Still Making Plans.

 If you know me, and you should by now, I'm a planner. My plans have plans. I put things I want to do on paper first, (usually), and then I write them in my journal, which, again, is paper. I may end up blogging about it. I may end up just doing it, but my plans are well formulated before I just jump off the cliff, thinking I can fly. Nope. I will not jump off any cliffs without first strapping on the latest and greatest set of mechanical wings ever to be seen on this Earth. (Even then, the cliff would have to be something like 8 feet in height so I didn't kill myself.)

    One of my plans is to move out of my apartment where my dear, sweet, kind-hearted, loving, annoying, obnoxiously loud, and stinky daughter Laura lives. Why do I say those things about her? They are all true! I love the stuffings out of all of my kids, and of all of my three kids, she's the ONLY one I could ever actually live with. It's just that I've lived with this person FAR FAR FAR too long. We're roommates; she's not mooching off of me, but still. She's gotta go, and if she's not gonna go, I'm gonna go! (LOVE YOU, SWEETIE!)

    It just seems that every freaking time I have an actual plan to move out from under her or force her to move out from under me (We both want the two-bedroom apartment that we currently live in now.), something drastic happens that changes all of our well-thought-out plans! She may lose her job, and I can't kick her out, or I may lose my job, and she can't kick me out. There may be a pandemic! I hope that never happens again, and there could be a situation where the housing market rises, and people leave the city! That's where we really are today, to be honest. 

    The housing market skyrocketed recently, and there's no way in hell I'm going to pay those prices. It's just not going to happen. I will have to stay with the woman until my last breath, but I'm not paying what they're asking. NOPE.  There seems to be a way out of it, though -- and I'm learning more about that loophole every single day. I am about to accept a position where I will work from home, and when that happens, I'll be able to work from home ANYWHERE.  I worked from home during my last stint (3 months), but I had to go into the office from time to time. The position I'm hoping to get, and will blog about later, is 100% remote. It's so remote my team, if I get that team, has six people, and we all live in different states. (Wisconsin, Florida, New Jersey, Texas, California, and me, Oklahoma) Crazy!

    OK, so the thing is, I'll likely stay in Oklahoma, but I don't have to. I may end up moving to another state, but probably not. If I did, I would lose both my best friends and my family, so why not move to Scotland at that point? Right? (Because it's an American company, and I'm not sponsored to live in Scotland, but if I also taught at a university as a visiting professor, I could do that! See...plans!)

    If I did move out, rather than forcing the red-headed spawn to leave, I would probably move to a rural area with a good-sized center of town with shops, restaurants, churches, and grocery stores. There has to be at least one Walmart, Dollar General, or Family Dollar; that's a must. There must be a Braum's. If you live in this area, you understand me. There doesn't have to be a Sonic, but it would be nice to have one. I will not live without Braum's unless I'm in Scotland. That could possibly be harder to live with than missing my kids and best friends. If you live in this area of the country, you'll understand.

    So, I live in Oklahoma City right now. Right in the middle of the capital city, and as I was telling my daughter, I don't really do anything here because I've already done it 1000 times. I don't go anywhere other than where I go, and that is limited to shopping for food, pretending I own a place while walking the aisles of Home Depot, and I often go to the mall with my son, but only with my son because I can't get the red-head to do squat! My little one lives 115 miles away, we Facetime, and she's coming by today to drop off kids for me to babysit. LOVE IT.  I wish I could do that more often, actually. 

    I live in the city and would have to move somewhere about 30-40 miles out of the city in order to get better prices on a house the very same size, shape, age, and condition as I would expect to buy here, but it is literally 50-60% cheaper when you go to the outskirts. You can't argue with the numbers. It's STUPID to pay $150k for a house that you can get for $75K if it's the same size, shape, age, and condition about 30 miles out. You can't pick your neighbors wherever you go, but you can check the crime rates and pretty much get about the same type of safety and protection for the half-price house as well.

    I know what you're thinking - - if you're not from around here anyway, you're thinking what kind of a house would sell for $150K let alone $75K? Well, in Oklahoma, you can get a decent brick 2 bed/1 bath home with an attached or detached garage; it's also likely to have 16 huge trees or stumps. You'll find that most of the real estate in our neck of the woods is a lot (a LOT) cheaper than in the rest of the United States. Even down in Texas, the same $150K won't get you that. It may get you a two-horse barn.  This is another reason to stay in the Sooner State. I'm not a materialistic or needy person. I'm much more like a cave dog. I just need something small and cozy. I do cozy really well. 

