A Sense of Place

I prefer setting my stories at places I know. Academic Pursuits took place at a fictionalized version of St. Louis, where I lived for years. A couple of my recent, and not yet published stories are set in Chicago. I lived close to the Windy City for a few years and got a feel for it. Plus, I love everything about Chicago, except the winters.

The majority of my stories happen in Los Angles because that's where I live.  The protagonists of my current WIP live in Pasadena, my favorite LA neighborhood, but at one point they take a visit to Hollywood Hills. My first trip there happened when I was still new in town and wanted to drive up to the Hollywood sign. (You can't.) I took a refresher tip the other day, and it proved useful, making me realize the house in the story needs to be located in a different part of the hills that I originally thought.

Then I went to a taco stand on Hillhurst and had a chili verde burrito. I took pictures of the place while there. I didn't even notice the Christmas decorations till I looked at the photos.

Wednesday Word: Porcine

porcine |ˈpôrˌsīn|adjectiveof, affecting, or resembling a pig or pigs : his flushed, porcine features.ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from French porcin or Latinporcinus, from porcus ‘pig.’

Monday Men

The heat wave in Southern California continues. So here is something to cool us off.

Sunday Snippet & Status Report

Not all books come about the same way. Last Stop was one of those unexpected ones where the protagonists mugged me and forced me to write the story. Their backstories also dictated the plot. Then I wrote a paranormal novel (not yet published), simply because I got fed up with brooding vampires. Then a novella (also unpublished) because one of the supporting characters from the novel proved to be too intriguing.

If writers always waited for divine intervention, they wouldn't get much done. Sometimes the muse needs prodding. I spent the last couple of weeks percolating my next story idea. It's one of those slow-brewing ones. I think I finally have the rough plot outline, but more importantly got a handle on the characters. So now I'm having the pre-writing jitters. Half the time I'm excited and feel good about the story, another half I'm convinced it'll suck—if I ever finish it.

Anyway, so far I wrote the first paragraph. Of course it might change later, but for now here it is:

I'm not the one for deep thinking, I'll be the first to admit. Growing up in my family you could get smacked for "talking rubbish," not that I ever had the inclination. Still, sometimes I wonder about stuff. Like how a man's life can turn on a dime. There's this straight path right in front of you, and then suddenly you're off to a whole different direction. You know what I mean? Sometimes it's your own choice, but not always. It can be the result of other people's actions, or even something trivial, like a color. I would've never met Evan if it wasn't for the green flyer.

Wednesday Word

(photo by bluefishrun @ deviantART)

sun dog (also sundog |ˈsənˌdôg|)nounanother term for parhelion.
parhelion |pärˈhēlēən; -ˈhēlyən|noun ( pl. -helia |-ˈhēlēə|)a bright spot in the sky appearing on either side of the sun, formed by refraction of sunlight through ice crystals high in the earth's atmosphere. Also called sun dog .ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from Latin parelion, fromGreek para- ‘beside’ + hēlios ‘sun.’

Monday Men

He's one handsome guy, isn't he? It's hard to imagine, but he must be in his eighties if still alive. The dog is surely long gone. It's the strange magic of photography to gift a brief moment with immortality.

Sunday Snippet

This is from a paranormal romantic mystery I'm working on. It's morning, the protagonist just woke up in his boyfriend's bed and contrary m/m expectation has matters more pressing then morning wood on his mind. (This is still a draft, so excuse the rough edges. I just know I misspelled something.)

He slipped out from under the covers and made a beeline for the bathroom.

On his way back to bed he noticed something seriously amiss in the living room. He saw a dark-haired woman sitting in one of the chairs, watching him in unconcealed interest. Denton couldn't tell if her presence or his own nakedness perturbed him more. Possibly the combination of the two. He retreated into the bedroom, and shook Bran by the shoulders. He got a sleepy grumble in response.

Denton shook him again. "Wake up. There's a strange woman in your living room."

Bran cracked his eyes open. "What does she look like?" he asked, in a voice thick with sleep, wariness, but not shock.

Denton thought back. "Attractive. Lots of dark hair. Not too young." From that brief look Denton guessed her age at late thirties, maybe well-preserved forties. "She's wearing a green dress."

Bran rubbed his eyes and groaned. "Oh, great." He rolled out of bed and threw on some clothes.

Denton followed suit. He half expected the woman to be gone, but when they got to the living room door, she still sat there, exactly as before.

"Where?" Bran asked.

"Right there, in the chair. Can't you see her?"

Bran let out a sigh. "Mother, you can stop it. He can see you. I told you he would."