,” his knees popped, his back creaked and arms shook with the strain of literally lifting overweight dead weight.
He looked at Giordano who looked like he felt; his face was bright red, his mouth pulled open in a grimace of painful effort.
Quickly baby stepping toward the doorway; Giordano led as they squeezed their load through the door’s frame, dislodging one of the man’s shoes as they went. Moving down the narrow hallway they stopped before the closed door.
“Try and move sideways,” Giordano panted, “so I can get at an angle to open the door.”
Owen stepped the body sideways, his numb arms gripping the man’s legs tighter as his back hit up against the wall, glad to rest a minute as Giordano got one hand up through the man’s armpit and grabbed the doorknob carefully easing the door open part ways. Shuffling over a few steps, he put a foot around the door’s edge and swung it the rest of the way open.
They moved out, breathing hard in thick pulls. At the mouth of the van they took deep breaths, gathered strength and heaved the body onto the van’s floor, it rocked like a boat in a storm before settling on its wheels.
Stumbling back, his arms shaking, “And we have to do it again.” Owen groaned.
“Yeah,” Giordano wiped his sweaty face with a sleeve before slapping at some of the flour that had come off onto his clothes. Stepping up into the van, he placed the body on its back wedging it in place against the wall with rolls of new carpet. Moving into the driver’s seat he said, “Could you get the doors?”
Closing the doors Owen said, “I’ll be right back.”
Inside the building he picked up a roll of paper towels and wet a handful at the sink, then stooping he used them to clean up the outline of the body and the tracks they’d made in the flour. Next, he picked up the shoe before going over to the light switch and using the sleeve of his coat, carefully wiped around the plate before flipping the lights off, again with his coat sleeve. Out in the hall he wiped down the doorknob before easing it open with his shoulder. Outside, again with his sleeve, he closed the door.
At the van, he tossed in the used paper towels before hopping into the passenger seat and holding up the shoe.
“If found, it would’ve caused me trouble,” Giordano said.
An hour later they made their way down a dirt road overgrown on both sides with weeds and dense, black woods. His skin prickling, Owen stared out the window at the harsh moonlight bouncing off row after row of gravestones and monuments spread beyond them in the cemetery proper.
Giordano stopped the van beside a patch of short grass where beyond sat a few rows of overturned tombstones looking like stumps of broken teeth.
“Here we are,” Giordano thumbed behind him as he got out of the van. “He’s lying on the digging tools, could you get’tem.”
“Terrific,” Owen muttered and moved into the back.
Moving the carpets aside, he laid a finger on the body; it was cold and waxy pale. Grimacing, he heaved it over pulling from underneath it two shovels and a pick-ax.
Giordano opened the backdoors and Owen jumped out looking around at the dark, silent woods before joining him. They studied the body like two movers maneuver a side-by-side refrigerator.
“How about I unroll one of the long carpets,” Giordano suggested, “we roll him tight into it and then we can pull the whole thing out and carry it like a fat tube.”
“Let’s decide where we’re going to put him before we carry him all over the place.”
“Behind the last row of graves over there,” Giordano pointed.
“Let’s get this damn thing over with.”
Shrouding the corpse in a long weaved sand colored carpet, Giordano said, “I’ll take the back end while you pull him out.”
Owen grabbed the part facing him by its open end and pulled as Giordano pushed; the mound slide toward him. Tensing his muscles as it began clearing the van; Owen lifted the rug-shrouded corpse keeping it from dropping to the ground as Giordano moved forward, his head clearing the top of the van before jumping down taking hold of his end.
“You ready?”
“ "Hell, yes,” Owen said and they again quick stepped the victim toward his last resting place.
Stepping over an ankle high sagging fence separating the cemetery from the road, they slowly maneuvered their way through and around toppled and deteriorating head stones.
This part must be ages old Owen thought, and forgotten by those who have people buried here. Though hurrying as fast as he could carry a large corpse, he was able to glance at an occasional name and date: Born 1854 Died 1884, Jean Talbot. Good wife and mother; Born and Died Winter of 1908, William Joseph Halloran, the Son We Love.
They passed a few more half-buried stones, the words on them made unreadable by weather and time. They moved behind these onto damp earth covered with leaves and sticks, its soft wet richness Owen could smell even in the harsh cold.
“Let’s dig here,” Giordano dropped his end of the rug. “I’ll get the tools.”
Owen eased his burden to the ground and tightened the rug over the body. He couldn’t look at it again and turned, hand out as Giordano jogged back handing him a shovel.
They dug slowly then fast as the could as time seemed to grow shorter, the early morning hours flying by though they’d had yet to dig the grave Halfway; let alone bury the body and cover it over. Thinking about this and his waiting-still-pissed-off-wife, Owen picked up speed, digging furiously, his muscles straining, his breathing labored as he piled up the dirt behind him.
“What a night,” he said through teeth clenched against the strain of digging, the –need to get this done and the act itself buried as deep in his mind as they would bury the corpse, he viciously punctured the earth with the shovel,. “Here I am, instead of being a good cop cozy at home with my loving wife, I’m deliberately and with knowledge forethought, committing a crime.”
“Come on,” Giordano said, working just as hard at finishing up the job. “The crime’s already been committed; we’re just cleaning it up so to speak and we’ll be done before you know it. And Lorna’ll get over it.” He stopped digging and flashed a grin of sharp white teeth in the moonlight, “Next spring.”
“Shut up and get back to work,” Owen snapped.
They dug as deeply as they thought necessary to hold a three hundred plus pound man. Heaving themselves out of the hole, they wiped sweat and dirt off their hands and faces best they could, resting a few minutes, Owen leaning heavily on the shovel
“Let’s roll it in and then get the hell out of here,” Giordano said.
“You do the honors” Owen stepped back.
Giordano, like a man laying a rug in someone’s nice, suburban home, shoved the carpet forward with the flats of his feet, grunting with the effort as it rolled slowly over and over until it reached the edge of the grave. With one last powerful shove with his right foot, it tipped, motionless for a moment in the cold still air before it rolled over into the hole and hit bottom with a loud whump, the sound reverberating around them; he tossed the glasses in after it.
“Ready?” Owen asked, turning back after looking away from that part of the proceedings. Jackass, he thought, after what you’ve already done tonight you get squeamish at the burial. Picking up the shovel he began tossing dirt into the hole.
Silently they filled the grave as quickly as their frozen fingers would allow, then quickly patting down the earth before throwing tufts of grass and leaves on top of the soil. Finally after what seemed like days, they were done.
Their breaths harsh vapors, “Damn, “Owen said. From his pocket he retrieved the shoe. Bending down, he dug a shallow hole near the grave and stuffed it inside before covering it over.
“No one should be looking here for him anytime soon,” Giordano said, “but just in case…” turning he hurried toward the van, moments later he was back carrying a large oblong sack. Stooping at one end of the grave he removed the sack’s contents and Owen laughed; despite the cold rattling his bones, his troubles at home and what he had done tonight, he laughed.
A headstone, Giordano had produced a headstone and was busily planting it; it was thin, smooth gray stone and totally blank.
“You knew we’d end up here.”
“No we just think alike,” Giordano stood and wiped off his hands. “That’s it.”
They stared down at the grave before Owen said with supreme irritation, “What are we standing around here for?”
Back in the van, gear stowed, they slowly left the cemetery, almost creeping just as they had arrived until they got to the highway where Giordano switched on the lights and sped up. Back at Babe’s Owen got out of the van to stare at his friend through the window.
“I’ll wipe it down,” Giordano said, “then leave it where I found it.”
“If you can help it, don’t ever—ever—ask this kind of shit of me again.”
“I’ll try,” Giordano grinned. “Thanks, Owen. I knew I could count on you; if no one else.”

