Good morning all.  I hope everyone is up and sitting at your computer pounding away on your exciting story lines.  I,myself, am on my first cup o  coffee, so be nice.I know I haven’t written a blog in a good long time.  I have been helping my daughter with her move to Louisville.  If Sister and I ever write a real ghost story, I want to use that house.  It is 115 years old, and creepy as all get out.  Yet it is beautiful.  Actually, before she moved in, we smudged each room including the windows, corners and ourselves.  We used a white sage which was recommended to her by a Wiccan lady.  perhaps it was just my imagine, but there was such a calmness in the house afterwards. Anyway, it was a pleasing experience for all of us.

Speaking of pleasant experiences, I had to have a Steroid shot in my right shoulder yesterday.  The only way to explain it is that it isn’t quite as  bad as giving birth.  Close tho.

I learned something a little while ago.  I was going to tell y’all about my weather when I realized I didn’t know the difference between “gray and grey.”  So I went to good ole Siri on my IPhone and she set me straight.  GRAY is used here in the US.  GREY is used in the UK and other parts of the world.  Wouldn’t ya know the US would have to be different. Oh well, it really does not   matter.  gray is grey no matter what shade you use.  Not anything at all like “there and their.”

Now to the one thing I hate and despise.  And so do you.  TAXES.  I haven’t done ours.  I haven’t even started them.  I promised hubs I would get on them today.  SO I MUST.

I’ll be back on the keys in a day or two.  In the meantime, y’all take care and keep at it.  That book will be finished soon.  Then comes the hard part, EDITING.


images[2]Rain, glorious rain is falling on my dry yard.  Thank you Lord.  We had another grass fire, a controlled burn which got out of control. not too far from where I live.  And last night when I took Titan out before we went to bed, I could smell the strong odor of wood smoke.  Grass fires scare the hell out of me.  So let’s be careful folks.


getImage[2]I’m waiting for some of the oil paint to dry on the new painting before I proceed.  Orange, yellow and certain reds do not dry as fast as others.  Alizarin Crimson takes forever to dry.  How many people love to paint raindrops?  I do, also butterflies, bees, dragonflies and most insects, including ants.  And I love ladybugs.  I don’t like roaches of any kind.  Florida has some huge bugs which I don’t miss one bit.  I did a painting of a rose for my sister and told her I was going to paint an ant on the rose.  I was teasing her as she had asked me “please don’t put a bug in my painting.”  I didn’t.  I finished the painting without the bug.  I thought an ant would be cute.  I have a dragonfly resting on cattail that I want to paint.  It’s in line with the others in my studio.   I have to finish this one painting before I can do any others.

2nd THE HANGMAN BK CVRNEW SNGLE STONE KILLER CVRWell, I’m plugging along on THE HANGMAN.  For some reason, it is not flowing as smoothly as THE STONE KILLER did.  I need to dig deeper into the lives of my main characters and put their hearts and souls on display.  That’s what the storyline needs.  But, sometimes while I’m writing, ideas for other Jonas Black books bombard me.  When that happens, I stop and jot down the rough storyline, especially if it is from the killer’s point of view.  As I have stated before, I believe to write a murder story you must have a clear picture of who your killer is and why he/she is committing the crime.  You commit the crime, and hopefully the rest of the storyline falls into place and characters evolve.  Anyway, that is the way it is supposed to work.  It doesn’t always go as planned.  The characters have a big say  as to whether they will do what you might have planned for them.  Sometimes my people tell me what they will or will not do.  I am so thrilled when that happens.  That’s when the novel really takes off.

Well it is time for Titan and the cats to head to bed here in Colorado Springs.  It will be nice going to sleep to the sound of rain falling outside my window.

Everyone have a great Thursday, Friday and a fantastic weekend.  Please stay safe.



