Hello and Happy Friday,
I hope this mail finds you very well and writing better than ever. I ordered a much needed computer the other day. I don’t have my own or the one I had is broken, obsolete, so I have to use one where I can. So I ordered one and I'm looking forward to it's arrival. Will it make me write better? Of course not, it may make my writing worst in some instances where I’ll overlook words or miss information because for one: I don’t see one-hundred percent and looking at a computer screen for a long time will tax my eyesight. And second, I find it easier to overlook what I’ve incorrectly written on the computer than I do when I write my novels out. I’m more careful writing them out and I believe its because I can easily read and re-read what’s on paper without having to mentally adjust my brain—my eyesight—to the glare of the computer and how words are written on it. Also, when you write in a notebook its easy to pick it up and put your pencil to your work, but when you’re on the computer you have to boot it up, wait for it to go through its machinations, find your folder, get to the text and get started—a lot going on when you think about it.
I’m looking forward to getting my new computer and putting my new novel on it and for one important reason; it means the writing with pen is over, I’m moving to the next phase and close to the novel being officially done and this is very, very good. Yeah.
Keep writing, it’s really the only thing you can do.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing,
Friday, February 27, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
I received an e-mail from a very nice fellow writer named Cindy, who is finishing up her second novel; that's always good news from a writer. Well, she mentioned how much she likes Stephen King novels and as you know I’m a huge fan too; he’s in my top three. It was surprising and ironic how she mentioned Mr. King because I’m right now reading the latest novel by his wife, Tabitha King and it’s a good one. The novel is called Candles Burning and it puts you in the mind of the work of another one of my favorite writers, Truman Capote, aided by a touch of Tennessee Williams with it’s southern backdrop and flare.
It’s funny how some writers can be so good, but so quiet; their work not given a parade or other fanfare (and to be married to a world-wide-writing-phenom on top of it yet they toil on and keep writing terrific work. I think it’s because they know they’re good, steady and don’t have to please anyone but themselves; so write what they choose and send it out when they want, an enviable place to be right. Most of us are writers like that I believe--or try to be--we want to please ourselves totally with our writing, more than we want to please any one else because we work so hard on trying to get it just right, again for ourselves.
I like the “quiet writers” like Tabitha King because I know when I stumble across one of her rare novels, I’m going to grab it up because there is no doubt in my mind it’s going to be well-written, with great details, believable characters and a terrific story line; adjectives we want other writers to someday say about our work don't we.
“Many books require no thought from those who read them, and for a very simple reason; they made no such demand upon those who wrote them.” – Charles Caleb Colton
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing,
I received an e-mail from a very nice fellow writer named Cindy, who is finishing up her second novel; that's always good news from a writer. Well, she mentioned how much she likes Stephen King novels and as you know I’m a huge fan too; he’s in my top three. It was surprising and ironic how she mentioned Mr. King because I’m right now reading the latest novel by his wife, Tabitha King and it’s a good one. The novel is called Candles Burning and it puts you in the mind of the work of another one of my favorite writers, Truman Capote, aided by a touch of Tennessee Williams with it’s southern backdrop and flare.
It’s funny how some writers can be so good, but so quiet; their work not given a parade or other fanfare (and to be married to a world-wide-writing-phenom on top of it yet they toil on and keep writing terrific work. I think it’s because they know they’re good, steady and don’t have to please anyone but themselves; so write what they choose and send it out when they want, an enviable place to be right. Most of us are writers like that I believe--or try to be--we want to please ourselves totally with our writing, more than we want to please any one else because we work so hard on trying to get it just right, again for ourselves.
I like the “quiet writers” like Tabitha King because I know when I stumble across one of her rare novels, I’m going to grab it up because there is no doubt in my mind it’s going to be well-written, with great details, believable characters and a terrific story line; adjectives we want other writers to someday say about our work don't we.