Owen nodded, not sure if he felt good about that.
“We probably won’t talk for a while.”
“That’ll thrill my wife.”
Giordano laughed, “Be sure to give her my best,” he said and drove off without looking back.
Owen stood for a long time starring after the van and contemplating the night and what they’d done—he’d done. The crime. There was no way of getting around it was there? Was he an officer of the law or a joke? A fraud? By day, a newly minted detective responsible for holding up justice and order, but by night, breaking that pact which may someday come back to haunt him in the shape of a ghostly fat man.
Yet, wasn’t this a special circumstance? An inconceivable situation that had to be taken care of? Giordano was more than a friend, he was the same as a brother. And Giordano’s father could have been killed by the people from White Plains right? So wasn’t his actions justified? Shaking his head, blowing out the thought, a man could justify any damn thing he wanted to live with himself for another day, including being a party to murder.
Tired of thinking in the cold, alone, he filed tonight’s episode away in his heart of deep, dark secrets he prayed would never see the light of day and got into his car. Backing away from the lot he stopped on the brakes,” Lorna,” he’d momentarily forgotten about her; she was going to kill him.
Driving off quickly he wondered if there was a twenty-four hour florist around.


THE END

Hello and Happy Friday,

I still haven't sent my story but will. Look for it and keep writing your stuff too.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hi,

I didn't talk to you last week and I hate to miss my time with you. I hope you had a nice holiday.

I am still working on the story I want to present so I'll have it next week though I'm bad with making deadlines for myself and really shouldn't because I don't keep them. My next Owen Story novel I was thinking I would finish by the end of February but I don't think it'll happen for a number of reasons: I'm a slow writer, I rewrite a lot and more importantly, I want the story to get as close to perfect as possible where I'm satisfied with it and for me this takes lots and lots of time.

So that's why the story is slow but it'll be there and I hope you read it and like it.


Write as much as you can; it can keep the blues away.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Friday,

I was going to submit a short story featuring my character Detective Owen Story today, but I'm not going to because it's not ready, though I wrote it a few years ago.

It's funny how you can re-read something you've written when you could barely write and have gotten a little better (just a little) at the writing game; only then--if you're lucky--can you see how bad was you earlier writing. This is what happened to my Owen Story short-story called Ghost Town. It isn't terrible, but its pretty bad; wordy, too long, confusing and I wouldn't let my dog read it if he could read; so I'm definitely not going to let you guys do it, wasting your time and imagination. So I'm reworking the story and making it better and to my relief I've learned how to do it--somewhat; I hope you think so too.

I'm offering the story next week, the much better version. I hope you get a chance to read it; want to read it and if you have any questions or want to tell me I missed the mark and why, please do, I would love to hear from you.

So next week the story; see ya then.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello,

I hope this note finds you well.

My second novel in the Owen Story trilogy will be out--hopefully--at the end of February 2009. For those who might be interested (one or two folks-possibly) I will put out a short story next Friday ( I want to clean it up a bit) I wrote a while back, it illuminates a part of Owen's life, his long friendship with Richard Giordano--son of a crime boss and pretty shady himself-- and why he is a huge part of Owen's life.

I hope you're interested and want to read it and most important, that if you do, you enjoy it.

Send me something you wrote, I promise to read it.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello, I hope this e-mail finds you well,

You know; its funny how, if you’re known for writing a novel, it makes people think you can write anything and maybe it’s not the truth. I was asked to interview the principal of my son's school and to write it up for the school news letter, I did so with no problem—the principal Mr. Brown is great, the schools terrific and it was and easy story to write---but, it got me thinking about the things I feel—I almost know—I can’t write well or I would struggle like crazy to do such as writing horror. I love horror to read but writing it; gives me the shivers; writing horror is a complicated process exampled by just about every Stephen King novel. It’s not just the scary stuff he gets right, it’s the dead-on (don’t mean to be funny) character development where they are real, even the minor ones , all wonderfully thought out and unforgettable, he’s creating these characters while plotting in the scary stuff happening in mostly ordinary situations; take Carrie for instance. Carrie is a story about teenage angst which is everyday, but the way he uses this as a foundation for terror is phenomenal.

I have tried my hand at two horror short stories and they were not bad, I liked them but there was a reason they were short, I don’t believe I could sustain a larger work. Someday—you never know—I might venture into the unknown land of horror writing but for now I’m definitely sticking with what I feel I write best and for the most part, I’m just working my way around how to do that and have a long way to go, its enough of a challenge; so God willing I be allowed to do it as long as possible.

Keep up the writing,

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hi, back from New York,

I lived through the New York trip, the book signing at the New York Police Museum that I thought would give me a heart attack--it didn't of course and I'm grateful and so very, very glad its over and with and only five people showing, four were employees of the museum, though a guy (a visitor to the museum) did sit and listen for a minute, regardless, I really enjoyed it to my surprise.

I enjoyed it for a list of reasons I'm going to list, a good one too: first, I met up with my close friend GiGi for the first time in four years, she looks wonderful and absolutely made the trip for me; she was so professional, had everything prepared, she even wrote an invoice for me to leave with the museum for the books, I couldn't have made the trip without her. Next, the museum's staff, specifically Iris Stephen, the coordinator, were phenomenal; they were so kind and generous you would have to have lived it to believe it, New Yorkers are terrific no matter what others say, the museum's staff are the best people. Next, the museum itself, beautiful; three floors of the most interesting information on one of our country's largest and diverse police departments, you could spend all your time just looking at all the displays specifically the homage to 911, its terrific, sobering and heartfelt. Next, New York itself, I love New York, it's a town like no other. The museum is located on the Hudson River, across from the Staten Island Ferry, a block from Wall Street and as I stood on the second floor after the reading staring out the window I watched the ships going down the river, the people passing by going into the South Street Seaport, it made me want to stay forever. Last, spending time with old friends I hadn't seen in twenty years over a nice meal at the end of the reading.