Garden_of_the_Gods[1]Since we have been having such warm, dry weather, I was not surprised to hear on last night’s news we had a couple of grass fires.  Thank God they were quickly contained by the fire department.   For the rest of the year into our winter, we, living here in Colorado, will have to be ever vigilant for grass fires.  We don’t need a repeat of the Waldo Canyon and Black Forests fires.  Two people died in each one, and that is too many.   So Colorado folks and visitors, please be careful where you toss a cigarette, target practice or anything that can cause a fire.  If you see smoke, call 911.  It’s better to be safe than sorry.

images8OEW8AWXimagesYW79DRE4I was thrilled this past week to see several robins in the back and front yards.  Spring is here, I hope.  Not that we can really complain about our winter.  We had cold weather and snow, but not even close to what the Midwest and eastern states had.  I don’t complain about Colorado weather.  The “Springs” has as close to perfect weather as we can get.  Yes, sometimes the summers do get hotter than we like, but it only lasts a short time and the nights cool off to the 60s or even drop into the 50s, so no bitching from me about the weather. I am looking forward to planting hollyhocks and yellow roses.


NEW SNGLE STONE KILLER CVR2nd THE HANGMAN BK CVRYesterday, I took a break from writing and research to start a new painting.  I’ll post it after I finish it.  It is a landscape.  I hope everyone’s writing is progressing and your storyline is going as you hoped.  Being a writer is not an easy job.  We create worlds, people and actions that have to be plausible or our readers won’t continue to follow us.   The more we write, the better at our craft we become.  I hope so anyway.  The next book in the Jonas Black series is coming along slow, but sure.  Give THE STONE KILLER a read.  It’s available at amazon.com/dp/B00NBB8SZO

I have an eye appointment this afternoon for new glasses.  I need them as my vision has definitely changed.  Maybe with new glasses I won’t make as many typing mistakes.  I can only pray for that to happen.

IMAG0506My poor Titan has an ear infection.  Went to the vet and got some ear meds from the vet.  It has been fun trying to flush his ears and then put the ear meds in.  He doesn’t like it one bit and being a small dog can wiggle off my lap too easily.  I tried wrapping him in a blanket, but that didn’t work too well.  It works better if I don’t try to hold him down, but tell him to hold still on my lap.  He still doesn’t like having an ointment put in his ears, but at least he lets me treat them.

Well, everyone have a great day and week.  Stay safe and keep writing.






Hey everyone:  I am going to give this one more try before calling the Geek Squad again.  Sister insists I am hitting a button or something to make it turn blue. I swear to Pete, if it wasn’t so far,  I would go out there and kill her till she dies from it.  If you want the truth, I don’t  know how to make things turn blue on a PC.  I have used a Mac for years.  I never had a problem with it.  As a matter of fact, I went to Best Buy yesterday and tried to trade this pc in on a Mac.  They would only give me $104.00 dollars trade in.  This computer won’t be a year old until July and they would only give me a pittance of  trade in. Shows you what they think of the HP.

Oh the weather here in KY is so beautiful today.  All the snow is gone(of course, nothing but mud in the yard now), and I hope the yard dries up soon.  The dogs are driving me nuts with their dirty paws.  I think Bella rolls in the mud.  But the temp is in the 50’s, the sun is out and I am a happy camper.  Even tho I spend most of my time wiping dogs.

I forgot to tell you.  I am going down to Louisville on Friday with my oldest daughter.  Her younger sister is moving there.  She and her husband are moving into a 115 year old house.  Since the house is so old, the girls think it should be Smudged.  I did not know what that meant until they told me.  It involves burning sage in each room and I assume we will pray for all the bad ghosts to leave. I think it would be cool to have a nice friendly ghost.  Especially if she does house work or cooks.  Just think of it.  Pots and pans flying around the kitchen and then a scrumptious meal flies to the table.  Cool Huh?

Well, y’all tale care of yourselves and make sure to practice your craft.  Don’t forget to EDIT your work.  We’ll talk later.


