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.

Whether you worship God, Allah, Mother Earth or nothing at all, the holiday season has the same basic meaning – love and be kind to one another, and give what you can to those who are less fortunate. We shouldn’t need a holiday to remind us. We should behave this way all year.

Enough said. I shall not step up on my soapbox today. It’s the holidays!

I am excited to be helping Santa out this year. I don’t have a lot to give. (In fact, my bank would probably argue that I have nothing. ) But even the little stuff counts, right? In my role as Santa’s Helper, I need your help. What I have to give is books. And I’m looking for someone who loves to read and is in need of a boost this holiday season. Here’s the deal…

Are you having a difficult year and can’t afford to give gifts to all the people you love? Do you know someone who doesn’t have much, who probably won’t get much, and you’d like to make that person smile? Do any of these people love to read? If so, tell me about them! Choose one person and tell me why you think he/she deserves a gift. You don’t have to give me a lot of personal details. Maybe you lost your job and can’t afford to buy your best friend something. Or you’re buried beneath a heap of medical bills (I can relate to that!) and you need a gift for your child’s teacher. It could be someone you know who lost a job, a house, is going through a divorce, and that person is special to you. Tell me why!

I’ll pick two ‘winners’ from the comments. If your nomination is picked, I’ll send you an email requesting the person’s name and mailing address, as well as your choice of one of my eight titles for that person. I’ll wrap the book, include a card letting the person know the gift is from you, and ship it – all free!

Sound good? I hope so! Here are the guidelines in simplified form:

1. Submit your nomination of one person who deserves a surprise gift this holiday season. You do not need to give this person’s name.
2. You cannot nominate yourself. (But you can get someone else to!)
3. Include your name and a valid email address.
4. Nominations are open between 8:00 a.m. EST on Saturday, December 3 and midnight EST on Wednesday December 7.
5. Due to shipping time, I have to restrict this to people living within the U.S.
6. The person you nominate needs to be at least 16 years of age.

That’s it. Please help me be a Santa’s Helper this year by nominating someone you care about.

Okay, more on the contest soon. First, here is an excerpt from chapter 1 of No Justice: A Michael Sykora Novel

Let him laugh. One more hour and he’d be dead.

Michael Sykora put the binoculars down on the empty passenger seat. The man he’d soon be killing went by the name Alan Nystrom, an alias, of which he had three others. His real name, the one he hadn’t used in over 20 years, was Bruce Renwick.

More laughter. Good to know that Renwick was enjoying his last day. Soaking up the sun on the golf course, making jokes with his buddies. Would Renwick, if given the choice, pick golf as his last hurrah? Doubtful, though the choices people made often baffled him.

Michael was being paid $40,000 to dispose of Bruce Renwick. Twenty of that had already been deposited into his offshore account. The other half would be received upon completion. His price had been a little higher for this job since the client had chosen the method of death. An indulgence Michael had allowed this time. Though after what he’d found while rummaging through Renwick’s home last night, Michael would gladly take this trash out for free.

Calling Renwick an animal would be a grave insult to the non-human world. Renwick was a pedophile. A predator of the lowest sort. The last child he’d raped, an 11-year-old boy, had hung himself afterward because the shame and trauma had been unbearable. That boy had not been Renwick’s first victim. He would, however, be the last.

The next day Michael had been contacted. The boy’s father did not want Renwick given the chance to walk away. Not ever. He had to be wiped off the earth before the police finished their investigation. That call had come five days ago. Michael had inside information that a warrant would be issued for Renwick’s arrest tomorrow morning.
Renwick would be dead this afternoon.

Bruce Renwick, as Alan Nystrom, strode confidently toward the clubhouse. The man had an odd stoop, like he was training to be the hunchback in a play or something. His hair was that shade of brown that women called mousy and his eyes were covered by small round glasses reminiscent of John Lennon. He wore tan shorts and one of those polo shirts in blue. To all the world he appeared as a harmless geek.

The locked metal storage unit in his garage had told a different story. Michael had checked. He liked to be sure before he killed. Death wasn’t something he could take back. The pictures had confirmed more than he’d needed to know. Renwick would not be a mistake.

Michael set his binoculars on the seat beside him and did his best to stretch in the cramped car. He’d been sitting in this parking space for 11 minutes, having moved once Renwick had finished the 18th hole. Now he had a perfect view of the clubhouse, as well as Renwick’s silver Saab.

The clock continued to tick on Renwick’s life.

Eighteen more minutes passed. Then Bruce Renwick, golf bag slung over his shoulder, emerged from the clubhouse. One of his golf buddies walked beside him. They headed toward the parking lot.

