“Echoes From The Past”, buried, but not deep enough

What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

http://amzn.to/2F7gqAL

newechocover5rs

 

A case for Harry Walthenson PI, episode by episode

How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office.

Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon.

His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night.  Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.

Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs.

Then, everything changed…

Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time

http://bit.ly/2J4aEBP

The latest episode:  Episode 55 – To tell, or not to tell

http://bit.ly/2TT3MQN

Enjoy

I go missing for a day, and…

It’s like dying as literary death.

The silence is deafening.

It seems, after a lot of trial and error, trying this that and the other, I’ve discovered that you only get out of social media what you put into it.

And it means that unless you are on it 24 hours a day, every day, spruiking, or whatever it is we writers are supposed to do promoting ourselves and our work, nothing happens.

Don’t get me wrong, there are those who are raging successes, and I am happy for them.

But for us living on the fringe, and there is quite a lot of us, trying valiantly to reach the public eyes, the battle is just that, a battle.

When do you get time to write?

Is it a choice between writing, or trying to garner support and a following?

The authors who are published by the large publishers will tell you that it is the only way to become an author, where all of the marketing is done by the publisher and all they have to do is put in an appearance and pocket the royalties.

I don’t think that’s necessarily true.

But when I find that happy medium between marketing and writing, I’ll let you know.

Until then, I guess there will be more days like today, and that battle going on in your head that is telling you to give up, it’s never going to get any better.

Maybe not.

But give up?  Not today, nor tomorrow.

After all, we live in a world where anything is possible.

You know what it’s like…

There are good days and there are bad days

Today is a bad day.

You know how it works, the night before you set out everything you’re going to do.

What could go wrong?

All those irritating little things have been taken care of, especially so you could spend this one day so you can ‘stick to the schedule’.

Those re-writes you were working on last night were great, you were killing it, and, now, this morning, in the cold hard light of day, they’re just not coming together.

Then there are the three obligatory phone calls:

The first, the urgent request for a small job, one you just know when the word ‘small’ is mentioned in a pleading tone, that it’s going to take a lot more time than you have

Followed by the family member with a crisis (and how often is that crisis a storm in a teacup)

Then, to add insult to injury, the cat got shut in a cupboard, the hiding place that he thinks I know nothing about and is making loud noises, his way of telling me to open the door.

Followed by another, no there’s four this morning, my friends the Telstra scammers from India.

Concentration?  Gone!

Picture next morning.

No distractions.

Computer on, pages sitting in front of you, phone off the hook, no annoying calls, ideas are flowing.

You start…

The computer dies, there’s something wrong with the hard drive, and that’s where the real panic sets in.  Delays and distractions you can deal with, a dead hard drive and you haven’t backed up your work for a week?  That’s a full-blown catastrophe.

Maybe tomorrow…

Talking about depression, this is one possible result of it

I’m channeling what might be depression.  You know, the sorts of feelings you have when you think that everything is conspiring against you, you can’t get a break or suffering one of those mornings when you find yourself arguing against yourself about whether or not it’s worth getting out of bed.

It’s one of those times when someone tells you, the sun always rises the next morning, and that is reason enough to keep going, you seriously consider having a few drinks.

At 7:30 in the morning.

I’ve had a few of those mornings in the last few weeks, and it is said, sometimes you can find the depth of feeling for a character while you’re down.

For example:

 

My life was going nowhere.  If I took a step back and took a good, long, hard look at it, what could I say was the one defining moment?

There was no defining moment.

I’d bounced around schools till the day I decided I was not cut out to learn anything more, or perhaps the teachers had given up trying to impart knowledge.  Whatever the reason, I dropped out of college and drifted.  Seasonal laborer, farm hand, factory worker, night watchman.

At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.

Until I went home.

My parents were distinctly disappointed I was not married with children.

My overachieving brother always said I was a loser, and would never make anything of myself.  The day came when I was sick of being compared to Mr. Perfect and left home, never to return.

My ultra successful sister, married into a very wealthy family, had the regulation 2.4 children and lived in the lap of luxury, and mostly pretended I didn’t exist, didn’t invite me to the wedding, and I had yet to meet the husband and children. 

I guess she was ashamed of me.

For the first time in five years, I was asked by my mother to come home for Christmas.  Of all of them in the family, she was the only one who missed me.

After five years though.

I thought about it but decided against it.  No point.  There would be the inevitable comparisons, the arguments, then the walk out.  I’d save them all the trouble  This year I was avoiding going home.  Besides, my work had made that decision easy, they rostered me on over the holidays.

 

This character screams loser from the rooftops.  Certainly, he’s made a mess of his own life and probably blames everyone else for his lot.

Back in front of the words, some hours later, an idea pops into my head.  The story continues:

 

It was 3 a.m. the end of my shift, and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the South Pole.  I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.  There was a howling wind, whipping up snow and would be fuelling a blizzard soon enough, and anyone outside would freeze to death.

A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

My ultra successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against her car door, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.

“What do you want?”  I wasn’t in the best of moods, and my first thought she was here to cajole me into coming home for their amusement.  Both she and my bother had a cruel streak, one that had got worse with age.

“Help.”

I laughed.  My help?  I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter.  But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“My husband is trying to kill me.”

With that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

I knew dead when I saw it, and she was dead.

But, before I could do anything about it, I felt a very hard whack on the back on my head, dizziness, and then nothing.

 

Oh well, yet another thriller coming up.

 

In a word: ‘maybe’

This word, where I live, had taken on a new meaning.  We have telephone scammers who ask your name when you answer the phone, and when you say yes, they hang up.

It doesn’t take much imagination how they can use that recording.

So, I now answer the phone with maybe, which confuses the real callers who want to know if it is you.

Of course, maybe is one of those words that have so many meaning, but the best one is to use it while you have time to think of a proper answer.

For example, did you get the potatoes?  You haven’t been out, it slipped your mind, or you just plain forgot, but run with a ‘maybe’ so you can judge the reaction.

Angry face, you know no matter what, you’re in trouble.

Genial face, you know that it didn’t really matter and all is forgiven.

Then there’s the person who doesn’t know you and comes up to you in a crowded room.  Are you [put name here]?

Maybe.  We want to know if we’re in trouble, or if it for something good.

Using ‘maybe’ in writing probably isn’t the best word to us, but I like defying the experts.  You can always find a maybe or two in any of my books.

Check out the cases of Harry Walthenson PI, a serial

How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office.

Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon.

His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night.  Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.

Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs.

Then, everything changed…

Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time

http://bit.ly/2J4aEBP

The latest episode:  Episode 51 – Luck has everything to do with it

http://bit.ly/2UD6XIA

Enjoy