    The benefits of moving out of town are: it's so much quieter. SO SO SO much less traffic, less drama, less irritating people, and less everything negatively associated with being in a big city.  The downfalls? It's quiet, nothing happens, and there's no one really to argue and fuss with. BUT...you can have more dogs!! Oh yes, you can have six or seven dogs, and NO ONE complains. I won't do that. I'll have two....well, maybe three, but I won't be that woman who has ten, I promise. I have to be sure there's a vet and a hospital close enough too. 

    Some of the areas I'm thinking about are Kingfisher, El Reno, Noble, Shawnee, Choctaw, and/or Chandler. They all have a Braum's, are near a hospital, they have access to a highway which can take me to a good line of stores and shopping, and they are far enough out that I can pay less and have the same amount. I like that. They all have a bunch of churches too, but I think I'll stick with my online preacher. I like him a great deal, and whenever you walk into church without a husband these days, you're either talked about or hit on...neither of which seems appealing to me. 

    So that's my plan. I'm making plans. I think I'll start now so that in six months, when it's ready to make it happen, I can call my good buddy Jeff Straka and have him find me a good house to live in for the rest of this life anyway. I don't think he's really in charge of the one I will have after this life. I just don't see that happening. I happen to think that may be what Dad is doing right now; fixing up my place in Heaven so that when I do get there, it will already be full of love. Sigh...

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com

Link to Movoto (Real Estate site) see for yourself: https://www.movoto.com/

I Don't Do Tours.

 I've been thinking about going back to Scotland again, and again, and again, but the thing I never do, and what I won't do, no matter if it is in Scotland or Rhode Island, is to go on a paid tour (or free) to be told about a place. Nope. That's why God made books, plaques, and other clues that could lead you to and from whatever you're looking at. I should say whatever I'm looking at because, apparently, others (lots of others) really enjoy their tours.  I just can't see myself sitting on a bus being told about this or that, nor can I see myself in a group of people following some costumed character whose acting skills are highly annoying to me so that I can learn about something. I'll either explore it on my own, or I'll research it and take a friend so I don't fall head-first down a shaft.

    True stories ahead. This may or may not surprise you. I have to wait to see if the statutes of limitations have run out in England and/or Scotland before I give up too many clues and such, but at least I can extend the dates to match whatever statutes of limitations have expired....or would have expired if the dates I give were correct.  In 1987 I decided to visit a museum in western Oklahoma to see their display of Temple Lea Houston, only to find out that the curators had not set one up. All of Temple's things were in boxes and just sort of stacked or sitting next to other things he owned in the back rooms of the museum. I wasn't having it. Nope. I hid in the men's bathroom after the ladies who run the place thought I had left the building. They locked me in, and I set up their display with little cards and everything. I snuck out in the morning, and there you go - - one ready-made display; you're welcome. (They actually did thank me.)

    My mom and I went to see a mansion that belonged to an oil mogul who just happened to be our state's governor as well. There were areas marked with signs telling us (and everyone) to stay out of this or that room.  Right. That's just such an invitation!  I not only visited every room, corner, staircase, and nook that was off-limits, I found that others had done the same. There were notes left by some of them, and I left a note as well. A dangerous game, really, seeing how an authority figure could retrace my handwriting and find me. It never happened, but I did see more than what was out there to be seen. I learned about passageways in the "house" and places where the man more than likely kept "visitors".

    While in Scotland, I ventured through the Surgeon's Hall and was strictly told by a curator type not to go into this or that room. He pointed with his finger. I simply told him later (when I was caught) that I didn't have a good angle as to which two doors he was referring to. He wasn't pleased. I was. I saw things I'm sure were a bit too morbid (definitely) than what was displayed. Let me just say that place fascinates me, and it grosses me out to the absolute max, but I'll go every time I get the chance. It's so so so interesting.   I won't and wouldn't try this at Buckingham Palace for two reasons; I can't stand the Royals, and I'm not stupid.  I will try this, and have, at other places of residence belonging to people of a more....shall we say...Scottish nature. Think Stirling Castle....think Abbotsford. 

    It's not that I'm a complete diabolical fiend who can't obey rules; that's not it at all. I just like to see the actual artifacts, all of them, or as many as I can possibly find. I'm very respectful with things, never stealing them, never borrowing them; can't really say that, but mostly I don't. I did borrow a book owned and read by Temple Houston. He even drew little pictures on it. I borrowed it, and yes, I returned it. I'm very nice like that. I didn't take anything from Sir Walter Scott's home, I promise. I did touch things that weren't on display. I told myself over and over again that no matter how rich I became as a writer, I would never have such a house, and I mean that. I could feed too many poor people, rescue too many animals, and just do so much more good.  I'm a cave dog. I don't need opulence to feel complete. 