The other man, a 40-something balding executive type, parted company with Renwick as they moved toward their respective cars. Michael turned the key in his ignition. He pushed the gear into reverse, kept his foot on the brake.

The executive climbed into his car. A bright yellow Volkswagen. He tooted once, then pulled out. Renwick lifted his hand in a wave as he kept walking. Fortunately for Michael’s purpose, Renwick liked to park his Saab in the back of the lot, far from everyone. He was also one of those guys who parked diagonally across three spaces at the grocery store so that no one would ding his car when opening his or her door.

Michael glanced around him. The strip mall had been fairly busy this morning. Right now, however, he was alone. No one had parked close to him. No one was outside. The timing couldn’t have been better. He tucked the binoculars under his seat. He would no longer need them.

His heart sped up. Just a slight increase but enough for him to notice. His breathing remained even. He watched.

Bruce Renwick held his key chain. He pressed the button on his remote to unlock his doors. The alarm chirped off. Then the trunk popped open. He slid the golf clubs off his shoulder and placed the bag inside the trunk. Then he pushed the trunk lid closed.

Back around to the driver’s side. Renwick reached out, gripped the door handle and pulled. A grimace, probably from the heat inside the car. He smoothed his hair back, adjusted his glasses, then slid inside.

Michael eased his foot from the brake. Renwick yanked his door closed. A moment passed. The engine caught. Then a deafening blast that shook the pavement. The vibration reverberated through Michael’s hands as he gripped the steering wheel. Thick smoke, orange flames. Bits of metal rained down around the blaze that had once been Renwick and his car.

Screams from the golf course. Michael calmly backed out of his parking slot. No one looked his way. The billows of smoke were far more entertaining.

Once out on the main street, Michael took his cell phone from his pocket. Not his usual phone but the disposable one with the prepaid card. The boy’s father had one just like it. Michael dialed his number. When the father picked up, Michael said, “It’s done.”

The squeal of young children playing sifted into the silence through the connection. The father had taken his advice, making sure he had a solid alibi. Yesterday he and his wife had driven up to Georgia to stay with family. They had told police that they needed to get away from their house and the memories. No one could blame them. Their son had hung himself in their garage.

Now the father said, “Good. Thank you.” A pause, then, “How did it go?”

His voice had that gravelly quality that came from too many cigarettes and sleepless nights. There was also something sadly robotic in the way he pronounced his words. Michael had killed the monster but he could never bring the child back. The man and his wife would never be okay.

Michael said, “You don’t want details. It’s better that way.”

The client hadn’t been after the usual vengeance of extreme pain and suffering. He’d wanted Renwick’s body ripped apart. Shredded, was how the client had put it. He’d wanted to be sure there was nothing left for Renwick’s family to mourn over.

Michael would have liked to give the man the details. He deserved that much. But he’d explained from the start, knowing too many details wasn’t a smart idea. The cops would inevitably question him. After all, Renwick had raped his son. Caused his suicide. Therefore, the less detail he was sure of, the easier it would be to lie.

“Right,” the father said. He cleared his throat, probably wiped away tears. Then, “The balance will be taken care of today.”

From the client’s offshore account to Michael’s. No paper trail for the police to trace. “Thank you,” Michael said.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Michael said, “I’m sorry. I hope you find peace.” Then he flipped the phone shut and rode the rest of the way in silence.

You can find No Justice in both print and Kindle format on Amazon:

You can also find it in print and ebook format in a variety of other places, including all ebook formats on Smashwords. As a thank you to all my readers, you can now download No Justice on Smashwords for just 99 cents, using the coupon code NT64H. The code is good until March 1.

Now, about that t-shirt. You have a choice between medium or large only. Here are those pesky contest rules:

You must live in the U.S. or Canada
You must enter before midnight EST on Friday, February 25
You must have a secret crush on Michael Sykora
You must love ice cream

Yes, I know, that’s not fair to those who are lactose intolerant. Seriously, only the first two rules stand. The other two, well, I’m probably talking about myself there.

To enter, leave a comment, a rant, an opinion, a passing thought on why Starbucks insists on making us speak Italian, or a love letter to Michael Sykora. Include a valid email address and keep an eye on your spam folder. That’s it. Oh, and you can click your heels 3 times if you think it’ll help.

Thanks for reading!

Good luck!