1/2 Dreamah


IMAG0506Well folks, my world is spinning today.  When I awoke around 2:30 to go to the bathroom, my head was whirling and the house or me was tilting.  It was me.  My inner ear is off and I have been a dizzy dame most of the day.  I’ve taken medicine that helps, but it also puts me to sleep, so my day has been wasted sleeping in my recliner with Titan on my lap.  When I’m not feeling 100%, he always wants me to sit in my chair so he can be on my lap or beside me.  I’ll call my doctor tomorrow because my sinuses are acting up and my ears are hurting.  Oh well, this too shall pass.  Another great sun shiny day here in the Springs.  Of course, I missed most of the day sleeping.  After taking that anti-dizzy pill, I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

CREATING KATHRYN CROWNNEW SNGLE STONE KILLER CVRI have a question.  What to readers prefer, romantic suspense or murder and mayhem with a touch of romance.  I like them both.  John Sanford, Robert Ludlum, Michael Connolly and other who write murder and mayhem.  I have trouble with romance stories that are written like a formula story.  Of course, love stories do run on a formula in a sense, girl meets boy, conflict, how they overcome conflict and resolve problems and come together in love.   All stories are created from a formula in a way.  Murder, investigation, conflict for characters, murder solved, conflict resolved, all parties come together.

Anyway, email me and let me know what type of story you like to read.

Just took another anti-dizzy pill.  La la land here I come.

Everyone have a great evening and stay safe.




I hope you enjoy this sample of THE STONE KILLER.



Saturday, early a.m.

He breathed in great ragged gulps of air as the sweat rolled down his face and back, soaking the white T-shirt and waistband of his jeans, as he stared at the woman bound to the wooden beams. The planning and anticipation over the past two weeks had him riding a high almost as intoxicating as drugs, but better. Tossing the oval stone in the air a couple of times, he felt the rough pitted surface. The stone weighed, he guessed, about seven or eight ounces. It was not the weight, but the speed that did the job. There were only seven that he used out of the large pile, each about the same size. That was all he needed. Even after all these years, he could throw a baseball at ninety-five miles an hour. He had clocked his throwing speed.

After stripping her down to her gaudy red underwear, he securely tied the bitch spread eagle with ropes run through strong steel pitons, which were used by mountain climbers. A heavy leather strap held her head in place, so she couldn’t move. She wouldn’t have been able to move much anyway, the drug would have made sure of that.

The only lights were an overhead bulb and two spotlights he had clipped to the ceiling beams closest to the woman. He used the spotlights to blind her and keep him hidden in the shadows. Not that he cared if she had been able to see him or recognize his face; her fate had been sealed for some time. He could tell that she was awake. His skin quivered as the moment drew near. The bitch deserved his punishment. Just like his wife. They were both whores, enticing men to break their sacred vows.

He fingered the stone for a second. She was watching him and all too aware that it was time for her execution. He could almost smell her fear; he delighted in the fact. Slowly, he drew back and threw the first stone. When it struck the targeted knee, there was a loud crack as the bone broke. Shock widened her eyes and a quiver ran up and down his body. With the next blow to the other knee the excruciating pain rolled her eyes up into her head. His insides grew hot with excitement and sweat formed on his upper lip. He smiled and shook himself, letting fly another stone.

She attempted to scream when he shattered first the right and then the left elbow. The destruction of the left shoulder closed her eyes, indicating she had passed out. He threw a bucket of water in her face. Her eyes flew open and her features contorted in agony. His blood lust intensified. The destruction of her right shoulder expanded the terror and filled her mind to bursting with the knowledge of her impending death. His excitement continued to grow as he delivered the coup de grace, the final blow to the head that smashed her brain to gray mush.

At that pivotal moment when the stone struck the left side of her face and the spark of life left her eyes, a surge of overwhelming heat dropped him to his knees. The waves of ecstasy washed over him again and again. Then it faded. The exhilaration was too short-lived. Now, she hung lifeless on the close-fitting wooden beams that formed a large X. The structure was attached to the end of the basement wall for just this purpose.

He stood and turned to stare into the deep shadows at the opposite end of the room, feeling the anticipation beginning to rise again. It surprised him that it was starting so soon, but he welcomed it, knowing control was necessary. Acting too quickly would spoil all his plans. He had to let this need simmer and come to a boil, releasing it only when it was time.

