The best fiction allows me to lose the line between the author and the story. They’re tangled together, inseparable. Does the author love cheese fondue or is it just the character? Has the author been skydiving and felt that rush of adrenaline, ran a marathon, rescued feral cats? Does the author hate oatmeal, love cherry pie?

A well-written book will often make the author and the narrator feel like one and the same. Authors need to be aware of this, because it can sometimes backfire.

I recently read a book I won’t name because I hated everything about it. This book was filled with the most unlikeable characters I’ve ever come across. The pages overflowed with vitriol. The characters spewed bigoted statements at every turn, as if their insight into their city and its people was fact rather than opinion. All the characters shared these intolerant, prejudice views. Because of this, the characters and the author easily became tangled in my mind. I not only disliked the book, I disliked the author.

I don’t know whether the author shared his characters’ opinions, though I find it unlikely that he’d be able to – or want to – give every character this same mindset if he did not agree. Had the author given only one character this trait, preferably not the narrator, he and his characters would not have fused together as they did.

Books like this make me wonder how much of myself I spill onto my own pages. Hopefully, I don’t leave readers spitting nails, as I was while reading the unnamed book. For those who have read my books and wondered if it’s me or the character, I thought I’d share a couple secrets today.

Some of my readers know I have late-stage Lyme disease, with neurological complications. A few of the symptoms I contend with show up in two of my characters.

Corinne, from Hit List, suddenly lost her mind. She can’t hold onto a thought, is easily distracted, and has forgotten much of her past.

Corinne sucked in her bottom lip. The wallpaper behind Dr. Endicott’s head had little pastel flowers scattered about. She’d had flowers in her garden once. Now just weeds grew there. She’d been telling Ian that they needed to pull out those weeds and buy new plants. Hadn’t she told him that?

My symptoms are nowhere near as extensive as Corinne’s. I’m not quite that crazy – yet.

Corinne shuddered. An image flickered like a dying light bulb in the recess of her mind. Too elusive to grasp. Too intrusive to ignore. Words attached to strange voices skittered just out of reach.

Corinne’s character came to me easily. My own frustration with my brain’s malfunctions showed up in her character. This caught me by surprise and was completely unintentional. Corinne popped into my head one day with a story and, somewhere along the way, the two of us intertwined. This is not to say that she and I are the same. Her life and personality is absolutely not autobiographical in any way. But bits of me are sprinkled in there.

The other character with flashes of my Lyme symptoms is Nicki from No Justice: A Michael Sykora Novel and Beyond Salvation: A Michael Sykora Novel. When Nicki talks to Michael, she often jumps from one topic to another so fast that Michael has a hard time keeping up.

Michael had gone to Sal’s and rented a Toyota Camry for the night. He didn’t plan on doing anything illegal but he also figured that it wasn’t wise to be driving around Dover Street in a flashy Porsche.

“Pick a topic and stick to it for five minutes. You’re making me dizzy.”

This, I will confess, is a trait I intentionally gave Nicki. I do this exact thing to my husband all the time. I can be midsentence and suddenly shift to something else. Sometimes I do it because my brain loses the original thought. Other times I’m not even aware I’ve done it. Nicki, of course, isn’t dealing with Lyme brain. But she is a high energy character, whose mind works quickly. A more coherent version of my flightiness became a good fit for her character.

And now you know. Bit and pieces of me are scattered throughout my books. Pick them all out, fit them together, and I’ll be fully exposed.

A couple of months ago, I published a collection of short stories I’d written during 2011. The title is Quiet Fury: An Anthology of Suspense, and here’s a look at both the print and Kindle format:

Quiet Fury is a state of being that we’ve all experienced; calm on the surface, rage bubbling underneath. For most of us, that is a brief moment. Restraint takes over. We grumble and walk away. Some allow the rage to marinate until they are consumed. They cross the line, seek revenge, retribution. Or is it satisfaction?

These stories explore each individual’s breaking point. Which will win, the Quiet or the Fury?

This is sort of an accidental collection. Writing short stories was not something I routinely did. In fact, prior to this collection, the only short stories I’d ever written were for my kids, many years ago. But I’ve learned circumstances in my life often bring about the best kind of accidents.

2011 was a challenging year. The late-stage Lyme has been wreaking havoc, making concentration difficult. Treatments for the Lyme are pushing me further into the hazy, neurological nightmare of brain fog. The combination made it nearly impossible for me to work on a full-length novel. Yet, I am unable to not write. Characters dance around my head and won’t let me sleep. I had an endless, daisy chain of ideas I had to do something with. Without intending to, I sat down and wrote a short story. Then another. And I found I love creating the shorter form as much as I love creating a novel.