My novel No Justice began with just that premise during a conversation with my husband. I wanted to know the breaking point, that moment in time when the average nonviolent person crosses the line to seek his or her own form of justice. Most people leave it all in the hands of the police, trusting the system and often waiting years for closure. Or perhaps never finding answers at all. A handful of others seek professional hit men that settle the score. Then there are the occasional few like my character Michael Sykora. Tragedy pushes them past the breaking point. They don’t believe the justice system can help them. The best they hope for is that their actions will tip the scale in favor of the innocent.

In 2008, there were 89,000 reported rapes in the U.S. Bear in mind that these are only the reported rapes. According to RAIIN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network), 60% of rapes go unreported. With reported cases, there is only a 50.8% chance that the police will make an arrest. Once arrested, 80% will face prosecution. Those prosecuted have a 58% chance of being convicted. Even with a felony conviction, the rapist stands only a 69% chance of doing jail time. What these statistics amount to is that, with all reported rapes, there is only a 16.3% chance the rapist will end up in prison.

When we factor in the unreported rapes, we find that 15 of every 16 rapists walk free.

Years ago, I served time on a jury during a murder trial. Everyone should have that experience, preferably early in their life. I don’t say that because I think it’s our civic duty. I say that because it shines a spotlight on how our system works for the average person. Not the O.J. Simpsons in the word, with powerful lawyers, but the average people who murder other average people.

The man on trial had raped, then strangled his girlfriend. He’d left her dead in his bed while he went out to a party. His defense was a jumble of nonsense, from a cocaine high many hours earlier in the day, to a jealous rage, to complete innocence. He even went as far as pointing the finger of blame at his brother, who shared the apartment he lived in. The most horrifying part of the trial for me, as a woman, was the way the victim was portrayed. Her soiled panties were held up as evidence of an earlier sexual encounter, while her parents cringed in the front row. The defense attorney all but called her a whore. The worst of her past was dragged out and displayed for all to see. We learned what she did five years earlier and with whom. None of that mattered. Whether or not she was sexually active in her past or cheated on her boyfriend bore no relation to the fact that she’d been brutally raped and murdered.

While we sat silent witnesses to all of this digging into the victim’s past, the man accused sat protected. His past was not allowed into evidence because it might “prejudice” the jury. We were allowed, even encouraged, to feel prejudice toward the woman. The victim. But we were not allowed to hear anything about the man accused of killing her.

Do we need wonder why so many rapes go unreported?

What surprises me is that more people don’t seek their own form of justice.

Of my fellow jurors, only one other initially voted for murder one. No one believed he was innocent. However, the other 10 thought manslaughter was more appropriate. He’d been high. He’d been jealous. Her behavior had pushed him over the edge. She’d asked for it. He hadn’t meant to do it.

He strangled her with his hands. Doing so takes up to 3 minutes of continuous pressure. How could that possibly be an accident?

The other juror and I fought for murder one. We eventually won that argument. After the verdict was read, the judge visited us in the juror’s chambers. She wanted to congratulate and thank us for coming to what she felt was the correct decision. At that point, she was finally able to share what had been kept from us. This man, who had sat quiet and solemn while his lawyer called his dead girlfriend a whore, had multiple charges of assault and rape in his past.

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?

Of course, when I say dialogue, I’m not talking about two or more characters having a mundane conversation, such as:

“Hello,” said Harry.

“Hi, Harry,” replied Charlotte. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine. You?”

“I’m doing well. What’s new?”

That type of dialogue is boring and unnecessary. I’d put myself to sleep writing that kind of stuff. I’m talking about the kind of dialogue that moves a plot forward. Rather than paragraphs of narration informing the reader, a conversation between characters can do the same with a bit more flare. Such as this conversation from my novel No Justice, the first in my Michael Sykora series:

Sean leaned back, sipping slowly on his beer. Then, his voice dropping to that low tone reserved for business, he said, “Word is that one of Lotto’s guys, a cousin, was executed.”

“That would be true,” Michael said.

“And left on their own turf,” Sean said with a smile. “Nice message. I’m impressed.”

“Damn. I must be getting good if I’m impressing you.”

“Talk is your girl hired a pro.”

“Hiring would imply getting paid, so I guess that’s false,” Michael said.

“Want me to correct that rumor?”

“I think we’ll let that one stand.”

“Pushed Lotto right to the edge,” Sean said. “He and his wanna-be bangers are out for blood. Now they want the girl as well as the guy who did the cousin.”

Michael nodded, sipped his drink. He watched out the window as he considered the situation. Taking out an entire group of people hadn’t exactly been in his plans. Yet it was looking like he didn’t have many options left.

“They’ve been asking around,” Sean said. “Looking for her. And info on the mystery hit man.”

“Are they learning anything?”