“Many books require no thought from those who read them, and for a very simple reason; they made no such demand upon those who wrote them.” – Charles Caleb Colton
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing,
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Hello on a Tuesday,
I just wanted to keep in touch and hope you're writing. I just wanted to say hello and to keep up with reading as well as the writing, its the only way to go.
Talk to you on Friday.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
I just wanted to keep in touch and hope you're writing. I just wanted to say hello and to keep up with reading as well as the writing, its the only way to go.
Talk to you on Friday.
If you have any comments or suggestions I have a new e-mail address at: mathewsla@hotmail.com
Until next time, God willing.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
You know Stephen King is one of my favorite writer's, he's in the top 4 and he has just made it to number two because of a comment he made about the writer Stephanie Meyers; that she isn't a very good writer, especially compared to J.K. Rowling who is an excellent writer. I am so glad he said this out loud. It's funny how you may think this writer or that writer is not very good but you'll never say it out loud or at least I wouldn't for a few reasons: 1) What do I know? They're published writers with known publishing houses and maybe I'm wrong and just not sophisticated enough to know a good writer from a bad one. 2) I'm jealous of the writer so I'll immediately say the work is not very good. 3) I'm just not a fan of the genre so wouldn't have a positive review any way.
But when someone like Stephen King backs your belief a popular writer is not a very good writer despite all the hype, you're thrilled, because if any one should know it would be a great writer, right? Someone who is a publishing and everything else phenom like Mr. King, who on top of it is very well read and a former English teacher, so who should know good writing from bad better than he does.
I know this is not a world turning event, yet it did make me smile to learn he'd said this and that other folks agreed. It made me feel that I had a chance out there with my work and that I may know a little bit about what is good or bad writing and that I use this bit of knowledge to judge my own work, deciding when its good or bad then trying to make it all good.
Keep writing, no matter what. Have I said this before?
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
You know Stephen King is one of my favorite writer's, he's in the top 4 and he has just made it to number two because of a comment he made about the writer Stephanie Meyers; that she isn't a very good writer, especially compared to J.K. Rowling who is an excellent writer. I am so glad he said this out loud. It's funny how you may think this writer or that writer is not very good but you'll never say it out loud or at least I wouldn't for a few reasons: 1) What do I know? They're published writers with known publishing houses and maybe I'm wrong and just not sophisticated enough to know a good writer from a bad one. 2) I'm jealous of the writer so I'll immediately say the work is not very good. 3) I'm just not a fan of the genre so wouldn't have a positive review any way.
But when someone like Stephen King backs your belief a popular writer is not a very good writer despite all the hype, you're thrilled, because if any one should know it would be a great writer, right? Someone who is a publishing and everything else phenom like Mr. King, who on top of it is very well read and a former English teacher, so who should know good writing from bad better than he does.
I know this is not a world turning event, yet it did make me smile to learn he'd said this and that other folks agreed. It made me feel that I had a chance out there with my work and that I may know a little bit about what is good or bad writing and that I use this bit of knowledge to judge my own work, deciding when its good or bad then trying to make it all good.
Keep writing, no matter what. Have I said this before?
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, January 30, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
The New York Times had an article titled: Self-Publishers Flourish As Writers Pay the Tab in their January 28, 2009 issue. From the title you get the gist of the article. It was a pretty good one and for me, it made me smile and gave me a sense of well-being and determination to keep writing.
The article talked about folks like me, who aren’t in the loop for traditional publishers but are okay because we do sell books to folks who really want to read our work may it be one person or a thousand. It wasn’t like those articles I’ve read in the past about the self-publishing business where the goal seemed to be self-publishing because you can't get a traditional publisher and are dying to get one, now its more of an independent drive where the big traditionals are the past and self is the future for folks who have the drive to write and succeed no matter what. If a traditional finds you then it’s all well and good, but if they don’t, its still all good.
“Words once they are printed, have a life of their own.” Carol Burnett
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
The New York Times had an article titled: Self-Publishers Flourish As Writers Pay the Tab in their January 28, 2009 issue. From the title you get the gist of the article. It was a pretty good one and for me, it made me smile and gave me a sense of well-being and determination to keep writing.
