Tag: books

  • A Conversation with Myself

    A Conversation with Myself

    An interview with Sheriff Paul Odenton.

    Sheriff Paul Odenton appeared as a supporting character in Cursed, which I realize now I should have titled. The Curse of Porter Mines.

    1. Sheriff Odenton, you’ve served your community for decades. What first inspired you to pursue a career in law enforcement, and how has your perspective on the job changed over the years?

    When I was a young man, I believed in the idea of justice, of right and wrong being clear as day. My father always said someone had to stand up and do the hard things, and I suppose I took that to heart. Over the years, though, I’ve learned that the world isn’t so black and white. There’s a lot of gray and sometimes doing the right thing means making choices that haunt you long after the paperwork’s filed.

    2. The disappearances of children in Porter Mines have haunted your career. How do you cope with the emotional toll of unsolved cases, especially those involving the most vulnerable members of your community?

    You never really cope, not fully. Those faces stay with you. You see them in your dreams, and you hear their parents’ voices every time the phone rings. I try to remind myself that I did everything I could, but the truth is, you always wonder if you missed something. I lean on my wife, Maggie, and the folks I trust. Sometimes, all you can do is keep going and hope you make a difference the next time.

    3. Throughout the investigation, you’re confronted with both rational explanations and local legends, such as the Witch of Porter Mines. How do you balance skepticism with the need to respect the fears and beliefs of the townspeople?

    I was trained to look for evidence, to trust what I can see and prove. But in a place like Porter Mines, legends are as real as the ground we walk on. Folks need something to explain the unexplainable. I try to respect that, even if I don’t always believe it myself. Sometimes, listening to their fears is as important as chasing down leads.

    4. The events in Porter Mines often put you at odds with political pressures and public scrutiny. How do you maintain your integrity and focus on justice when facing criticism from both the community and local government?

    It’s not easy. There’s always someone looking over your shoulder, second-guessing your decisions. I remind myself why I took this job in the first place, to protect people, not to win popularity contests. I do my best to be honest, even when the truth is ugly, and I try to treat everyone fairly, no matter who’s watching.

    5. In your view, what role does the past, both personal and communal, play in shaping the present dangers and fears in Porter Mines?

    The past never really leaves us. In Porter Mines, old wounds fester, and stories get passed down like family heirlooms. Sometimes, the things we don’t talk about, like secrets and regrets are what hurt us most. I’ve seen how history repeats itself when we don’t face it head-on. That’s true for families, and it’s true for towns.

    6. You’ve witnessed the impact of trauma on families, including your own. What advice would you give to others in law enforcement about supporting victims and their loved ones through tragedy?

    Listen. Don’t just go through the motions, really listen. People need to know you care that you’re not just another badge. Be patient, and don’t make promises you can’t keep. Sometimes, all you can offer is your presence and your willingness to help them carry the weight, even if only for a little while.

    7. Now that the case has reached its conclusion, what lessons do you hope the community, and perhaps future generations of law enforcement, will take from your experiences in Porter Mines?

    I hope folks remember that evil isn’t always a stranger in the night, it can be the things we ignore, the pain we bury, or the anger we allow to fester. For those who come after me, I’d say. Never stop asking questions, never stop caring, and never forget that every case is someone’s whole world. Sometimes, the only thing standing between hope and despair is the person willing to keep searching for the truth.

    Sheriff Odenton is a persistent old man who continues to show up in various other places in my work. He briefly appeared in Parasite, part two of my Shadows of the Past trilogy, and in my works in progress, Bitter Hollow, The Bad Place, and will take the stage again in The Gathering when I get around to writing it. Which will be the last chapter in a trilogy of books that started with Cursed.

    Cursed

    Click on the cover to purchase.

    After the loss of her husband, Susan sought a safe place to rebuild a life for herself and her six-year-old daughter, Christine. Quaint and picturesque, Porter Mines seemed ideal, but Susan soon learns appearances can be deceiving. 

    Like many small towns, the history of Porter Mines was woven in a tapestry of dark secrets. One centered on a witch, who vowed with her dying breath to claim vengeance against those who wronged her. A ghost story rooted in grisly truth. 

    Can Susan protect Christine from a wrath even death couldn’t tame?

    Or will her only child fall prey to the curse of Porter Mines?

  • How Everyday Life Sparks Great Writing Ideas

    How Everyday Life Sparks Great Writing Ideas

    One of the most common questions a writer hears is, “Where do you get your ideas?”

    Being the typical smartass that I am, I sometimes reply they come from the idea tree.

    But the real answer, when authors are willing to admit it, is simple, yet elusive. Ideas emerge from some of the most unexpected places. Maybe a fleeting moment, a snippet of conversation, or even a dream. For some, inspiration is rooted in personal experience or observation. Mark Twain famously based Huckleberry Finn on a childhood friend, proving that real life often provides the richest material for fiction.

    Other writers find their muse in the world around them. News stories, historical events, or even graffiti can spark that “what if?” moment that leads to a compelling narrative. Many authors, like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, describe their ideas as arriving unbidden. Sometimes half-remembered, sometimes fully formed, yet always demanding attention.