It didn’t matter that it was a woman, but the act itself that sent his heart pounding and the blood roaring through his veins. He had never felt so alive. The exhilaration made him feel empowered as God over life and death. Even now, the shadows hid the form of his next subject, all bound, gagged and immobilized. He would force himself to wait another day. The anticipation would heighten his senses and appreciation. He took a deep breath and surveyed the room.

The basement was long and windowless, running the width and half the depth of the house, and even chilly at this time of the night. The end, with the crossed beams, had concrete walls and a floor that sloped a little to a drain set in the cement just past the midway point. The other end of the room’s floor was still packed dirt where coal had been stored for the furnace. The chute opening had been sealed long ago, but the earth floor remained. It had been a great convenience.

So, reluctantly, he turned back to the lifeless body held upright by the ropes. All he had to do now was hose the bitch down and get rid of her.

Chapter One




At two-fifty-nine Saturday morning, in a small Craftsman-style house in midtown Colorado Springs, Morgan Jansen, lying flat on her back in bed, woke with fisted hands clenching the sheet and screaming, “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

Pain sliced through her like a hot knife all the way to her heart. It was as if her very soul was being ripped from her flesh. Without warning, excruciating, debilitating pain shot through both of her knees. All ability to move her legs was gone. Morgan screamed again as agony exploded in her elbows. Her arms went limp and she lost her grip on the sheet. Within seconds, another scream was ripped from her as razor-sharp daggers shot deep into her shoulders. Each breath ragged, she gagged on the bile that rose in her throat. The final agony struck, hitting the middle of her forehead, through her left eyeball, and ripped through the left side of her face and temple.

She tried to move, but it was almost impossible to wiggle even a finger. It was as if the pain was binding her to the mattress. But move she must. She had to get to the bathroom or drown in her own vomit. Struggling, every movement utter torment, she flopped her arm onto her stomach. Each crook of her fingers took her breath as she inched back the bedspread. Jaws clenched tight and fighting the blackness that threatened to overtake her, she shifted onto her side and managed to slide to the floor, knocking the lamp off the nightstand in the process.

On her stomach, the chill of the floor coming through her thin pink nightshirt, she tried to crawl across the hardwood floor toward the open door of the bathroom, but again was unable to move. Her eyes were only slits as she turned her head, fighting the urge to vomit. Then, just as abruptly as it came, the pain vanished, leaving her joints aching as if badly bruised.

Dizzy and still sick to her stomach, she sat up, was barely able to rise to her knees, then finally managed to stand and stagger into the bathroom. She hung over the commode as hard spasms tore at her muscles making her heave up the contents of her stomach. After the vomiting stopped, she moved to the sink and rinsed her mouth, threw water on her face and then brushed her teeth to get rid of the foul taste.

Oh, God, Marilyn! Was all she could think! Black dread engulfed her as she held onto the basin. Her mind was thick with fear and questions. What trouble had her twin sister gotten into that could cause this horrendous agony and empty hole in her soul? She had no doubts that Marilyn was in trouble and severely injured. No matter how much she did not want to believe it, the despair she felt was confirmation.

She stood and hurried back to the bedroom and snatched up the phone. Hands trembling, she punched in her sister’s number, all the while praying she was wrong and that Marilyn would answer. But the phone kept ringing and ringing until it went to voice mail. She didn’t bother to leave a message.

Tears slid down her face. She fought against the notion, but deep in her heart she was terrified her sister had taken her last breath. They had always been connected in that way, aware of each other, even though miles might separate them. Tonight that bond had almost been severed. Still shaky inside, she dressed in jeans, a green T-shirt and sneakers, then sat on the bed to think.

How was she going to find Marilyn at this hour? It was now after three in the morning. Her sister’s favorite hangout, Dawson’s, was closed. She’d give it another thirty minutes, more than enough time for her sister to get home from the bar. Then if there was no answer at her apartment, she’d call the police. But first, she called every hospital emergency room she could find listed in the phone book. No one with Marilyn’s description had been seen or admitted.