I'm glad I made it through the signing and the reading--which I did okay on-- the few folks seemed to pay attention, I'm glad to be home and have it behind me but I will miss New York. Ms. Stephen's, the museums coordinator, invited me back to read the next book in the Owen Story trilogy, I of course gave her a definite; Yes (God willing of course) and believe it or not, I can't wait.

Write what you love, let the rest take care of itself.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello everyone,

This is a mail before I go to New York for the book signing this Wednesday. I’m nervous though my friend Gi, who is going to support me at the signing, told me not to be; that I’ll be fine. I know I will but I’m not just nervous but close to terrified. Most of it is just me, I’m not good in front of people (though I have no idea if people---more than three—will show up) and will sound like an idiot or read like I never learned to read in my life; I cannot wait until Thursday. I’m looking forward though to seeing New York, being there and will let the signing take its course and do the best, the very best I can. If you’re in New York on Wednesday, near the New York Police Museum around noon, come and say hello and tell me not to be too nervous because it won’t last forever.

Write and be concerned about how you feel, no one else,

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello,

I hope you're writing these days. I know there is a lot going on in our world and most of it seems to be bad news and much for us to worry about--well, we shouldn't, at least not too much, things get better--life gets better--so we do all we can, love who we love, be good people, try to do our best, pray always and of course--write--always.


If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Happy Friday and Happy Holiday to those who celebrate Columbus Day--that was too long,

I'm off on Monday which is a very good thing, I'll try and get a little extra sleep but more importantly do some distance writing which means trying to get out more than one or two pages; hopefully five or more. I would like to finish the book which is oh-so-much-wishful-thinking and too much for one day off. As you know I'm a slow as molasses writer and its sometimes frustrating though its the way it is. I'm reading "Books" by Larry MacMurtry and at one point he says he finally connected with a novel he was writing and got the first draft done in three weeks. I was totally envious of that but made myself feel a little better thinking, it's Larry MacMurtry, what else is there to say? So get over it.

I figure in the end it matters little how long it takes to write your novel, its most important that you do it whenever you can and that you end up with a novel, a good one you love.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Friday,

Doesn’t it feel great when you get a line or a lead for your story? Or the right idea that makes that chapter, makes it juicy and worth the effort because it helps build your story ; makes it better? I love getting that zing when you’ve found that connection you needed; it happens all the time or you wouldn’t have a story or a novel, yet when you’re writing it seems like those zings are infrequent, that there’s a long time between them and most of the time you spend plodding, ringing your hands over the right line, the right connection, or worried you’ve following the wrong trail or have veered off into some ridiculous story line that doesn’t do a thing for the work. We all know there are more of the hard writing times than the smooth writing paths, yet the thing is that its worth it; always worth it in the end because you have your book and if we’re blessed, a really good one.

Keep at the writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Friday,

I’m working on getting the invitations and information ready for the book signing in Manhattan. I’m nervous on the one hand that no one will show and on the other, someone will and more than one. I try not to think about it, but when I do I treat it as and upcoming event I want to try and do right and have fun doing.

I concentrate though on the second book which is going okay to my surprise, for a moment I was having what I call a slow down because I was piecing together scenes I wasn’t sure about, trying to get them right. I finally got over the hump and moved move forward and when I did I dropped into the flow of the story which was a relief. Right now I’m smooth sailing which won’t last, yet for right now I’m taking advantage of it and having fun doing the writing. Fun is the key in all things isn't it? Especially the life of writing.

Write always.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Friday,

I keep the drafts of my posts in a folder called Write What You Know and below this is a document folder called, Write What You Love. I think I'll switch folders because for me, writing what you Love is the thing.

Keep at it, never give up, especially when there seems to you more reasson to than not.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello,

I’m eager to get my second book completed or at least a rewrite down, yet its taking time because I’m adding more, fleshing out seriously as I go along. I have been reading a lot because my kid has football practice so I read while I wait and write some too. Yet, the reading has alerted me to something I must walk as a dangerous fine line: details, how much detail I want to use when describing a character, a room, the weather.

I cleave to Elmore Leonard’s rule of writing: skip the boring details, how a character looks, how everything else looks . I believe in this one hundred percent though some parts of writing need details because it gives a scene a depth or feel such as fear and you can only do this by description, the key for me doing it right is by doing it very little.

I try to describe what I need to using only a few words, the best ones which need no explanation, ones that get in and out and don’t detract from the story but keep it moving. I work on this through pages of rewriting like everyone else and still don’t know if I get it right, yet I keep at it until I have cut down to the bone which is my goal and which I feel is what the readers most prefer; not to wade through gunk but get to the story—hopefully a terrific one-- because getting to it is the purpose.

Keep trying, writing, rewriting, never giving up; it’s worth it, it’s everything.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hey, hope you had a good holiday, again, if you’re into it,

I got my October 29th date for the book signing at the at the New York Police Museum in Manhattan, I’m happy about it but not letting it take me over because I have a lot of work I need to do in prep of the visit and doing it will keep me from going crazy worrying about the trip.
I have books to order, invitations to send out, flight and hotel arrangements to make, apply for the police ride-along; a number of details to see to plus work on my second novel—which will save my sanity. I am starting to feel a bit of excitement though not much and not until I get it all done and the only thing left will be go get on that plane.

My second book is going--thank goodness--and adding to it working the New York trip and my family life; I’m moving right along. It’s what life is supposed to be all about right?

Daily writing, no other way to get it done.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Have a happy holiday if you’re into it,

I learned a few days ago I can hold a book signing at the New York Police Museum in Manhattan, on 100 Slip near Staten Island on tentatively October, 29. I am of course thrilled and so far not too nervous, I'm excited; for one, to get the chance to visit New York after all these years, to be alive in that great city. I have an itinerary of three excursions I hope I can do which includes not only the signing at the museum but to get to tour it as well, I have a feeling their police museum is terrific(Cleveland has one too and its a good one) filled with so much of the departments phenomenal history; I hope there’s an exhibit on Frank Serpico and the Knapp Commission.

I also hope to do a Ride-Along out of the 1-9 precinct, this would be terrific though I’m hoping it won’t taint my ideas of police life in the precincts for my novels—it probably will--I’ll just have to keep a rein on it because I’m satisfied with how I depict the police in my novels.

Lastly, I want to meet Mayor Bloomberg, this is not a weird request. I admire him and know he's done a wonder job for the city I'm in love with; so to meet him would be a terrific experience.

That’s my New York trip; unfinalized, but getting there. The most important reason for going there is in reality to get my novel and the next two known in the city they’re set and to also get the real feel, taste and smell of the place I imagine each and every day. I’ll keep you posted if and when I get the okay for parts of my itinerary; I’m going to do what’s necessary to make my trip a success because it’ll help make my novels that much better.