    In his book On Writing, Stephen King spoke of ideas using the cup and the handle metaphor. How some ideas do not arrive fully formed and ready to go. But they get catalogued anyway until the idea that represents the handle or the cup arrives to complete the set.  

    But the secret isn’t just in having ideas. It’s in recognizing their potential. Writers train themselves to notice the unusual, the poignant, or the extraordinary in everyday life. They jot down stray thoughts, nurture them, and let them grow into stories. Sometimes, inspiration comes from other art forms, travel, or even the simple act of people-watching.

    For me personally I watch strangers. I work part time at Wally World, and I’ve wasted a few moments building narratives in my mind for the lives of the shoppers around me. Simple little tales that at times uncover a deeper narrative that refuses to be set aside. Like a hidden treasure trove of ideas that emerge from a simple act.

     Every writer’s process is unique. The magic comes with being open to inspiration while being brave enough to follow these ideas to where they ultimately lead. Turning ordinary moments into extraordinary tales.

    Where do your ideas come from?

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 01/21/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge 01/21/2026

    The man in charge looked down upon him, his features twisted with a sadistic cruelty.

    “I thought we had agreed you weren’t going to cause any trouble, boy?”

    Gus shook his head as he worked his mouth silently.

    “Look at this, boys. It thinks it can speak.” The man in charge said. The other hands laughed, Gus’s subdued attacker lying at their feet. The rest of the captives kept their heads down in a submissive manner, their eyes fixed on the bowl in front of them.

    “Maybe a night in the box will teach him his place.” The man in charge said before the emptiness swelled up from the black depths around him to envelope him in its smothering embrace.

    He drifted across a black sea buoyed by a single thought that anchored him to the reality of his past. He was not like the others. He had a life, a family, a wife who loved him. The thought of abandoning her as he had, even though everything that had happened to him up to this point had been out of his control, sent a dagger of guilt into his heart. She would be frantic, not sure what to do, lost within the terror of being deserted.

    What was her name?

    He searched his memory for her name, the throbbing at the base of his skull growing as he struggled to remember even the simplest details of his past life. They had children, or did they? If only he could remember her name, it would strengthen the anchor that tied him to the reality of his past and give him hope to battle the despair his life had become.

    Around him the shadows were deep, the sides of the steel box in which he lay were pressed tight against his shoulders, the crown of his head was wedged against the top while his feet were pressed flat against the bottom. It was a cramped space with a narrow slit along the top that allowed a soft breeze to dance across his naked flesh.

    They had taken his poncho.

    With shaking hands he reached for the top, his palms encountering cold steel as he pushed against its unyielding surface.

    He was trapped within the confines of a box too small for his frame, filled with the need to get up and move around, a restlessness that became the center of his world. Beyond the box the night moved resolutely towards morning, the sky to the east growing lighter as the world continued to turn upon its axis, unaware, uncaring, following a course that had been plotted long before he’d been born and would continue long after he was gone.

    His legs grew even more restless, and he struggled to keep them under control as spasms racked his muscles. He didn’t know how long he’d lain unconscious in the box, but judging by the pain in his legs it had to have been the better part of the night.

    Maybe they’d let him out with the dawn, to work the fields, to move about freely with the others. The thought gave him a goal to focus on as the birds sang in greeting to the approaching dawn, somewhere a rooster crowed as he concentrated on that single thought.

    They were going to let him out soon.

    Somewhere a door slammed, keys jingled, and a muffled shout came from the low-roofed building where the others were being kept.

    As the first light of the coming dawn crested the roof of the barn the doors of the barracks swung open, and the workers were driven towards the building where they had been fed the night before.

    They’ll be coming soon, the thought whispered through his mind, followed promptly by another. They’ll let me out soon. His legs had fallen asleep, his buttocks was numb from resting on the unyielding steel, and the flesh covering the nubs of his shoulder blades felt like it was becoming raw.

    If you’d like to start the story from the beginning follow the link below.

  • Transforming Everyday Moments into Story Ideas.

    Transforming Everyday Moments into Story Ideas.

    I’m running a little late this week. That’s been the story of my life lately while I work to bring my post apocalyptic series to an end. Without further adieu let’s get into this.

    One of the most common questions a writer hears is, “Where do you get your ideas?”

    Being the typical smart ass that I am, I sometimes reply they come from the idea tree.

    But the real answer, when authors are willing to admit it, is simple, yet elusive. Ideas emerge from some of the most unexpected places. Maybe a fleeting moment, a snippet of conversation, or even a dream. For some, inspiration is rooted in personal experience or observation. Mark Twain famously based Huckleberry Finn on a childhood friend, proving that real life often provides the richest material for fiction.

    Other writers find their muse in the world around them. News stories, historical events, or even graffiti can spark that “what if?” moment that leads to a compelling narrative. Many authors, like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, describe their ideas as arriving unbidden. Sometimes half-remembered, sometimes fully formed, yet always demanding attention.