Sean chuckled. “Yeah. They’re learning why you’re called The Ghost.”

I could easily have put that information in narration form. However, I find overly long passages of narration dull. I like to see the characters, hear their voices and feel the emotion behind their words. That’s how I hear it in my head, so that’s how I write it.

Here’s another from my novel Beyond Salvation, the second in my Michael Sykora series:

“What have you got on Tracy?” Michael asked Isaac. He adjusted the cell phone on his ear as he steered his Porsche through a snarl of traffic.

“So far just a blip,” Isaac said. “But it’s a start. Twenty-five years ago, she spent two days in Memorial Hospital in Jacksonville. The billing information was your mother’s name on Bennett Road in Jacksonville.”

“Jacksonville?” Michael said. What the hell were they doing there? He wouldn’t have expected them to remain in Florida. Then again, where had he expected them to go? “What was she hospitalized for?”

“Don’t know. Medical records are sealed.”

“Right,” Michael muttered. “Twenty-five years. I don’t suppose she still lives at that address.”

“Unfortunately, no. Not unless she’s renting a room from the Wongs.”

“Okay. Well at least it’s a start. She might still be somewhere in Jacksonville.”

“I’m looking into it.”

Again, this could be done with narration. Would it be better? Worse? Or just different?

Finally, here’s a snippet of dialogue from my novel Miami Snow, the novel my author acquaintance felt had too much dialogue:

“So I’ve been thinking,” Brandy said. “Aaron hasn’t worked in over a year and the guy has all his bills paid and plenty of extra cash. Why can’t we do that, too?”

Nick opened his eyes, now fully awake. “I’m not selling drugs.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is a six-by-nine jail cell.”

“We won’t get caught. Look at Aaron.”

“That’s Aaron.” Nick slid his arm out from beneath Brandy, then pushed up on his elbows. “I’m not that lucky.”

Brandy turned to face Nick. She said, “We’d only sell to people we know.”

“I don’t know anyone but you.”

“I know plenty of people. We could do it for six months and be totally out of debt.”

“You’d be out of debt. I’d be in jail.”

“Stop being such a pessimist. It’s easy money. Don’t you want some rights with your daughter? You need a lawyer.”

Nick groaned. “Thanks for reminding me.”

I have read few books in the mystery/suspense/thriller genre, which I write under, that rely more on narration than dialogue. Usually, it’s a pretty equal mix. However, I have read some with too much dialogue, in the sense that I don’t want to read the “Hello, how are you?” conversation with every character. I’ve also read books with not enough dialogue, in which I grew bored with the endless pages of narration.

How do you feel about dialogue? If you write, do you use it moderately or extensively? Do you like to read dialogue within novels or do you prefer more narration?

That’s the first paragraph from a short story I recently wrote called The First Kill. I don’t normally write short stories. My characters have way too much to say. However, recently my so-called minor characters have been demanding more attention. Many of them want to step up into the spotlight, twirl around, show off, then take a bow at the end that is all their own. Shushing them was no longer working. I gave in and followed along as the first of many background characters jumped to the forefront.

The First Kill is Sean Riley’s story. Sean is a minor character, a hit man, in my Michael Sykora series. The first book in that series is No Justice, the second Beyond Salvation. I’m currently at work on number three.

The First Kill is a free download on Smashwords! You can download the PDF to read on your computer or any format that works for your eReader. I hope to soon have it available on Amazon, as well.

I hope you’ll take the time to read the story. You’ll make Sean quite happy.

I am currently giving away downloads of my romantic suspense novel Enemies and Playmates! You can download the e-book free on Smashwords and on Scribd. This is temporary giveaway. I haven’t decided how long I’ll let it run, so download Enemies and Playmates soon!

I’ve also uploaded my other five novels onto Scribd and they are now available as e-book purchases on that site!

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DarciaHelle

http://www.scribd.com/darciah

Good luck!

Enemies and Playmates
Hit List
No Justice
Beyond Salvation
Miami Snow

All you have to do is fill out the May Contest form on my contest page. Anyone 16 and older in the U.S. and Canada is welcome to enter. (I apologize to all those in other countries but the shipping is too high.)

www.QuietFuryBooks.com/contests.html

Good luck!

This contest runs between 11 AM EST April 17 and 11 AM EST April 19. Everyone 16 and older in the U.S. and Canada is welcome to enter.

I’m also running an April Book Giveaway, in which you can win a signed copy of Beyond Salvation, the follow-up to No Justice. Please enter each contest only once per person.

To enter, just fill out the form on my contest page: www.QuietFuryBooks.com/contests.html