I hope you got to watch Barack Obama’s acceptance speech, it was awe-inspiring and one of the most important things I came away with from the experience was the fact that he or his team had to write it, face that blank sheet and come up with the best words, the sweetest historical references, the here and now experiences of us Americans and put it down on paper; it was an amazing undertaking. Yet, through the miraculous power of putting words and sentences together he's able to inspire the world.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Friday,

I know I do a lot of talking about writing, I say I write but who knows if I do? I do; so here's a short story, flash fiction I think and I hope you like it:



ICE CREAM AND CHRISTMAS TREES


Gerald shivered beside the rows of spruces, firs and pines, smelling their sharp tang as they glowed dark green under the string of Christmas lights. It was twenty degrees but felt colder, maybe because it was Colorado in December or because he’d been standing there for four hours watching people dressed in parkas, snow boots and ski hats eating all manner of ice cream; single, double and triple scooped cones, banana splits, sundaes, parfaits and frosty milkshakes as he tried to sell Christmas trees and watch for Sherry.

He stamped his feet and rubbed together his gloved hands as he watched car headlights come off the highway ramp and down the street toward him either to pass by or stop at Romeo’s Ice Cream Emporium where he sold the trees. He’d always thought it funny-strange how the place did a brisk business in winter where you would think the idea of having ice cream would be horrible. But Marvin Pile, the old man who owned the ice cream stand along with half the commercial strip, said folks seemed to love it even more in winter than in summer so that was one reason he kept it open year round.

“Some of my best business done in the winter,” said Marvin, a pock marked, skinny man who looked like he never ate a thing let alone ice cream. “People love the frozen cow’s milk whatever the time of year.”

Romeo’s was little more than a stand with a neon ice-cream cone tilted helter-skelter on its roof and was only large enough for two people to work inside at one time. A drive-through sized window was cut out its front with a lip attached; customer’s walked up, ordered and the order was pushed out on to the lip for pick up. A couple of picnic tables sat on the tarmac off to the side for anyone brave enough to risk a frozen rear for their frozen treat. Marvin, partial to entrepreneurs, had for the last three years kindly let him sell holiday trees on the small lot next to the stand for two percent of the take and it had worked out pretty well too; it seemed eating ice cream put a lot of people in a good mood to buy Christmas trees. There was a line even now at the stand though it was close to eight


Where was she? Did something happen? He looked at the cars coming toward him all passing by. A guy wearing a black down-filled coat and an orange hunting cap and eating two large scoops of what looked like to Gerald Rocky Road ice cream, walked over. Pointing to a balsam fir over seven feet tall, full from top to bottom and the silvery blue of a deep, clean lake asked, “How much is that one?”

“Its forty dollars,” Gerald glanced over the man’s shoulder at the passing cars.

The man looked at the tree, licked his ice cream, shrugged, “Its nice enough and a good size; I’ll take it.” He fished around in his coat pocket, told Gerald, “Hold this,” handed him the cone, took out a wad of bills and pulled off two twenties.

Gerald took the money and handed the guy back his ice cream. He cut a half-inch off the tree’s trunk, hauled it to the guy’s Ford pick-up and laid it carefully in the truck’s bed.

“Merry Christmas,” he called out to the guy just as Sherry’s red Corolla came off the ramp, down the street and pulled up beside him. Gerald felt the knots of fear in his stomach loosen a little at the sight of her.

She got quickly out the car looking at once beautiful, terrified and eager but mostly beautiful; they stared at each other, then met holding on to each other next to a set of decorative wreaths with red bows.

“I thought he wouldn’t let you get away.”

She stuck a strand of soft black hair underneath her cap, the plume of her cold breath smelled like fresh peppermint, “I didn’t think he’d buy my story but he didn’t give me any trouble this time; he usually has a fit if I got out without him.” The violet eyes in her slim face took hold of mines, “Do you have the money?”

“Cleaned out my bank account,” he said. I’ll never complain again about working day construction. You?”

She opened her purse, took out a white envelope and opened to the to the bills packed inside, “That’s everything. You think it’ll be enough to get us started?” Her glorious eyes looked again into mine and I nodded.

If we’d had ten dollars between us I would’ve still nodded; the money didn’t matter only that they were together and could get away together was his only concern and had been the first time he’d laid eyes on her; to have her, to make her his any way he had to.

“Have you sold a lot of trees?” she looked around.

“Not many, my mind hasn’t been on it tonight. You ready to go? There’s nothing else keeping us here is it?”

She shook her head and smiled, “I’m scared but ready. I love you.” She took his hand, “Can we have a last one to go?”

“Anything. I love you.”

They started for Romeo’s as her husband Jimmy came off the ramp, down the street in his green Cadillac STS, hitting a Fraser fir and tumbling it over to knock down six other firs before he stopped and jumped out of the car pointing a pistol at them; he was crying.

“I thought it was me you loved,” he waved the gun at them. The people buying ice cream had frozen as they stared at the three of them.

“Not anymore,” Sherry’s right hand went to my chest. “I’m Gerald’s now.”

“She loves me,” I said, “It can’t be helped, Jimmy.” My eyes went from his wet face to the gun, “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

Jimmy’s face sucked in as if he’d been forced fed a sack of lemons;, his eyes closing “You sure; that damn sure?” He pulled back the trigger.

Sherry and Gerald glanced at each other and nodded; their eyes only for each other. Jimmy opened his and saw it under the hanging Christmas tree lights and neon helter-skelter ice cream cone. He released the trigger, his arm sinking down from the weight of the gun and lost love. “I can’t leave here with nothing?” he said.

Sherry moved toward him, took the gun and tossed it into the front seat of the car, “How about an ice cream and a Christmas tree.”

The End

Send me a story if you want; the reading is almost as important as the writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing

Lori

Hello,

I’m writing my second Owen Story novel as you know; I’m finishing the first draft to move into the long—but not too long—rewrite process which is the REAL process. My first step though is not to pick up the pen and get to it, I have to organize first. I don’t mean create an outline so I know where I’m going; I already know this for the most part, I mean putting all my notes, my snatches of information, my short story lines, my scribbled passages all together in front of me like a person opening a large box of chocolates a la Forest Gump and choosing the ones that best fit the story, the novel.

When I’m collecting these pieces written down on the backs of store receipts, in one of the small notebooks I carry around or on a stickem, I of course don’t know exactly where they may fit; only that they might. So when I gather them I try and fit most into the books storyline like working a puzzle where sometimes the pieces are large and give you an idea of the picture you’re creating and at other times, small and are needed just to help the picture develop while some you don’t need.

I enjoy this part of working my book because I find once I’m here, the book is alive and all I’m there to do is keep it breathing and healthy by feeding it the right words and taking out the useless, unnecessary ones; keeping it moving by throwing in a fast paced storyline ; filling it with excitement and adventure and with characters you want to know and love. It’s a pleasure to get to this phase though I have a ways to go until I’m done, but the fact I have gotten there lets me know I have a story worth finishing, that I enjoy and look forward to adding to it until it’s the way I want it to be and hope the end result will be a novel loved not only by me but my readers too.