    OK, that's it, but it isn't. I've never enjoyed taking in someone else's preplanned story or tale about a place. I like to look for myself and learn all I can. I'm thinking of deep diving into Loch Ness, but there's the whole I can't really swim that well, and I can't hold my breath very long thing. I may have to wait until someone with better lungs and equipment does it for me. I have to wait, but hopefully not for very long. Since Tony Broonford told us that Loch Ness is deeper than the North Sea, I'm more than curious about what it holds. I wait....just not very patiently.

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com  (Abbottsford House)

I'm From the South Y'all

 I still can't figure out why we don't all agree on how to spell words like "Y'all" and "Thingymabopper" because it's really not rocket science.  If people from the North can figure out how to spell "do-dad," I think the rest of us can get on the same page with one another and stop misspelling really important words. I saw a book the other day at Barnes & Noble that had to have been written by a Yankee because the words "fixin' to" were spelled "fixing to" as if...c'mon now!  There ain't a single soul in the South who has ever been fixing to do anything - - nope! We're always fixin' to do it. 

    That's another thing; if you hear someone from the South say, "that's another thing," it's not the beginning of a sentence, friend. There's a pause, maybe even three invisible dots, but she or he is not starting a new sentence; we are either closing up the last one or extending it. That part is subjective, but yeah, we're not saying something new. We're pointing something else out to you. I just thought I'd throw that out there.

    I was watching a show recently, and I'm trying to figure out which one it was; it was one of the new CBS dramas; I know that much.  During the show, a black man was killed, and his family was planning the funeral.  The family lived in the South.  When the FBI guy or cop questioned the wife, she said something like, "Oh, there ain't gonna be a funeral at the church; he's being cremated."  This piece of information just hit me squarely between the eyes, and I said verbally and out loud in front of God and everyone in the room, "No, that's not right! Poor writing right there!"  Then, a few seconds later, the new star of the show reiterated my thoughts. He came back with, "No, that's wrong. That man is black. He's a Baptist, and this is the South! How is he gonna go up in the Rapture if he's cremated?"  LOL...I couldn't stop laughing.

    The Rapture aside, because Jesus will call up every molecule from fishbait to cremations, but still, the man was black, he was from the South, and he was a Baptist. Yeah, there's not gonna be a cremation unless his woman is MAD MAD MAD....and she was. It was her way of getting back at him for having an affair, I think.  The same way my mom used to tell my brother if he didn't tuck his shirt in, she was going to sew lace on the bottom of it. Gotta love those Southern mommas!  I am one. I didn't have that problem, but I do remember telling my daughter she needed to say thank you before I pulled out her tongue, and she couldn't do it.

    Recently, and by that, I mean a few minutes ago, I took an American Dialect Quiz to see where the computer says I'm from using the words I choose to use. Some of the questions were just silly, and I thought there was no way anyone would call something as simple as a can of pop something dumb like soda or soft drink. I mean, I get the "Coke" thing, but I don't say that. A soft drink comes in a cup at Sonic! (best ice) Soda is something you bake with; again, c'mon!  They say the English language is the hardest one to learn, and this is why! That, and we spell our parent's female sibling "aunt" when we say "ant" and stuff like that. 

    By the way, I'm from Oklahoma, which some say isn't a Southern state. They, and anyone else who thinks that to be true, would be flat wrong. We're absolutely South of the Mason-Dixon Line, and that makes us South. There are rules, you know, and we follow them. We're also a Western state because we're WEST of the Mississippi River. Hell, we're west of the Arkansas River too. We're definitely a Western state. Oklahoma is a Southwestern State, albeit it's the most Northeastern Southwestern state there is. There are rules, but there are also boundaries. We get that.

    Oklahoma, in case you didn't know, is on top of Texas. You can look at any map you want to look at, and you'll see it. God did that. God knew what He was doing too. God put Oklahoma on top of Texas, and when Texas thought it would extend its panhandle thick and wide going upwards toward Colorado, Oklahoma blocked it! That's right. We blocked it. Stay in your lane, Texas.  You're good, Colorado; we've got your back! There will be no assimilation at this point; nope.