For me, the writing process for short stories is the same as that of a novel. A character pops into my head. One sentence. A quick ten-second clip of someone doing something. An idea begging to be explored. One of these things happens, then I sit down and write.

With my short story Tiny Dancer, these three lines popped into my head:

George limped up the steps and set the box by the door. No one noticed the blood on his hands. The city kept its eyes closed.

I couldn’t tell you where the words came from. I didn’t know who George was, what was in the box, or where the blood came from. I wrote the words down, thinking I’d use the paragraph as an opening to a future novel. Months later, I went back to that paragraph and wrote what wound up as Tiny Dancer. As I sat with George and typed his story, I still had no idea who he was. He gradually revealed himself to me, in much the same way he reveals himself to my readers.

I didn’t intend for this to be a short story. George’s journey fit into the less demanding world I’d stepped into. A product of a hazy mind that can only see so far into the fog. Sure, we could learn more about George. That’s true of all short stories. In fact, it’s also true of novels. No matter the length, all stories need a beginning and end. Nothing and no one exists in a vacuum. What we want when we read is the part that matters.

The first short story I wrote is called The First Kill. The main character is Sean Riley, who happens to be a minor character in my two Michael Sykora novels. In the first book, No Justice, Sean began his existence as a character of convenience. He wasn’t supposed to have a big role and I wasn’t concerned with his back story. By the second book, Beyond Salvation, Sean had stepped in and claimed a larger place. His character became something more for me. He revealed himself in ways I hadn’t expected. And I needed to share that with readers.

Since Sean is a minor character, without a viewpoint in those first two books, I decided he needed a story of his own. I wanted readers to know who he is on a different level. The beginning of his story, The First Kill, was born:

The first kill was the hardest. His father staring with those dark narrow eyes that had incited fear for so many years. Even as the life seeped out of him, those eyes were full of scorn.

“You killed my mother,” Sean had said.

In the process of writing that story, Sean told me how he wound up a hit man – and why he is so good at it. Sean became much more than a minor character for me then. When the idea for book three came to me, which I’m working on now, it only made sense that Sean would have a much larger role.

This collection of stories has some things in common. First, which is obvious by the title, they all fit into the suspense genre. The other thing is, to varying degrees, they explore the mind of the bad guy/girl. What does it feel like to kill someone? What drove him/her to murder? Is a killer inherently different than the person who has not killed? If we see abuse but do nothing, are we as bad as the person who murders? These questions fascinate me. I hope the answers you find in these stories will fascinate you, as well.

Thanks for reading.

I know it’s a freebie, but that’s a lot of people who now have my book in hand. (Okay, I’ll admit it. 80,000 paid downloads would be even better! )

Enemies and Playmates is my first book and I’m honored that so many people are taking the time to download and read it. I wrote this one during a tumultuous time in my life. The writing process was my salvation and knowing my words are touching others, some also in difficult situations, is humbling. Readers have written to tell me what the book meant to them, how they connected with certain characters. I’ve gotten to know abuse survivors, whose strength is an inspiration. Writing is a solitary act. But once we send our words out to the world, and those words touch someone deep inside, we’ve connected. Even if author and reader never meet, never speak, never exchange a word, something has passed between us. When someone takes the time to write and let me know what a book of mine has meant to him/her, that’s a feeling I don’t have words for.

While I love when a reader takes the time to send me an email, I don’t typically seek out and read my reviews on Amazon. The good ones lift my mood for a few hours. The bad ones can devastate me for days. And, while I admit to being a little crazy at times, I am not so delusional that I think everyone will love my writing. As the reviews built up with all the downloads, I gave in to temptation and read a few of them. Many people loved the book. Others hated it. I wanted to know what sparked the hatred. After reading some of them, I have to say I’m still not sure.

One review stated that Jesse, the “hero” of the story, wasn’t believable because he drank Coke. Umm… What? This particular reader said all he drank was soft drinks and that no hunky hero was believable if he drank Coke. I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of it. This review made me laugh. First, I find it absurd to think that all “heroes” have to drink alcohol in order to be believable. Is that the society we live in? All cool people must get trashed? Second, and this is the part that made me laugh, in the opening scene, Jesse is at a nightclub and he is drinking rum and Coke. Did this reader miss the opening scene? Further in the book, he drinks a beer with a friend. In another scene he is drinking wine with dinner. Jesse is not a drunk but he does drink alcohol in the appropriate scenes. Yes, he does, on occasion, drink soft drinks without the alcohol. Like while he’s working. Maybe those were the only scenes this reader read?

Another reader gave me a bad review because he/she didn’t like the abuse in the book. I… I’m not sure what to say to that one. It’s difficult to write about abuse without, well, writing about the abuse. That the book is about domestic violence is clear in the description. So, I ask, why read and review a book that is clearly about a topic you do not wish to read about?