Keep writing your novels, movie scripts, short stories, poems, because you love it.

If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello,

As writers we write for our selves and for other reasons of course; from hoping for a successful career—whatever you define as success; a prolific career, able to write a book or two a year a la James Patterson or because you feel you have something really important to convey; the list is long. One of the reasons I write is because of my sons; they’re happy when they see my book in the world. The other day my son thought he saw a woman carrying it in a store and he told me about it, smiling all the time. I don’t believe she had my book yet was happy he thought someone was reading it. My sons help me defy that blank page because they see in the book, the results of working hard, not giving up and bypassing roadblocks to create something positive. I feel it helps them understand they can do what they choose to do and pursue their life goals no matter what they are and as long as it’s a good—a great—choice.

I write for my self but my sons help me keep at it and write better.

Keep writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and Happy Friday,

I was reading the other day, an article about the writer Stephanie Meyer who wrote the popular novel, Twilight. The story was of course filled with all the great things happening to her: she’s the new J.K. Rowling, a terrific three book deal, an eagerly anticipated book tour and so many other wonderful details, I of course had a flash of envy, who wouldn’t? I mean she is where I want to be some day. I said-flash of envy-because I kind of got over it quickly because I thought, I’ll be where she is some day or close and I don’t doubt it. Why should I be so sure? I don’t know, because I feel it? Lame but true, yet more importantly I believe I’m working toward it though not in the usual way because I can’t; I don’t have an agent, or even a one-book-deal, I don’t have a huge audience anticipating my next novel (though a few people are; which is a great thing) I don’t have a tour scheduled; my best is a trip to New York to do a signing at the New York City Police Museum which has yet to be confirmed and I’m not a full time writer; I write when I can.

Boy, doesn’t it sound like I have reason to be envious and not so sure I’m going to get even close to where Ms. Meyer’s career has taken her. Yet, I do feel I’ll get close because despite all what I don’t have; I know—know—I have great story lines for my trilogy, a terrific character in Owen Story and I don’t stint on writing as well as I possibly can with relevant details and interesting, well-developed characters; making sure I give the reader the best possible story, one that rolls along at top speed, is exciting and not a waste of a minute of their time. I do what I can to promote my novels and try to do so every day and in all the ways available to me.

As writers and as people, we want a slice of the “good life”—the book tours, the newspaper and magazine articles, the book deals, which I’ve always defined as being a successful writer. But as time has gone by I’ve learned to define success, not by the trappings of the so called good life, but by working hard on my novel and getting it to the point I can breathe because I feel I’ve made it the best it can be, I’m done and can present it to the world pleased with it.

Just write, the rest will take care of itself.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hi,

I told you how much I enjoyed my editing class; I’m using a few of the techniques she taught. Anyway, one of the things she mentioned is that how she had to learn to break some of the rules of writing that were ground into her from childhood, for example: a comma should be used before a conjunction introducing an independent clause—those long winded rules. We adhere to that rule because its ground into us as well, but for some writers they know and incorporate the rules so well, have done it all their writing career that they know how to superbly break them to give us knew and wonderful stories. My best example of who does this so well is Cormac Mccarthy; he breaks rules into splinters and takes your breath away. He can do this so effortlessly because of a few things: his writing skill, deep knowledge of the world and the people he writes about and because he’s fearless at the challenge and doesn’t care if we like it or not, he writes for himself.


Will I ever get to the point to be able to write so well or to be so fearless at it? Honestly, I don’t think so but I don’t toss it out but see is as a possible goal along with my other writing goals: doing it well and loving it.

Enjoy what you’re writing even when you sometimes can’t enjoy the writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello,

It’s funny how writers are always trying to improve their writing—at least I do—and by all means at my disposal. I believe I do it out of part fear I don’t know enough as a writer and I’m missing something and part I can always—always do better for my sake and most importantly for my readers. I took an editing class at my local university yesterday and it was good, I learned a number of useful tools and I’m grateful for it because they will help improve my writing no doubt. I have an issue with my editing prowess anyway, I’m not good at it and the chance to improve is welcome.

As we all know, it’s a long-winding-improving road for a writer, no matter how long his career, the object is to get better each novel and along with courage and hard-work it takes knowledge to do so and l take advantage of this fact. The professor is teaching a grammar class and I will be taking it, a brush up now and again is a plus, every little bit helps and I will take advantage of every opportunity that presents itself to make my stories, my novels better and better.

Grab a book like The Everyday Writer by Andrea Lunsford, I’d bet you pick up something that’ll help your writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and Happy Friday,

Working on the second book, a lot of reading and research; yet doing it no matter what—with a little writing thrown it--and its going well because its part of the writing process isn’t it? A large cog in the machinery of writing. I’m reading about the Iranian revolution and about the CIA; and a piece of the story I was missing for the second novel—how to work out how Owen comes by an important piece of information central to the story—presents itself, the answer I needed to keep the story rolling and it made my day.

I’m not the kind of writer who can plot my novel step-by-step before the writing, who knows what happens before it happens; I of course have an idea of the plot of the story, how it should go, it’s the how to get there that’s my mystery… until I start to read, research, write and think.
Writing is involved, tedious, time consuming, but such a joy and a wonder, I love it and can’t imagine doing anything else. So you write too, it’s worth it everyday.

Write,

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and Happy July 4th to all who celebrate,

Writing is such a funny thing, you never realize until you think about it how important it is, how much you do it and the big difference it makes to your life if you do it right. I’m popular at my kids school, why? It’s not because I’m the president of the PTA—I’m not--but because I write great e-mails and notes to their teachers in my request for information about my sons or to thank them for what they do for my children. I make sure to put my best words in there to convey I believe them to be great for my children and taught them well and it’s easier for me to write than to do the face to face; I believe my writing helped me have a better relationship with them and helped my children have a good one with them too.

Today I needed a lawyer, to ask some questions and provide some information but instead of talking to him, I wrote a letter instead, well an e-mail as an introduction and to pass along some details. I did the writing because I knew I wouldn’t be able to get my point across, the facts, exactly the way I needed to if I had to speak with him off the cuff, so writing was what I did and it worked. In my note my information was succinct and clear and received the response I needed; verbally, I couldn't of gotten my point across nearly as well as I can using a pen and a piece of paper.

Writing smooths my life out more than I could imagine and that's a tremendous blessing.

Write well and all the time,

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello, hitting you Wednesday instead of Friday,

How much do you know about book publishing? I don’t know much I admit and there seems so much information out there especially for self-publishers though some of it does repeat itself. I just learned today what to do with the foreign rights of your novel and releasing those rights to publishers around the world and how to do it.

It would be great to have one definitive book that would tell you everything you should know; the best direction you should take for your novel—stop dreaming right; there is no such thing. It’s like your being the only one who has to find the light switch in an unfamiliar ball room in the encompassing dark: you have to do it by yourself, you have to keep trying, getting around the obstacles the best way you can, working at it hit or miss until you find the best ways to work your book or turn on the light.