The article talked about folks like me, who aren’t in the loop for traditional publishers but are okay because we do sell books to folks who really want to read our work may it be one person or a thousand. It wasn’t like those articles I’ve read in the past about the self-publishing business where the goal seemed to be self-publishing because you can't get a traditional publisher and are dying to get one, now its more of an independent drive where the big traditionals are the past and self is the future for folks who have the drive to write and succeed no matter what. If a traditional finds you then it’s all well and good, but if they don’t, its still all good.
“Words once they are printed, have a life of their own.” Carol Burnett
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Monday, January 26, 2009
Hello and Happy Monday,
I usually mail on Friday but Monday had to be the day. Are you writing? Are you reading? I’m doing both though I find myself on occasion doing more reading either because what I’m reading is too good to put down or I’m just procrastinating with my writing, so I do a lot of reading. With the reading, I’ve noticed one of the things I like to do is read the introduction when I didn’t like to do this before and specifically with non-fiction and what I call "learning or craft" books like those on the writing process.
I have to read the introduction because so much information is found in those first few pages, sometimes you don’t want to go into the rest of the book because you can learn so much in the beginning. Works on writing have especially good introductions because they give you a great taste of what you’re going to find inside and sometimes tell you interesting stories of how the book came to be, who they worked with to put the work together and how it’s information or lessons can help with my own work and knowing all this before hand usually makes me eager to continue reading.
So I don’t skip many introductions; reading those lets me know if I want to venture further to the heart of the work or realize there is no heart and I might not find the work as good as I once believed. One thing I do know for sure, reading is a fundamental part of my writing and I know I can’t do one without the other—at least not well.
Do both, reading and writing as much as you can, it’s never a waste of time and I believe it makes for a better person.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
I usually mail on Friday but Monday had to be the day. Are you writing? Are you reading? I’m doing both though I find myself on occasion doing more reading either because what I’m reading is too good to put down or I’m just procrastinating with my writing, so I do a lot of reading. With the reading, I’ve noticed one of the things I like to do is read the introduction when I didn’t like to do this before and specifically with non-fiction and what I call "learning or craft" books like those on the writing process.
I have to read the introduction because so much information is found in those first few pages, sometimes you don’t want to go into the rest of the book because you can learn so much in the beginning. Works on writing have especially good introductions because they give you a great taste of what you’re going to find inside and sometimes tell you interesting stories of how the book came to be, who they worked with to put the work together and how it’s information or lessons can help with my own work and knowing all this before hand usually makes me eager to continue reading.
So I don’t skip many introductions; reading those lets me know if I want to venture further to the heart of the work or realize there is no heart and I might not find the work as good as I once believed. One thing I do know for sure, reading is a fundamental part of my writing and I know I can’t do one without the other—at least not well.
Do both, reading and writing as much as you can, it’s never a waste of time and I believe it makes for a better person.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, January 16, 2009
Hello and Happy Frigid Friday,
It’s cold as all get out in Ohio and every where else from what I’ve read making this great weather to stay in and write and read. I have a lot of writing to do—to finish—though I’ll probably not get too far. As you well know I’m a very, very slow writer and even though I've dead lined the second Owen Story novel by the end of February, it won’t be completed until the end of March or possibly the beginning of April.
I feel badly because I've told folks the second novel would be ready by February and it’s not going to happen though I feel I have good reasons why not. First, I want to have this novel terrifically edited as if it had a 600,000 run with Simon and Schuster; edited for every wrong word, inconsistency, continuity problem, character development issues and any other problem the writing could have that I easily missed or didn’t know how to correct. A great editing job could make a good book better; it’ll be less trial for the reader so he can concentrate on story and not stumble over irritating writing mistakes that would sink his enthusiasm for the work.
Second—and last—I want to make sure the story is worth reading, that on every page I give the reader a reason to turn to the next one: an exciting story, developed characters, action and adventure, an unforgettable mystery, an intricate plot worth delving into and I have to say it again—can’t say it enough-- a terrific story worth reading in one sitting possible and all this takes me so much time to do. I love the story and I’m confident it ‘ll be done in the next few months, I just need to make sure its done right and this takes time.