    When we meet, you and I, and we have tea in the afternoon (yes, I'm also British in that my DNA fights for its rights to say I'm English or I'm Scottish. I'm literally the same amount of each with a bit of Italian and Iberian added in to behave myself.) you will notice that I have a Southern drawl. Mine is not as pronounced as others, but get my goat up a bit, and you'll hear me drop a few Southern charms that could cook your grits faster than a gnat can fly in your eyeball on a Spring evening. You're likely to hear me cussin' and fussin' if you wind me up too far, something I don't recommend, really, but if you're trying to see if I'm authentic or not, that's the best way to do it. Oh, and when I travel overseas (always to Scotland), you'll catch it too. I have NO idea why I sound so Southern when I hit the tartan moors. I just do.

    One of the best things about being from the South is that I have the patience of Job most of the time, and I'm really good at explaining things because I figure someone may not fully understand me the first several times I say it, so I'll just hunker down, blow out my cheeks, give a smile and ask if it needs to be gone over again....or not. You may hear me breathe out a bit of a sigh and whisper, "Bless his heart" to myself, but that's just Southern for "God, he's an idiot! Please be with that man!"  It's all good.  At least I'm usually smiling when I say it. If a Southern woman ever stops smiling and she stares at you, crosses her arms, and shakes her head - - run.

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com

I Love Dead People.

 This is me giving you a bit of an insight into my personality and what it is that I love. I love dead people. Yes, it is true; this woman loves the past, the history of everything, and with history comes (naturally) the deceased.  By loving dead people, what I mean is I find myself gravitating to a city or county graveyard where I can walk among the stones, reading them and thinking about the departed whose body is "resting" beneath the words shared about them.  I read the stones. I think about the person. I make up stories about them. I even pretend we have known each other while they were alive or when we were all in heaven before coming to Earth, you know, the normal weirdness that happens in the mind of a writer.

    I can, perhaps, lay the blame of my love for dead people squarely on my mother's shoulders as it was she who first took me to the cemeteries when I was young. She liked to see if she could find the oldest marker, the newest marker, the prettiest marker, the ugliest marker, and things of that nature. It was more or less her hobby, and who is to say if it was odd; I was a kid. I had no idea if it was weird or not. I know that for over 100 years, people have gathered at Edgar Allen Poe's grave to celebrate Halloween with him and/or people who liked his work. I know that's considered odd, but fun. I would do it. 

    When I was in my mid-20s, I went to the gravesite of Temple Lea Houston, the last son of General Sam Houston; it's in Woodward, Oklahoma.  I not only visited his grave, but I also spent the night in the museum, where most of his personal effects still remain. I, in fact, helped to set up the display that they used to showcase his personal and professional wares. That's a wonderful blog; I'll leave the link.  When I found Temple's gravestone, I was quite disappointed. It was too new. Yep, it was right out of the 1980s or maybe a bit earlier, but it wasn't from 1905, the year he ceased to be among the living. It didn't fit with the times, and it bothered me. It still does.  

    Bill Doolin and Elmer McCurdy's tombstones aren't my favorites either. They look like they are trying too hard to be old.  Elmer's was set to match Bill's, but neither of them is from the time of the men's deaths. (Albeit, it's true Elmer died in 1911 but was buried in 1977, there's that...another great story.)  When you walk the cemeteries as much as I do, you start to notice things, things that maybe others just don't see.  I see them. One of the things I see is the blue fake plastic/silk flowers that people buy, and I have a thing about them, too; I don't like them. I've commissioned my friend to steal every blue plastic/silk flower from the graveyard (when I do die), and she's to line my gravestone with them - - all of them. Because that way she can save money and I can have a good laugh.

    I find myself doing something else, too; when I look for a place to live in Scotland, I tend to find churches nearby so I can see if their cemeteries are worth walking through. Some places don't even have an old churchyard or kirkyard, and that just won't do. Just as important as it is for me to have a good grocery store within walking distance, I want to walk to a cemetery, MY cemetery, with MY dead people, and I want to meet my new "friends" on a regular basis. I have stories to tell and stories to listen to. I have a vested interest in that I am a writer and feel that they can help me fill in some of the blanks when I need to do so.

    I don't really care if the person I'm talking to at the time of the meeting was murdered or if they died of natural causes. When I run across a young child's grave, I stop and pray. I usually pray for the families and the sorrow that the child's death caused in the area; as you know, it had to be devastating. We, among the living, can learn a lot from the dead if we just learn to be patient, listen, observe, and maybe do a bit of research.  What would we find if we could look inside the coffins? What would we see in terms of dress, attire, perhaps knick-knacks, important papers, jewelry, love notes, and more? I know they may all be just dust by now, but there was a time when...  Well, you fill in the blank.

Photo Credit: travelok.com

Link to the blog about me spending the night in the museum. 

https://judestringfellow.blogspot.com/2017/01/confessions-of-writer.html

Know Your Worth.