Write,

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and hope you’re doing well,

A few minutes ago I got a phone call from someone who read You Don’t Know Me and she let me know she really enjoyed it and gave it to her friend who enjoyed it as well and asked when the next would come out; her phone call I can tell you, made my week and it does help with the writing.

I’m writing and listening to books on tape, the book is The Terror by Dan Simmons, very, very good and its twenty-two disks, yet I've listened to each one and I’m now re-listening to the first disks to put in context everything I’ve read—listened to. One of the interesting things about the novel is its serious detail. The Terror is the fictional story of a ship called The Terror who in 1845 as part of the Franklin Expedition, gets stuck in the Arctic Circle which is bad enough but added to this misery the crew and those of its sister ship are being slaughtered by a beast. The novel is filled with details about how the ship works and looks, how a working ship faces ice, how the ship is piloted and so on, all interesting because the writer doesn’t pommel you with the details yet its full of them, even minute ones.

Details in a novel are necessary and tricky for any writer I believe, no matter how much experience you have; if you put in too much you over shadow the story and if you don’t enter the detail just right the story becomes boring and too tedious to plow through; if you don’t put in enough the story doesn’t sound real enough or reads amateurish, so the key is to put in just enough, the right kind, to make sure the story is solid so the details run so seamlessly through it the reader doesn’t notice and if they do its complimentary; so like I said, detailing a story is a tricky business. For me to get around this “trickiness” I read some of my favorite writers and I've found that though they detail very well, they sacrifice most of it for great story and I work on doing the same.


Write and keep at it,

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and Happy Friday to you,

Do you do all you have to do for your writing or to get it recognized? It could be a lot of work involved when you’re already writing all and when you can. I’m talking about submitting your work to relevant contests, applying for artistic grants, sending out press kits and information to get your work known, talking to people about your novel, holding book signings—a host of things to get people talking about your book and characters; it’s a job in itself. I try to promote my book a little each day in some form, today I’m sending a copy out to my brother-in-law, a soldier in the United States Army stationed in Afghanistan, he requested a signed book so along with it I’m also sending post cards I hope he'll give to his fellow soldiers who will want to read the book; I’m offering a free copy to anyone of them along with the free download available at Lulu.com. My local newspaper, The Plain Dealer, is doing an occasional story on local artists, writers and their Muse, I submitted an e-mail offering the story of my novel and Muse and also had friends submit for me, I’m hoping my story is chosen, it would be great publicity for the book.
Whether any of my efforts pan out who knows, yet I keep trying to get the word out every day, it's part of this book thing and the fact you want to give your novel and characters every chance to be heard. Yet, what really makes all your efforts worth while is the knowledge you do have a book out there you love and feel is worth promoting no matter what you have to do and while you’re doing all this; you’re writing the next.

Write always and always keep the faith,

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello, it’s Thursday instead of Friday, like you didn’t know it,

I have solicited—doesn’t that sound awful though funny--another book review from a reviewer on Amazon.com for You Don’t Know Me. Shouldn’t I be done with getting book reviews or recommendations for that novel? I would like to say yes, but I know I never will. The one thing I’ve found about having a book in the world, you’re always building it up, getting it a stellar c.v. and will do it for the rest of your life and especially for it’s immediate future because you want millions to read it and to get them to do so, others have to have read it and pronounced it good—or bad; I’ve heard a bad review isn’t sometimes bad—prompting others to want to check it out.

I of course want a good review to add to the one I have from Mr. Lecard because as we all know, a good review is just that and I believe it does help. You have to go after them and as self-published writers; we have to go after them much harder than someone who published traditionally because self-published doesn’t have an entire publishing house helping and backing their work which is not at all a bad thing; working hard gets the writing done to your own satisfaction and you have to work just as hard on all other aspects of having a self-published novel out because for the most part; it’s you and you alone driving it toward success.

Are you reading anything while you’re writing? I just picked up a historical novel titled The Terror by Dan Simmons and it’s not bad, rather good; interesting details mixed with an intriguing storyline.

I love writing; you probably got that by now.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello,

It’s a busy Friday as usual but I wanted to get my blog out; it’s important to me to be as consistent as possible on getting it out each week. Consistency is important to me and especially in my writing life. Now, that the book is out I have been told “you published a book, that’s great” or “you should be so proud to have a book out”. I’m thankful for all my well wishes but I think every time, “…a book or the book”, one book, my goal is five, ten or fifteen books though it has to start at one but oh, I can’t wait to get past “the one” and have two, three, etc out in the world; this I have to consistently work on day-by-day, it’s the only way and it will accept no less from myself. I’m working on the second novel and getting it done--I have to--prolific I don’t believe I’ll be, yet steady, CONSISTENT, and putting out my best work in the world yearly, I’ll do it because it makes me happy and it’s a blessing to do it and I’m glad to be so blessed.

Write always.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and I hope you have a fun weekend,

For a number of people—me included—this will be a holiday with time off, but for me it doesn’t mean I will not write, I hope to write more because I’ll have a little extra time to do so though it's so easy to procrastinate at writing isn't it? I know you understand; sometimes it’s as easy as breathing. I can come up with a thousand chores, excuses and reasons not to write even when the time is there, yet it’s takes a huge effort on my part to sit down in front of the blank page--even a half-filled page—and do it.

Fear, is the reason I mostly procrastinate and why fear? Of not getting my ideas across, of writing too slowly, of not knowing what I’m writing about and other issues that are not true issues just my imagination coming up with any kind of reason not to write. Though in the end, none of it matters because I do manage to overcome procrastination; move my mountain of excuses aside and write, its not easy and sometimes I have to grit my teeth to do it but I do it for a number of reasons: I can’t help myself, I love to write; the story has to be told and I need to tell it and my writing is one of the ways I define myself and to not do it is not an option. I’ll be writing during my holiday and deep, deep down, enjoying it immensely; you do the same.