“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” – Walter Wellesley.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
It’s cold as all get out in Ohio and every where else from what I’ve read making this great weather to stay in and write and read. I have a lot of writing to do—to finish—though I’ll probably not get too far. As you well know I’m a very, very slow writer and even though I've dead lined the second Owen Story novel by the end of February, it won’t be completed until the end of March or possibly the beginning of April.
I feel badly because I've told folks the second novel would be ready by February and it’s not going to happen though I feel I have good reasons why not. First, I want to have this novel terrifically edited as if it had a 600,000 run with Simon and Schuster; edited for every wrong word, inconsistency, continuity problem, character development issues and any other problem the writing could have that I easily missed or didn’t know how to correct. A great editing job could make a good book better; it’ll be less trial for the reader so he can concentrate on story and not stumble over irritating writing mistakes that would sink his enthusiasm for the work.
Second—and last—I want to make sure the story is worth reading, that on every page I give the reader a reason to turn to the next one: an exciting story, developed characters, action and adventure, an unforgettable mystery, an intricate plot worth delving into and I have to say it again—can’t say it enough-- a terrific story worth reading in one sitting possible and all this takes me so much time to do. I love the story and I’m confident it ‘ll be done in the next few months, I just need to make sure its done right and this takes time.
“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” – Walter Wellesley.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Friday, January 09, 2009
Hello and Happy Friday,
How are you? Someone phones me and that’s her first question every time. One day I’ll really tell her. But I’m usually fine on all fronts, specifically on the writing one because I make myself do it every day. Writing keeps me healthy, sane, for a number of reasons. I can have a bad day—though I really don’t believe in bad days, but things happen out of your control sometimes; bad things—but then I can go to a quiet place, take out my notepad and just write; it’s calming, I sit down and regroup and do it in an aura of peace. Writing takes you out of the world you’re in and drops you into that hole of writing where there is only the writing: no crying children, no deadlines (well not at that moment) dinner can wait, no traffic, just the writing and someone else’s world you’ve created and delighting in. And when your writing is going well, it’s where you really find and feel joy, a terrific sense of accomplishment and love the fact you can do this, can write and you’re thrilled by it.
When I’m writing, at those moments which may last a few minutes, a hour, half a day, true happiness is mine and I’m blessed to be one of those folks to have this in my life; a very good life.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
How are you? Someone phones me and that’s her first question every time. One day I’ll really tell her. But I’m usually fine on all fronts, specifically on the writing one because I make myself do it every day. Writing keeps me healthy, sane, for a number of reasons. I can have a bad day—though I really don’t believe in bad days, but things happen out of your control sometimes; bad things—but then I can go to a quiet place, take out my notepad and just write; it’s calming, I sit down and regroup and do it in an aura of peace. Writing takes you out of the world you’re in and drops you into that hole of writing where there is only the writing: no crying children, no deadlines (well not at that moment) dinner can wait, no traffic, just the writing and someone else’s world you’ve created and delighting in. And when your writing is going well, it’s where you really find and feel joy, a terrific sense of accomplishment and love the fact you can do this, can write and you’re thrilled by it.
When I’m writing, at those moments which may last a few minutes, a hour, half a day, true happiness is mine and I’m blessed to be one of those folks to have this in my life; a very good life.
If you have any comments or suggestions please e-mail me at my new address: shabazzl@adasbcc.org.
Until next time, God willing,
Lori
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
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
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
Friday, December 19, 2008
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
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
Friday, December 12, 2008
Friday, December 05, 2008
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
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
Friday, November 21, 2008
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
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
Friday, November 14, 2008
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
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
Friday, November 07, 2008
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
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
Friday, October 31, 2008
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
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
Friday, October 24, 2008
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
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
Friday, October 17, 2008
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
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
Friday, October 10, 2008
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
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
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