Her stomach churned with apprehension. She went into the kitchen and placed the tea kettle on the electric burner. Tea was soothing; tea would settle her stomach and help pass the time. After the first sip, she gagged. Not even tea was going to stop the quivering of her insides.

Twenty minutes had passed. She dialed her sister’s number. Still no answer! She sat at the dining room table hitting the redial button on the phone over and over. God, she wanted to be wrong for a change. At four o’clock she grabbed her car keys and purse then headed out the door into the cool morning air. Twelve minutes later she walked through the entrance of the Police Department on South Nevada Avenue.

It was a three-story red brick building that occupied a full city block. The large lobby area was bright and clean with light beige walls. Three rows of black connected chairs were positioned across from a desk set back close to the wall. An aging man was answering the questions of a man and woman, then directed them to one of the three windows. Two Police Service Representatives sat behind a chest high counter with double sheets of bulletproof glass.

The odor of the unwashed man, standing before one of the female clerks, reached Morgan. She put the back of her hand to her nose to block the smell, feeling sorry for the clerk, as she walked toward the farthest seat away from where he stood. She could still overhear snatches of their conversation. He was looking for a local shelter for the night.

The other clerk, a man, directed questions at the woman and was busy entering the information into a computer. Other than that, the lobby was empty. It appeared to be a slow night considering it was the beginning of the weekend. Morgan thought that it would be busier.

She took a seat and waited, wondering whether she should really be there.

“May I help you?” The clerk motioned for her to come forward.

Morgan started toward the clerk, and then said, “Never mind.”

She turned in midstride and hurried out the door. What was she going to tell the woman? I can’t locate my sister because I have this gut feeling she might be dead. Then there would be lots of questions. Too many questions she did not want to answer. Before she spoke with the police, she needed to first try to locate her sister.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into Dawson’s parking lot. All parking spots were empty, and Marilyn’s car was nowhere to be seen. Her sister’s apartment was a short distance away on North Carefree Drive, so she drove toward the complex.

More than once, Marilyn had locked herself out. She had hidden a spare key in a fake stone behind a pot of geraniums. It was convenient that her sister lived in the first building. After parking in the empty reserved spot, Morgan let herself in. It had been over six months since she had been inside her twin’s home.

It was a spacious two-bedroom accommodation on the ground floor with a patio off the living room. Her sister had upgraded the furniture with an expensive red leather sofa and a matching arm-chair. The other chair was a dark blue recliner. A white fur rug covered the floor beneath a glass-topped coffee table and matching end tables. Expensive tall brass lamps brightened the room. The sofa and chair faced a large flat screen television placed on a console housing an extensive DVD collection.

The rug looked like real fur. Morgan stooped to feel the softness. It was real. Her sister had always had expensive tastes. She wondered who had bought it for her. The rug’s cost was way above Marilyn’s price range. Everything in the room was neat and orderly; nothing was out-of-place to indicate anything was wrong.

She walked into the kitchen and dining area. The sink was empty and the dishwasher held a single dirty glass. She frowned at the sight of the bright red lipstick on the rim, put the glass back in the rack and closed the door. Marilyn was an immaculate housekeeper, but had poor taste in lipstick. The color would clash with her red hair. The hallway bathroom adjacent to the kitchen also revealed nothing. All the towels were hung neatly and precisely matched in length.

Down the hall in the laundry room, a towel had been spread over the washer to dry. On the other side of the hallway were two bedrooms, one of which had been converted into an office with a desk, chair and a computer. Morgan ignored the office and entered the bedroom; she stopped just inside the doorway, caught the whiff of an expensive perfume, and flipped the light switch.

She gasped in surprise. It was red. Not the walls, but red bulbs in the lamps on each nightstand cast a warm rosy glow throughout the room. Over the king size bed was a scalloped crown cornice with red sheers draped on either side and held in place with crown-shaped wall brackets. Not a crease disturbed the cream bedspread, and a mink fur coverlet graced the foot. She wondered if it was real like the rug. A deep rose-colored padded Fairfax chair set next to the window. How like Marilyn to decorate her bedroom in cream and shades of red.