Keep writing and see you next week.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

***************************************************************************************************

Excerpt from
Begin at the End
The Second in the Owen Story Trilogy


Chapter 1

It was a beautiful New York City day for the Eighty-First Annual Macy’s Day Thanksgiving Parade, an event that had become a tradition for people around the world. The temperature was a balmy thirty-five degrees, the sky a clear winter wash blue with a touch of sun. All along the route from Seventy-Seventh Street to Seventh Avenue people dressed in their winter warms laughed and shouted as they enjoyed the sheer camaraderie of watching a parade.
The crowd hadn’t really come to see the B list celebrity entertainers, the spunky dance numbers, the high school marching bands or even the spectacular floats that sailed overhead, they’d come as strangers to stand together in the cold early morning light to catch a glimpse of the true star of the show; the man who’s recognized as the ultimate ubiquitous symbol of commercial getting and giving, the one and only Santa Claus who’s arrival would not only signify the end of this year’s parade but the official beginning of the race to the finish line of the holiday shopping season.
Thousands watched the show on the street while millions watched it from their homes in front of their television sets or on their computer screens while they listened to the mildly interesting commentary tossed off by the NBC hosts Meredith Viera and Matt Lauer who, in their warm enclosed booth at Herald Square were trying valiantly to ratchet up the excitement for the arrival of the main attraction.
“We’ve been so lucky the promised rain has held off,” said Ms. Vieira who smiled with perfect teeth at the viewers. “An icy cold shower would’ve just ruined the parade.”
“Yes, we’ve been lucky so far and luckier still because this is the largest crowd since ninety-seventy-five so there’s hundreds of officers out there to keep everyone safe; a phenomenal effort,” said Mr. Lauer who flashed his own set of capped pearly whites to the world. “But I predict no matter what happens no one would miss the arrival of the man himself.”
“Folks, here he comes approaching Herald Square. Oh, my goodness doesn’t he look wonderful,” Ms. Vieira bounced in her seat. “He looks exactly like the jolly happy Santa I remember from my childhood.”
“He’s just stopped in front of the decorated windows of Macy’s department store officially ending the parade folks,” added Mr. Lauer. “The red nose, the red plush coat fronted by white fur—”
“I hope that’s not real fur?” Ms. Vieira cut in her smile losing a couple of wattages as her eyes narrowed on Father Christmas.
“If it is, he’s not going to be sliding down any PETA chimneys this year,” answered her co-host with a plastic chuckle.
Television screens all over the world were presented with the real time image of a huge red Christmas sleigh filled with wrapped presents and seated among the bounty children of all ages waving at the crowd. High above them on a throne sat Santa Claus, with one hand he held on to white reigns attached to imaginary flying reindeer while he waved with the other. The crowd shouted and waved back as if he were the Second Coming.
He was dressed in the traditional Santa suit complete with jaunty red hat, wide black belt with large gold buckle and black knee-high boots but what hit home to all the viewers in television land as well as those gazing at him from the streets was that he did look like everyone’s ideal fairy-tale image of Father Christmas, a white man with a long white beard, rosy cheeks, a round fleshiness to his stout body and wearing a smile of what looked like innocent joy.
He stood atop the magnificent sleigh handing down packages to eager hands. As he picked up a gold wrapped present and straightened, his grin suddenly broke and disappeared. The package dropped from his fingers as the fur lining the front of his coat went from cloud white to crimson red to match the rest of his suit. He fell back onto the throne, shocked surprise on his face as the huge shouting laughing crowd around him went silent.
“What was that?” Mr. Lauer’s alarmed voice came over as the image of the slumped Santa was frozen to screens. “What happened? Anyone see what happened?”
“You see that?” Ms. Vieira’s voice was heard loud and afraid.
Before the stunned world-wide audience Santa lay slumped until the top of the throne and his head disintegrated in blood and wood that sent him over the side of the sleigh.
“Gun,” someone yelled.
Pandemonium in the streets.

Hello and early post,

I had my first book signing last Saturday at my local Barnes and Noble and though I worked myself up to a fit of nervousness, I have to tell you it was all for nothing, it turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life, I had Fun with a capital: F-U-N.

Why was it fun and not as traumatic as I knew it would be? It wasn’t because of me, I was still nervous, a few minutes late and forgot my cards and handouts, what made all this not important, was the folks who showed up to support me and the novel; friends I hadn’t seen in years, new friends, folks who had heard about the novel or seen me on the television interview, folks I work with—it was wonderful to see everyone and to have their good wishes. I sold books in between —always a plus right—but having such fun and enjoying my first book signing with good vibes all around was a revelation and I hope it’s the template for my future book signings. I have to make sure of it; that they are a great experience not just for me but for those who make the time to come and buy my novel, it’s the least I can do and it would be a thank you to them for their faith in my work which I hope they read and enjoy.

Talk to you soon and keep on writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and Happy Friday,

I told you at our last visit I was reading the novel No Country for Old Men by Cormac Mccarthy http://www.cormacmccarthy.com/s, it’s a terrific tale and I mean tale in the sense of the spell binding, long lost lore telling fashion that has kept generations of writers w—I believe Mr. Cormac is a master of story telling because he is only spare on the not-necessaries: over punctuation, he doesn’t use quotations around characters words, he just lets them speak; character description, Mr. Cormac lets the characters paint the pictures of themselves in your mind by what they say and how they say it, so each one stands out and you know which one you’re reading about immediately. And his description of the world, the land, these folks are from and live in, you not only read about it but its as if you feel it, smell it; the cold river Llewelyn jumps into to save his life, the water stinging his bullet wounds or feel yourself reaching for the mountains the sheriff looks toward that seem a million miles away as they stand in silent judgment of you and all before—finding us wanting in every way--as he ponders what kind of human monsters he’s up against.

Mr. Cormac takes liberty with structure, he has earned the right to do so, he’s brave to do and it works beautifully and he does it for story alone which is a gift. He is a storyteller in its most meaningful term and its few like him still around to our detriment. There is such much to think about, love and rejoice in when reading a novel like No Country for Old Men and it helps me with my writing in the sense, I want to reach my special place in writing where story is king, a handsome, kind, sad and riveting king, but king nevertheless; Mr. Cormac has reached his special place.

Talk to you soon.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello,

Remember when I told you I was reading non-fiction as well as fiction? I'm still doing so but I've halted my non-fiction reading for a day or two because I've been overtaken by a fiction work I just cannot put down, it's No Country For Old Men by Cormac Mccarthy. I know the movie has been out for a long while, but I just happened to pick up the book and fell right into it. In this novel do I find no truer term than "the book is always better than the movie". The novel is outstanding and I'll tell you why next week.

If you have any comments or suggestions, please e-mail me at: matwrite1@hotmail. com. I’ll love to hear from you.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Friday--again,

I’m writing—I have to—but I’m also doing a lot of reading and not just fiction, non-fiction as well, and it’s wonderful. I usually don’t read much non-fiction because I believed (or once believed) most especially the scientific works would be above my head—too intellectual—or worst; boring. But I’ve found it not to be true by seeking out books I find deeply interesting and are written on a level that’s down to earth and understandable and if a good story is throw in them I’m sold.

For example, I read this great book titled: Superthief: A Master Burglar, the Mafia and the Biggest Bank Heist in US History. Now, with a title like that I couldn’t keep away from it and I found to my delight it was a terrific narrative for a number of reasons, one; it was written with Phil Christopher, the main character of the story telling about his life in his own words, the author of the novel, Rick Porello, jumped in now and again but he let Mr. Christopher tell his own tale and it made for easy and enticing reading learning about Mr. Christopher and his criminal adventures. Two, Mr. Christopher was from my hometown and named many places I knew which kept me turning the pages because of the familiarity as if he were a neighbor--a crooked neighbor--but a neighbor just telling me his story, an absolute great read.