 We have had it drilled into our heads since we were very young not to toot our own horns. There's something to be said about it, sure, but there's also something to be known about knowing your own value.  I heard someone say once that if you don't know your value, you shouldn't expect anyone else to calculate it for you. They may know you're pretty cool, adequate, or even in most cases, better than average, but if you don't believe you are what you know you can be, then you have no one but yourself to blame when you constantly accept those insults that tend to cut you into pieces. Water on a duck's back, folks; let it go. 

    Today, I was turned down for yet another position where the company had advertised that they wanted someone with experience, know-how, and the ability to command a team; that's me in a nutshell, but they also wanted someone younger and yeah, if I was absolutely honest about it, they thought my name "Jude" belonged to a man.  When I met the recruiter face-to-face, the first thing she mentioned was, "Oh, I thought you would be a man." I asked if that was a problem, and she stated that the company was more male-centric. Her word.  Male-centric.  Is that even legal? No, it's not, but it happens.

    So, where I wasn't surprised that I wasn't offered the position, I didn't let them cut me down or use redundant paraphrases that have been near extinct since the mid-'90s. Words like "We're going in another direction" or "We were lucky enough to have several people with great qualities and experiences..." that's when you know they're lying. Most of us who have the experience, knowledge, skillsets, and qualities they're looking for are still employed. The wage they were offering didn't exactly scream "Career Change"; no one making that amount would leave, and anyone making more would never have even applied.  Shouldn't people be more honest about it? Oh wait...they can't be. They're not allowed to say, "You know, you're sixty, so...we think we'll pass."  The joke's on you.

    The average executive or manager these days who have had a few life experiences stays with a company for between three and five years. Four years is the average, folks. They spend time and money advertising the position. They spend time interviewing, vetting, then training.  If they don't have the money to pay the current employee what he or she deserves, they don't have the money budgeted to replace them either. That takes time, effort, and a  host of other unbudgeted costs.  

Another thing.  Companies like to interview and then take weeks to decide if they'll actually fill a position, hoping against hope that while they're waiting for upper management to make a decision, their worthy candidate isn't offered another position. It happens. I interviewed two weeks ago and hadn't heard a peep from the manager; I gave them a call.  I let them know I appreciated the opportunity to meet with them and to hear about the opening. The response I received was vague, basically thanking me for my time and wishing me good luck in the future. OK, but the guy you just made the offer to called me about five minutes ago and said he grew tired of waiting on you and went in another direction! (He was my former student and thought I deserved to hear what they said about me during his interview.)

    If they call me tomorrow, I'll let them wait two weeks before I make my decision. I'm not in any hurry to work outside of my house. If I can find employment remotely, that's my jam. I'm not dying on the vine, and they need to realize that we old folks have value and worth; we have the stamina and the ethics to be better employees. We were raised on stick-to-itness, and we often choose to work overtime without pay just to be sure we did the job correctly or that all the details are covered before we head home. Vintage employees are full, chock full of knowledge, been-there-done-that moments, and we don't always fall apart or throw out the baby with the bathwater. We fix things. We pull up our bootstraps, and we make things happen. We didn't get those trophies for showing up; we earned ours. (Then we put them in the drawer, not on a shelf to be seen or bragged about.)

    Yeah, it was a different time. It was hard. It was full of need-to-change, so we made that happen too. We have worth. I have worth. I know I do. I don't have to wait for someone to tell me how great I am. I don't even want to hear it. I don't want someone talking smack about me, and I don't want someone falling at my heels to follow in my big footprints, either. No one, not in a professional or personal relationship, is going to reveal something about me that I didn't already know about myself. I am me, and I have enormous value. It didn't come all at once, nor did it come without pain, suffering, and heartache. I worked for my credentials. I forged my way. If someone doesn't have the insight to consider me a part of their team - - I'm not part of their team. I can find one that doesn't need an adjustment to see what's standing right in front of them.

    I don't fit in many boxes; that's true. I am out there; I am contained. I am self-proficient, and I am self-motivated and driven. I don't need a rah-rah committee to boost my ego or tell me that "we're all in this together"; another term that only works when THEY want something. I'm who I am, and I won't change. You wouldn't need or want me to change. If I chose to change, I wouldn't be the one you could depend on, would I?  I am who I am, and that's enough.  God is to be praised. He made me.