Morgan turned away, opened the walk-in closet door and switched on the light. Clothes and shoes were neatly arranged and nothing out-of-place. She didn’t expect it to be. Numerous boxes and photo albums on the upper shelves were neatly labeled, listing the contents of each box and album, except one.

She didn’t touch anything, just switched off the light and closed the door. Directly across from the bed, strategically placed on the wall, were large mirrored squares she hadn’t noticed before. Now the implication made Morgan’s face grow warm. She left the bedroom and entered the office.

Anyone who kept a desk that neat and orderly didn’t use it often. Morgan had to admit that her desk at home was a complete contrast. In each drawer, all items were precisely placed. Marilyn’s address book lay on top of the desk near the phone. She picked it up and perused through it before placing it in her purse. If need be, she would return it later.

Right now she needed to locate Marilyn’s friends. The open desk calendar showed the current day and there were red inked stars jotted next to ten-thirty at night and the name Jack. That was all she could find in the office and the apartment. Finished, she hurried to the front door, eager to get out of the place.

She glanced at her watch. It was going on six as she left, locked the door and replaced the key in the fake rock. She glanced around the asphalt parking area looking for her sister’s car, but didn’t spot it. The sun was rising, turning the eastern sky a brilliant red. What was that old saying? “Red skies at night a sailor’s delight, red skies in the morning, sailors take warning”.

Was she getting a warning that there was worse to come? How much worse could it be? Marilyn was missing. She hadn’t gone home with some stranger. That wasn’t her style.

It was best that she go home and wait an hour, then call her sister’s girlfriends Alice and Deb. If they didn’t know anything, she would go back to the police station and file a missing person’s report.

An hour and a half later, she sat in her kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and staring at the phone in her hand. Marilyn’s two friends had sounded hung-over and groggy on the phone. Each gave the same story. They had remained at Dawson’s and Marilyn had left around ten that evening, saying she was going home. She never made it.

Purse in hand, she headed for the front door and her car. She parked on the street in front of the police building and hurried inside. This time, only one person was in the lobby. Morgan slowly walked up and stopped before the clerk. “I want to report a missing person.”

The young, dark-haired woman looked at her. “Is she a relative?”

“Yes, my sister, Marilyn Heddrix.”

“How long has she been missing?” The clerk jotted down the name.

“Since around ten last night.”

“And what is your name?”

“Morgan Jansen.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but someone has to be missing seventy-two hours before you can file a missing persons report. Have you checked with her friends?”

“Look, my sister didn’t make it home last night. And yes, I checked with her friends. They don’t know where she is.” Tension knotted Morgan’s neck muscles and she bit at her upper lip.

“When was the last time you spoke to her?” the clerk asked, as she glanced back at her computer screen, tapped at the keyboard, before returning her gaze to Morgan.

Morgan felt her face turn red when she had to admit, “A month ago.”

The clerk could not keep her skepticism hidden “Why would you believe she’s missing if you haven’t talked to her in a month?”

“I just know something has happened to her! She’s my sister! She just would not come home!” Morgan fought back tears. Why couldn’t the woman just file the damn report?

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, in an attempt to be more sympathetic. “I can file an Attempt to Locate request. If they find her, they’ll have her contact you. Will that help?”

She had no choice but to agree. “That will have to do, won’t it,” she snapped in frustration. She shouldn’t blame the clerk for following procedure.

The clerk arched an eyebrow at her sharp tone but maintained her helpful attitude. “If you’ll give me some information and a description of your sister, I’ll make the call.”

“You’re looking at her,” Morgan said. “We’re identical twins. The only difference is my hair is not as red. Marilyn dyes her hair a dark auburn. And, she has a blue dragonfly tattoo just below her navel.” Morgan told the clerk about Dawson’s and her two friends and about going to her sister’s apartment to check if she had returned, plus any pertinent information she thought might help. There wasn’t much else to tell. The clerk picked up the phone and dialed a number, then relayed the information she had been given.