Of course there are others who simply don’t like the way I write or the characters who live in my head. Thankfully, there are many more who do.

Here’s the free download for your Kindle:

When the abused decide to fight back, the abuser’s world might just shatter.

Amidst devastating loss, betrayal, and her father’s destructive pursuit of Jesse, Lauren finds the trust and love she had always longed for.

Thanks for reading.

Unlike Joe, I don’t hear ghosts. But I have had many experiences that cannot be easily explained. I thought I’d share one of those experiences with you today.

I grew up very close to my grandparents – my mother’s parents. In fact, I spent my entire childhood living below them. They owned an old tenement-style home. My mother, my brother and I lived on the first floor and my grandparents lived above us. My grandmother took care of us while my mother worked. My grandfather was the only father figure I had well into my teens.

A few ago, my grandmother learned that she had ovarian cancer. My grandfather had died several years before and I knew that his spirit was always around us. One night, shortly after my grandmother was diagnosed, I asked him to give me a sign that he’d be there to help my grandmother when her time came. The next morning, I opened my back screen door to let my dogs out. They scampered across the pool deck and out to the lawn, barking happily at nothing in particular. I was about to close the door when I noticed a beautiful butterfly perched on our pool cover. The cover was rolled up and sitting by the lawn, right in the path the dogs had just taken. And the butterfly did not even flinch.

I have always loved butterflies and feel a kind of magic when I look at them. I thought this butterfly must be injured because it didn’t so much as flutter. At that time, I had two dogs that loved to bark and two cats that loved to snatch anything that flew near them. (We’ve since added a dog.) Butterflies never linger long in my yard. I stepped outside and knelt right beside the butterfly. It remained still. My dogs ran to me, wagging their tails and dancing around. We were all inches away from this butterfly, yet it didn’t so much as twitch. I remembered my silent conversation with my grandfather late the previous evening and took that butterfly as my sign that he was near, watching over us.

All day, I kept an eye on that butterfly. Despite the noisy dogs, the slam of the screen door and the blazing sun, not once did it move. Just before dusk, I noticed it had finally disappeared.

When my grandmother got sick, she was living with my parents, not far from me. We took turns keeping her company, caring for her, making sure that she was never alone. Eventually, she became too ill to remain at home and had to be placed in hospice. I went to see her each day. My mother practically lived there. Again, I had a late night, silent conversation with my grandfather. I asked him to find a way of letting me know when the time came for my grandmother to join him.

One evening, as I was leaving my grandmother’s room, something told me to stop and take a final look. I suddenly knew that I would not see her again. My grandmother had already drifted off to sleep. I stopped and lingered there, saying a final goodbye.

At around noon the next day, I stepped outside with my dogs. We’d had rain early that morning and small puddles of water had gathered on the concrete of my pool deck. In one of those puddles, I spotted the butterfly from months ago. I know there are countless butterflies that look alike but I had no doubt that this was the same butterfly. And it was dead.

That was my sign. I knew that I would not see my grandmother again. She died within thirty minutes of me finding that butterfly.

Of course, this could have been nothing more than coincidence. Maybe there are no such things as spirits and, therefore, it is impossible for them to give us any sort of signs. Many people feel that way and I respect those opinions. We have no way of truly knowing, after all, do we?

But, in my mind, there is no doubt. Spirits and butterflies are my reality.

Each Wednesday, I’ve been hosting a character guest in my Tell me one thing… feature. My own characers have been complaining about not being invited to play. I see their point. That’s not very nice of me! To rectify that, today I’ve invited Skye Summers from my novel The Cutting Edge. Skye’s ten words all begin with the letter I.

Welcome, Skye!

Thanks for having me here today! I’m a little nervous about this. My business has always involved getting other people to talk about themselves. My clients rarely wanted to hear about me, so bear with me. I’ll do my best!

I know you’ll do great! Here we go. Tell me one thing about you that is…

Imperfect: Only one thing? My math skills are imperfect. The other day, I found a jacket I loved at the mall. The price was $57 but there was a sticker on the tag that said to take 15% off. I swear they do that just to mess with people like me. Why not tell me what the sale price is, instead of giving me a math problem to solve? Scott, my husband, bought me a mini calculator that I keep in my purse for times like these.

Indifferent: I’m indifferent toward the mother of Scott’s daughter. I used to despise her and with good reason. The woman made it her life’s mission to destroy my marriage. Things had gotten so bad that I fantasized about killing her in the most gruesome ways possible. Then all kinds of craziness happened in all our lives, which you can read about in The Cutting Edge. Now I don’t spit nails every time I hear her name but I won’t claim to like her much, either.