Another title: Satan’s Circus: Murder, Vice, Police Corruption and New York’s Trial of the Century, it sounds so great I hope it lives up to my expectations. Bottom line, it’s all non-fiction and what it has in common that makes me so eager to read them is that the topic of each novel is intriguing, they are written in a concise and not overwhelming manner and are about topics I find interesting,this combination makes me look forward to devouring the next and the next knowing I’ll learn in the bargain as well as be delighted by the larger than life stories.

Talk to you soon and keep on writing.


If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Hello and Happy Friday,

I promised two posts today because I forgot to publish last weeks, I created it but forgot to click publish the post; sometimes my mind just gets away from me. Well anyway, here's the first of today's posts and I promise to make them brief since you get double the post and double the fun.

I of course know very little about the things I love to write about so need help on many occasions. A few weeks ago I found D.P. Lyle, a physician, who's also an award winning writer, a consultant to crime and medical shows and who hosts a site called The Writers Forensic Community -- D.P. Lyle, MD The Writers Medical and Forensic Lab http://www.dplylemd.com , you have to review his site because the assistance he provides is outstanding. I sent a question to him about Owen who lands in a terrible situation in the second novel and if he could die in this situation and Dr. Lyle not only answered my question in the same day, what really put the icing on the cake was that he thinks both as a doctor and as a writer; he was able to give me a few points on why this or that couldn't work in the story plus answer my medical questions.

Having someone willing to help and is as informative as Dr. Lyle is invaluable to us writers; especially writers who want to make sure what we put out there to our readers-- though fiction is close to fact making the experience of our stories as real to the readers as we can get.

If you have any comments or suggestions, please e-mail me at: matwrite1@hotmail. com. I’ll love to hear from you.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello happy Monday instead of Friday,

I had written a blog for Friday and did not save it, so I wil be sending two this week. I hope you look for them.

If you have any comments or suggestions, please e-mail me at: matwrite1@hotmail. com. I’ll love to hear from you.

Until next time, God willing,

Lori

Hello and Happy Friday,

I just sent an e-mail to Ms. Karen Long; he book editor for my city’s main newspaper, The Plain Dealer. Ms. Long and I have written a few e-mails back and forth because I’m asking if she'd consider reviewing, You Don’t Know Me. I sent the book to her (along with my press kit) a few months ago but didn’t hear a thing. A couple of weeks ago I got up the nerve to send her an e-mail and she responded. Ms. Long let me know she receives three to four hundred books—published by traditional press mostly—weekly, can you believe it? So, if any self-published show up in the count they are out of luck for that reason and for another, she does not normally review self-published novels. Yet, Ms. Long let me know if I sent her the book again she would give it a second look; I wonder if she’d given it a first and didn't like what she saw?

Anyway, I sent the book last week and of course haven’t heard a word. I let Ms. Long know I would accept a good or bad review; the bad, because I believe Stephen King (I could be wrong) said, " A review is a review—someone’s paying attention--and you can learn from them all." Between you and me, I’m on the glass-is-half-empty side when it comes to the review; I don’t expect a good one for a number of reasons, some not based on fact, most on feelings. On the fact side, a number of people go to self-published work with the already established belief it will not be good, though I don’t know if Ms. Long falls into this category as a well-renowned book editor, I can’t imagine she does, though you never know. I don’t want to expect a good review because the chances I will get a good one are not very good—too many goods; but its how I’m feeling. And oh my God, if I get a bad review and every one sees it, terrible. Oh well, it’s what I asked for and I’ll have to get over it. Lastly, Ms. Long may not want to review it at all, making all my angst for not.

I did a cable tv interview for the book on Wednesday and wasn’t frozen nervous while doing it, I was able to talk about the book so folks could understand what I was saying and surprisingly for my first television interview, it was fun. I will be hosting a book signing next month at my local Barnes and Nobles and I’m looking forward to it and not trying to worry too much that only my family and friends will show, I’m going to try to make it the best signing I’ll ever have (I mentioned this last week) I mean it. About the review, if it’s done (a possible big if) I know for sure it’ll be good or bad so it's best I concentrate on what I can control, that those readers who see the interview or come to the book signing; know I’ve written the best book I could and that they should take a chance on it because it will be worth their time.

Keep at the writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello,
I’m apprehensive today because of something I have to do next month, my first book signing. I’m nervous which is understandable; it’ll be my first but what makes me wring my hands is that I’m not going to be doing the signing alone, but with another writer named Kimberly Mckenzie (http://www.booksbykim.com). I checked out her site which is pretty nice and read about her first novel and the announcement that she has four more ready for future publication. She appears to be a very smart person, a seasoned and ambitious writer; so, I’ve been picturing the session and the picture has not been perfect.

I see Ms. McKenzie having people lined up at the door to sign her novel and she's so poised and confident as she works her crowd while I’m the opposite, near paralyzed with out a reader in sight. Okay, my imagination is working over time as usual; the only things that quell my nervousness-turning-to-sick-nervousness are a couple of points: she and I write different types of novels; I write crime/mystery/thriller fiction and she appears to write more African-American romance novels; I may pull in the mystery readers and she the romance; the day of the signing will be a day before Mother’s Day and people might take a chance on picking up something new and fresh to read to give as presents to their moms and give my novel go and lastly, I will be getting the word out as much as I can about my book before the session to bring in people (I hope) who are eager to read about Owen and his trials and tribulations.

So should I still feel nervous about my first signing? Of course; I can’t help it; I’ll feel this way until its over, but what I must do is make this the first of the best book signings I'll ever have, push the nervousness out, smile, and act as if I hadn’t a worry in the world all in the name of selling novels and more importantly, finding readers who will love the novel and the future ones.

Talk to you soon and keep on writing.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.

Hello and Happy Friday,

I’m working on publicity for You Don’t Know Me and I've committed to a book signing at my local Barnes and Noble in July or August, I have to secure the date because it’ll be along with another local writer. This will be my first signing at a book store and I of course don’t have much experience on what is needed to make a book signing a great one, though I’m sure the book store will advise me and I will “research” it of course.

As a matter of fact, I was going through some back issues of Writer’s Digest Magazine and found exactly what I needed, an article on how to work a book signing; it was right on time with some great pointers; but what really surprised me, was reading an article I really could use. It’s not that I haven’t gotten some wonderful and useful information from articles and stories I’ve read over the years in Writer’s Digest and The Writer Magazine: pieces on grammar, structure and plotting; advice from famous writers or lists of places to send my writing, its just this was the first time I needed advice on what to do when you've got an actual novel out in the world. Usually I’m devouring the stories on how to write, not those on what to do after you’ve written and published; I’m moving forward and I’m thrilled by it.

One book down. Now for the second one and the rest!

Write, write, write.

If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com

Until next time, God willing.