“They pulled up a copy of her driver’s license and put an ATL out for her. That’s all we can do for now. I suggest you go home. I’m sure your sister will call you soon.” The woman turned her attention back to some paper work in front of her. Feeling dismissed, Morgan turned and hurried to her car, knowing she would spend the rest of the weekend looking for Marilyn or her car.




imagesBDJX3DZCSister started this blog this morning, but her computer decided to act up again and she lost over half of this blog.  I believe if that computer acts up one more time, she’ll throw it out the window into the snow.  I can understand her frustration after all the computer problems I’ve had with mine.  Hammers look really good tempting sometimes for fixing computers.  After her portion, I’ll write about characterization.

P1010737Good morning all.  I hope life is as sweet as a new puppy for all of you.  Here in KY, we are just sliding by.  And I mean that literally.  We are under a storm warning, watch, something.  As of this minute, it is raining.  By 10:00 it is supposed to turn to sleet, then snow.  We are expecting 6-10 inches.  All I know is that it looks like a Logan County day.  Logan County in WV, is mining country.  The sun never came through the dust and smog when I was a child.  My father came home from work and all you could see were his eyes.  My mother would hang sheets on the clothes line and when she took them down, she would have to shake the dust off of them.  So now, if it is gray and cloudy, we call it a Logan County.

I remember talking about paragraphs, and the fact that you need to make sure you are changing the subject, in order to start a new paragraph.  Also, the statement,” He walked out of the door.”  Just envision it.  “He walked out the door,” makes a better picture.



NEW SNGLE STONE KILLER CVRWhen you write a novel, especially fiction, your characters have to be as familiar to you as a member of your family.  Ninety-nine percent of mine are based on actual people who I know, have known, worked with, or some traits I have created.  I take this trait from one, something different from another and use it.  Mostly, my character’s traits are a combination of different people.

You have to know your villains just as well as the good guys.

I create their names.  Their names seem to be established in my brain and pop out at the precise  moment I create their folder.  For every character, you should have a folder.  If you have no idea what your character looks like, do as I do, look in magazines, on the internet for actor or actresses who might fit the image in your mind.  Print off or cut out their photo and staple it to the inside of your folder.  Now you know what your person looks like.  BUT, WHO ARE THEY?

Start with their date of birth.  Determine their current age, so you’ll know the time frame in which they grew up.  What city, town, and state, or country were they born.  Make sure you know something about that area or do a lot of research so you do.   Who were their parents, are they alive, deceased, if deceased, when, where, and how.  This will be the basic formation of your character’s childhood into adulthood.

List schooling.  How extensive was their education, who were their friends that has influence on the character’s life.  College?   Military service, went war, what happened to them if they did?  What do they like to eat, what type of clothes do the prefer, music, books, booze, entertainment.  List as much information that you can think of.  This will make your characters come to life for you.

You create every aspect of your character’s life, and you do this for each and every major person in your novel.  It takes time and a lot of thought, but it is worth it.

If you start your folders for each person, and list all the above information before you start to write your novel, you will be ahead of the game, especially in a series..  Our character Jonas Black is bases on a man I knew from Texas.  He was tall, had dark hair and was a genuine cowboy,  I use his physical description, but Jonas is not as laid back as Jake was.  Life changed Jonas with the murder of the woman he loved.  The Marines changed him some more,  and the war altered him further.

You have to know everything in your character’s life to understand who he/she becomes.

Once, you have completed all your research, creating your characters and worked out your storyline, your novel should flow out of you like water in a river.  Always remember, YOU have to take on the personality of each character as you write.  That is why you have to know what they will do in any given situation.  Cause and affect.  Cause and affect.  For every action, you have a reaction.

I hope this information has been helpful.  This characterization system works for any type of fiction novel or even a non-fiction novel.

Everyone have a great evening and stay safe and off slick roads.  The best to you all.