Photo Credit: Redbubble.com 

Chapter 8 is DONE!! (Murder Book)

 I managed to write the 5th chapter on Cinco de Mayo, which is May 7th, and I wrote both Chapters 7 and 8 today. I don't think I'll be following any sort of pattern, but I did think it was pretty cool. (Come to think of it, I realize now that I did write Chapter 4 on May 4th!)  Woot!

    Because of the MAJOR and unacceptable catastrophic mistake, I made in my published book "Of Kilted Pleasure". I am now doing so much more research before publishing. Notwithstanding the 12 errors that are easily fixed, I realized too late that I had published the book with a HUGE error, in that I said Oliver Cromwell led a campaign against the Jacobites in 1746 - - Yeah, he was dead in 1658, so that didn't happen....following that, I have hit Wikipedia a bit more often while writing this book. I want the facts to be historical. They don't have to be, but I want them to be. It is (and the other is) a fiction book, but still, you want to be as (I want to be as) close to accurate as possible. I almost said that Lord Byron had written Paradise Lost (in the other book). Can you imagine? OMG...I'm so bad.

    Anyway, I'm in the middle of the first half of the book now. I think the book will end up being 38-40 chapters. It will have more chapters by far than the other book because I'm breaking up ideas and full thoughts. I'm not combining them as much because I'll do a back-and-forth thing with this one; to show different points of view, etc. I sort of did that before, but this one will have more of it.  

    Here is a fun excerpt from the book in Chapter 8, where Eoghan MacRae finds himself in the infirmary recovering from the fall he took at the hands of his soon-to-be former wife. She's in jail cooling her jets, he's on the mend in a multi-patient ward for men, and he's not too happy about it. He's just attempted to leave the place a bit prematurely and has found himself in a pile of floppy-body parts on the floor with his butt in the air shining for the world to see when the nurse comes into the ward to feed the men...here we go.

*****************************************************

CHAPTER EIGHT

The stern middle-aged woman, who had obviously seen a few things during her years in the medical field, cocked her upper lip to the side before addressing the back of MacRae’s head.

“Unless you want me to mount you like a racehorse down there, you’ll need to pick your arse up and get it back into that bed on your own. I’ve got my hands full, you see.  I’m not that easy to catch these days, mister. Others have tried. Others have certainly tried”,

*****************************************

I hope you like it. I love writing it. 

Photo Credit: istockphotos.com

Geez! History Would Be GREAT.

 Yeah, so it's a really good thing that I left that big fact disclaimer there in my first romance novel where I say that the book itself and any reference to the country of Scotland (and by doing so, including the entire book) would NOT necessarily be accurate. By not necessarily, I mean there is one huge, oh-so-stupidly incorrect factoid that really should be mentioned now, so I can say, "Oh, it's OK; it's fiction!"

    I said, in my book, that one of the characters, (Sean) had joined the Royal Army and that he was in one of Cromwell's units. Well, that's not the case, and it couldn't be because that was 1741 or something, and yeah, Cromwell was dead in 1658. OMG!! Yeah, I'm an idiot, but it's all good. We can giggle and say how daft I was for not checking that fact. The thing is, I THOUGHT I DID!!  Oops!

    So, now I have to go back into my research world and look it up again to know what's going on. I'll do this once I get the money to do so (currently not in that position). I'll pull the book, change the words, resubmit it, and all will be good. The books people buy today will be collector's items, and it's a win-win!! Yea, there you go. Sorted.  I'm a dork. I am 100% certifiable. I never claimed to be a historian, but you know, I really could have and should have caught that. The thing that I ask myself now is, how many people reading the book would know that to be the case? Would they stop in their tracks and say, "Wait, didn't Cromwell die in like 1658 or something?"  Most won't. It's still a point I think I should own. I'm owning it.

    Time is a good thing. We can use it to our advantage. Maybe, just maybe, Oliver Cromwell was using a time-traveling machine at the time my book was being written, and he did lead a campaign in 1746 against the Jacobites.  Maybe, but not probably, and yeah, no, he didn't. Oh well....fiction!!

Photo Credit: findagrave.com

Chapter Six (Murder Book) Something Different.

 Eoghan Clark MacRae isn't the hero of my book. He's a lot more like a sidekick, really. He is a Scottish man, about 35 years old, he's estranged from his wife, they're divorcing. He is raising his two daughters, and he's a singer and music leader. Though he came from a bit of money and family fame, he hasn't done much to keep up family traditions. In fact, he's more or less a lost feather, floating and hoping to find its way to a good bird's nest where he can feel needed.  When you think of Eoghan, think of a man with a lot of talent, spirit, and a great deal of worth, but he never realized it until he lost everything. 