Ironic: I’m a lifelong vegetarian, raised by vegan parents, but I’m on a first name basis with my local butcher. I love my dogs and they are big-time carnivores. They get fresh chicken, beef or lamb each week and Harry the Butcher saves them the best bones.

Intriguing: One of my clients turned out to be a serial killer.

Impetuous: Fortunately for me, I’m able to control most of my impulses. One thing that I am impetuous about is spoiling my dogs. I once went to a craft fair with my mother and spent $100 on a hand-embroidered dog bed. That night, Jack, my big Lab mix, got into something out in the yard that he proceeded to throw up all over the brand new bed. That’s when I found out the thing couldn’t be put in the washing machine. That was not one of my wiser purchases.

Innocent: My childhood. I was brought up by the last of the sixties flower children. We grew our own food and sang Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young songs while coloring peace symbols on our jeans. My parents showed me all the good in the world.

Invaluable: My ability to smile politely while fantasizing about causing physical harm to the person speaking is invaluable.

Irrefutable: People can say a lot of things about me but there is no questioning my love for animals. After all, how many people would spend $100 on a dog bed you can’t wash?

Inspiring: I think that the way I’ve turned my life around, since that messy period in my life when my surgically sharpened sheers took over my fantasies, is inspiring. You’ll have to read The Cutting Edge and let me know if you agree.

Irritating: Me, irritating? Never! Okay, I know I’m forced to confess to something here. One irritating thing about me is that I don’t like to wake up. It makes no difference if it’s six in the morning or noon. The very act of waking makes me temporarily grumpy.

As Skye mentioned, readers can find her in my novel The Cutting Edge. Here’s a look:

My name is Skye Summers. I’m a hairstylist and I can’t stop fantasizing about killing my clients. Not all of them, of course. I only want to kill the ones who irritate me, which, if I’m being honest, is most of them. My occasional fantasies have turned into chronic daydreams. They’re bloody and vivid, like watching a slice-and-dice movie on IMAX.

I also want to kill my husband’s ex-girlfriend. She’s not a client but she tops my list. Eighteen years ago, she gave birth to his daughter and she has tormented him ever since. I should be troubled by this growing desire to use my surgically sharpened shears for more than a haircut. Instead, I wonder how I can get away with it.

You can read an excerpt on my website here: www.QuietFuryBooks.com/thecuttingedge.html

Thanks for reading.

Beyond Salvation is the sequel to No Justice and follows Michael Sykora on another quest to hunt down the bad guys.

How far would you go to right a wrong?

Michael has managed to keep his two personas separate. Until now. When Nicki, a close friend, gets into trouble, Michael steps in to help. Having lost his fiance to a brutal crime, Michael will do whatever necessary to keep from losing another woman in his life.

 At one time or another, don’t we all wish we could do the things our Justice system cannot or will not? What would it take to push you over the edge?

No Justice is my third novel. This one was originally published with a different cover. Recently I did some revisions and gave it a new look! You can now find it on my website -  www.QuietFuryBooks.com – as well as on Amazon.

I am at work on Lost And Found, the sequel to No Justice. Lost And Found (tentative title) should be available in a couple of months!

Would you give up your sanity in order to forget?

Sanity is not something you lose, like your car keys or that elusive sock in the dryer. That’s what Ian believed before his mother stepped over the edge from sane to crazy.

No one is able to give Ian a reasonable explanation. Corinne suffers from severe memory loss, odd behavior, and paranoid delusions. Or at least Ian had been told they were delusions. After all, who would be hiding outside watching his mother? And why?

Ian hires private investigator Lucianna Martel to retrace the events of his mother’s last sane day. During Lucianna’s investigation, she and Ian learn that Corinne may not be so crazy after all.

Hit List is my second novel. Have you read it? Interested in reading it? Have something to say about it? I’d love to hear from you!

When the abused decide to fight back, the abuser’s world might just shatter.

Lauren Covington’s family maintains a grand facade that belies the life they live behind closed doors. Alex Covington, Lauren’s father, keeps a tight rein on his family through dominance, abuse, and obsessive control. Consequently, Lauren doesn’t believe she could ever trust a man, much less fall in love with one.

When Lauren meets Jesse Ryder, her carefully constructed protective wall shatters. She falls hopelessly and completely in love. It’s only fitting that Jesse is a private detective who had once worked for her father, had defied him, and was now the subject of Alex Covington’s wrath.

Amidst devastating loss, betrayal, and her father’s destructive pursuit of Jesse, Lauren finds the trust and love she had always longed for.
—————

This is my first novel. Enemies And Playmates was originally published last year with a different cover. This year I did a little revising and gave it a brand new look! You can now find it (as well as my other 2 published novels) on Amazon, as well as on my website – www.QuietFuryBooks.com

Have you read Enemies And Playmates? Want to read it? I’d love to hear from you!