    In his book On Writing, Stephen King spoke of ideas using the cup and the handle metaphor. How some ideas do not arrive fully formed and ready to go. But they get catalogued anyway until the idea that represents the handle or the cup arrives to complete the set.  

    But the secret isn’t just in having ideas. It’s in recognizing their potential. Writers train themselves to notice the unusual, the poignant, or the extraordinary in everyday life. They jot down stray thoughts, nurture them, and let them grow into stories. Sometimes, inspiration comes from other art forms, travel, or even the simple act of people-watching.

    For me personally I watch strangers. I work part time at Wally World, and I’ve wasted a few moments building narratives in my mind for the lives of the shoppers around me. Simple little tales that at times uncover a deeper narrative that refuses to be set aside. Like a hidden treasure trove of ideas that emerge from a simple act.

     Every writer’s process is unique. The magic comes with being open to inspiration while being brave enough to follow these ideas to where they ultimately lead. Turning ordinary moments into extraordinary tales.

    Where do your ideas come from?

  • A conversation with myself.

    I’m still working on figuring out how to do these interviews with my characters so please bear with me. I’ve renamed the post, after all when I interview a character, I’m having a conversation with myself. This week I talk to Susan, the lead character in my novel Cursed.

    Susan is a middle-aged woman in her late thirties who takes care of herself and has a positive outlook on life. Slender with straight brown hair kept at an average length. There is warmth in her smile, and her eyes. She seems open and caring to those around her. Yet she carries an aura of sadness, as if there were a weight we cannot see bearing down on her.

    RS: What brought you to Porter Mines?

    S: My husband died in Iraq.

    RS: I’m so sorry for your loss.

    S: Thank you. I wanted our daughter, Christine, to be close to his parents who live in Oakland. The farmhouse in Porter Mines was nearby and was listed at a pretty good price. But had I known what I know now, I would never have moved there.

     RS: Why is that?

    S: Every small town has its secrets. Most are harmless little tales designed to scare kids. Or secrets everyone knows about. Like infidelity among the members of the council. Or certain people looking the other way when members of the council get drunk. Things of that nature. But Porter Mines was different, its secret is dangerous, even more so for my daughter.

    Here Susan becomes visibly upset and struggles to control herself. After a few moments she gets herself under control and wipes away her tears. Christine enters the room, crosses to her mommy and climbs into her lap. She’s a cute little thing carrying a stuffed bunny nearly as large as she is.

    S: I mean I didn’t know my maiden name was associated with the founders of the town who lived under this old curse.

    RS: What curse was that?

    S: According to the stories an old woman in the late seventeen hundreds got sick. The area was mostly virgin forest and there were Indians nearby. The people at the outpost believed she was a witch. They got together and dragged her from her home to burn her at the stake. It was said that with her dying breath she cursed every generation that would stain this land.

    C: That’s the witch, but it’s okay, daddy will take care of us.

    Susan glances at Christine with an expression of sorrow.

    RS: The witch?”

    C: She’s real, I saw her, but nobody believes me.

    RS: How will your daddy protect you?

    Here Christine breaks into a wide smile as she pulls the bunny tight against her chest.

    C: He’s here, in my bunny. If you listen real close you can hear his heartbeat. He told me that as long as I had the bunny with me, he would always be with me.

    RS: Did you dad buy the bunny for you?”

    C: No, he won it. It had to be earned.

    RS: Earned?

    C: That’s what the man at the carnival said. Daddy said it would be cheaper to just buy one. But the man at the carnival said it had to be earned.

    RS: What had to be earned?

    Christine shrugged as she twisted around in her seat to look up at her mom.

    S: He won the bunny at a roadside carnival the day before he shipped out. I got so mad at him because he spent so much money to win it. But looking back I was wrong. The bunny helped us get through the worst of everything after he died. It was a constant reminder of his love for us.

    C: Yeah, that’s what I said.

    RS: What about your parents Susan?

    S: My father died when I was young, and my mother passed several years ago.

    RS: I sense you were not close with her?

    S: Not at all, she’s the reason my brother killed himself. She started listening to a TV preacher and made me and my brother’s life miserable.

    RS: I’m so sorry to hear that. It looks like you’ve adapted.

    S: You can’t live in the past.

    RS: So true. Is there anything you’d like to share with our readers before we go?

    S: If you have children, listen to them when they tell you things that seem made up. They see things we can’t, they believe things we’ve turned our back on, and because of that the night holds a danger we cannot see.

    Cursed

    Click on cover to order

    After the loss of her husband, Susan sought a safe place to rebuild a life for herself and her six-year-old daughter, Christine. Quaint and picturesque, Porter Mines seemed ideal, but Susan soon learns appearances can be deceiving. 

    Like many small towns, the history of Porter Mines was woven in a tapestry of dark secrets. One centered on a witch, who vowed with her dying breath to claim vengeance against those who wronged her. A ghost story rooted in grisly truth. 

    Can Susan protect Christine from a wrath even death couldn’t tame?

    Or will her only child fall prey to the curse of Porter Mines?