    Though losing his wife wasn't something he was happy about, it will eventually become a true blessing in disguise for more than a few reasons. Here is a portion of the chapter for my readers to meet up with and be introduced to the music man who will give up his weekly worship gig to help tie up the loose ends of many petty as well as more sinister crimes. He's not exactly a "Watson", but he'll make a great companion, champion, and friend to our not-too-cuddly Nick Posh. When you read how Eoghan's first communication with Posh is rather direct, you'll understand his new way of thinking. He had a lesson to learn, and he caught on rather quickly - - painfully but quickly. 

****************************************************

Part of Chapter Six. (Murder Book)

Calling out to the man, with his Bowie knife clenched between his teeth, the former soldier repelled to a safer lower ledge just below the point where the man had fallen, Nick questioned MacRae. “Are you Eoghan MacRae?” Posh asked directly.

“Aye, that’s me. Never trust a woman, never.”

The broken man spoke just over a whisper.  Exhausted and obviously worn completely out from lack of water and food and having been exposed to the elements for a day and a night, the singer held his tongue from lashing out against the man’s dog for a fifth or sixth time, trying to be polite enough to be saved before he lamented about having had his face fully drenched in the small dog’s piss from the very second he was found by the thing.

“Your dog’s got a pure nerve on him, doesn’t he?” asked MacRae once the two men were safely up on top of the ridge.

 “Jumping down off the side of the crag like he did. I thought he would land flat on my head the way he leaped at me, maybe send me the rest of the way down to the pit. Instead, he hopped and skipped about the rocks until he found me. At least I think he likes me; he marked my face for sure.” 

Posh couldn’t smile too broadly without losing his blade, but the large wet stain surrounding the collar and upper portion of the man’s coat left nothing to the imagination. Maybe it was Keeper’s way of making sure MacRae was breathing, or maybe the dog just really had to go after all the excitement of having recovered the lost man.  Maybe the position in which MacRae was found had lent himself as a level field in which to put up a hiked back leg. Either way, the dog was an asset; and no matter what the sun had chosen to do that morning, was going to be a good day. 

*****************************************

Keeper is the Jack Russell terrier that Posh finds running the streets of Edinburgh. He makes a few inquiries about who the owners might be, and finding that the dog prefers to hang with him, he keeps the dog. He names the dog "Keeper" after the dog proves to be valuable in the hunt for MacRae.

I hope you like the book when it's finished. Don't worry too much about poor Eoghan; he'll be OK. He just needs a bit of a nudge, some exercise, a better diet plan, and maybe a few pointers on misplaced trust.

Photo Credit: Petsfeed.co

Surprise!! (Murder Book Chapter 4)

 Seriously, this is how it's done. I was literally just writing, minding my own business, which is precisely what I do, and my mind decided that Nick Posh needed to be even more colorful than I assumed.  Oh, and by colorful, I mean literally; the guy's pigment is dark, smooth, and downright gorgeous. He's half-Native.  He's the son of a Scottish immigrant, I knew that much going into the book, but I decided that along the way, his father, Albert, would meet and marry a downright gorgeous Cherokee woman (older than himself), and he just couldn't live without her.  They meet, marry, and make a baby  -- in that order.  Nick Posh will have a few of the characteristics of a man I knew and loved in 1984; Dennis. 

    Now, if any of you know Dennis,  please let me know where I can find the man because he all but fell off the face of the Earth in 1984, leaving me absolutely heartbroken.  I was told by a good reliable source that Dennis was a material witness in a case that the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations was working on (this was before we met). He had been needed in taking down a rather large operation. He was placed in witness protection, and I never saw him again. Before he left me, he managed to not only pay my rent for three months in advance, he saw to it that my food pantry was stocked, my refrigerator too, my utilities were paid, and he wrote me a note explaining that he couldn't explain, but that because he knew we were both Christians, our time apart would be temporary. 

    I didn't start out thinking about Denny when I wrote the first few chapters of the book. Still, as I wrote and needed to come up with a verifiable backstory, I wanted to include the history of my state, Oklahoma. You can't really do that without mentioning the Trail of Tears, the differences between the Native tribes that were present before the others arrived, and some of the conflicts which led to the state becoming the state with the most registered Native Americans in the United States. I can say plainly, that I don't have a drop of Native blood in my body, a fact that I don't relish. I was born here. My grandfather was born here! I did give Nick Posh my grandfather's birthday on November 19, 1890. (Little winks like that are in all of my books, actually.)

    Where Dennis was/is Choctaw and Chickasaw, as well as being half Irish on his mother's side, my detective Nick is half Cherokee and half Scottish. His mother, Ama Deercreek, had given birth many years before Nick was born to a boy she called Charles Inola or Nola, and he'll make an appearance when it's time to bring him around.  Today's surprise actually took me by the horns and threw me around the room. I had no idea where this was going to lead. Still, due to the many adventures of several Natives in both the criminal world and law enforcement world in my home state, there will be a few mentions of real and fictional events, which will all line up with the historical events taking place in the book. FUN TIMES ahead as I forge through Wikipedia and old Oklahoma history books to find bits and pieces to fit here and there. Think oil in the early part of the 20th Century! Think Land Runs!!

    OK, so, Chapter 4 is done, and tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo! I will write Chapter 5 on that day for sure. I think I'll carry on and get Chapters 6 and 7 chiseled out as well so I can be up and running Saturday, with an agenda to write all day if I can. I want to be finished with this book in about 3 weeks so I can get it tweaked, fluffed, and stuffed. I won't publish it yet. I have to be working for that to happen. If I do end up staying off work the entire summer long, I'm hoping I can crank out Murder Book, 1211, Of Kilted Love, Pinball (the sequel to Murder Book), and my 2nd poetry book. It's an ambitious goal for sure, but I can do it.  I may throw Stollen in there for grins and giggles, too. (Both Stollen and 1211 are just fiction novels; one is funny, and one is serious.)  I have many sides.

    For now, have a blessed one.

Photo Credit: Ebay.com

MURDER BOOK - CHAPTER THREE DONE

 It is so much fun to just sit down and start rattling off the words that will eventually become a book. I'm really very blessed to be able to have the time to do this. I know it comes at the expense of being terminated from my job, but you take the lemons when they're thrown at you. It may prove to be therapeutic, and I can make one of the bad guys name the same name as the jerk who let me go without fully paying me. I can create a really personalized torture/death scene for the man, or maybe, yeah, maybe instead of dying, he actually LIVES to see his wife and her new lover take everything he ever worked for because he was caught with his literary pants down around his knees at the office with a client. I don't know; maybe something good will come out of this situation, right? LOL....you don't know me well if you think I would do that.

    I'm on Chapter Three, just finished it. The book is titled "Murder Book," and it's really going to be a great one. I know it. I can feel it. I'm getting all the fluff and stuff out of the way right now. I'm fielding curve balls in my brain and scooping up grounders as they're hit my way...way out in left field somewhere. I'm just really trying to find common ground for some of the characters. I renamed Eoghan Kemp to Eoghan Clark MacRae. I like the Mac names when I talk about Scottish folk. Sorry, I'm so cliche, I know, but it's my damn book. By the way, Eoghan is Gaelic and sounds like "Owen", much like my other character, "Ewan" in "Of Kilted Pleasure," but they are not the same guy; they have similar traits, though.

    Chapter Three is a true fluff chapter in this book. It is only there to inform the readers about the characters and to give them some clue as to who, why, how, and when things happen, will happen, and so forth. It's a fluffer. I do that. I fluff. I stuff too, and I'll do that after I write the book. I go back over it and stuff, fluff, add, subtract, and do the overhaul using my words. I think I typically add about 1/4 more than I did in the beginning, so it's not too bad, but it's fatter, oilier, and juicy, and it has added flavor. I don't like dull. I don't do dull. Dull is dull. We can't possibly be that way, nope.

    If the employment situation (or lack thereof) remains the same, I'll end up writing two or three chapters a day and have the book completed in two weeks. I'll take the next two weeks to tweak it, and then I'll shelve it for when I can pay to have it published. I have about six books in my head that need to come out to play. This is the first of the murder crime novels. I have three that are sitting inside my skull right now, all related. I have to do one first, then the next, but before I can do that sequel, I'll need to do the romance sequel. Before I do that one, I have the story of my life told in an exaggerated fairytale, which may or may not be true, but it is fun, and that's another novel genre completely. I like to keep my options open, you know. I think that one will be just fun. I mean, we find dead people, sure, but who doesn't do that from time to time?

    So, that's my summer plan. Do you have one? I should probably start a Go Fund Me for the publishing of these six books. They need to be promoted and produced as soon as they are written, so I'm not pushing them all out at the same time. I'll have to think about that. I'll need to come up with a plan for my plan, as I don't do anything without first planning the plan to do it. I'm redundant, I know. Sue me.  So, that's all for today, Chapter Three of Murder Book is complete, and Fergy has been introduced!  Who is Fergy? Oh, he's the friend that Nick shot once. You'll love him.

Photo Credit: Pinterest.  (1920 Scotland.)