Embracing the Story

Writing for me boils down to one thing: passion. I’m driven to tell stories and crave more time to put them down. In the final stages of revising my next book, I’m savoring every moment with this story world. Perhaps my brain surgery and a period of not being able to write made me appreciate the art and craft that much more. To stay authentic, to keep being myself, that passion has to drive all my writing decisions.

My publisher for Distortion and Retribution has been inactive for a while now. First, I have to say that Buzz Books was very good to me. They empowered me to get out there and share my book. With their help and a ton of hard work, Distortion achieved some success. Now they’re reverting my rights and it will go out of print.

Some of the other Buzz authors are self-publishing their books rather than leaving them out of print. Some writer friends had advised me to do that, others advised waiting a while. I decided to wait.

It all boils down to that one thing: passion. I could not feel passionate about diving into the re-release of my last book when my head and heart are fully immersed in the new one. Distortion will be available as long as one used print copy remains for sale. If someone is looking for it, they can buy it, but I’ll not be promoting it at all. The reader will have to be seeking it out by word of mouth and I’m okay with that.

In the meantime I will finish Paradox at my pace, find a home for it. My poem, “In a Shard of the Bedroom Mirror” will be out in the spring of 2016 as part of the Veils, Halos and Shackles anthology and I’ll help promote its very worthy cause. My articles and short stories will continue to come out regularly.

But none of those things take the time of a novel promo. It’ll be fun to just write. How charming!



I loved this

Originally posted on Elan Mudrow:


The hearth has been broken

An old fire crept its way inside

The wooden framework

Sweeping prayers away

This does not cease

The swaying of trees

The stirring of dusk

The angst of night

The foundation of the house

Grows deep into the dirt

We all share—This home, that

Cannot tumble, even when cracked

The bricks of new prayers

Turn to sparks, eating

Our insides like flames

Hot, hot, scorched tears

These salted tears boil

Upon the ground—a surface

Ruffled time and time again

I offer my hand

I have nothing else

My hand feels so weak

As you grasp me firmly

I am scared, the same as you

Yet, now, we share a power

And together

We will face the ceaseless

Swirl of the wind

Feel of the first raindrops


The uneasiness of future days


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The Power of Love, Not Love Stories

My latest Book Buzz column is all about different types of love: siblings, communities and mentors. Not enough page space is given to these themes so I wanted to focus on three books with plots that turn on the loves we all share. Take a look at the whole magazine.


with author Dennis McDonald at Summer word Slam
with author Dennis McDonald at Summer word Slam

Great times yesterday at the Summer Word Slam. I really could not keep writing without the support of the local writers club and book community. Love them. Find yours or, if there isn’t one in your town, start one.

Sharon, Morgan, Martha, Peggy and me at the Summer Word Slam
Sharon, Morgan, Martha, Peggy and me at the Summer Word Slam
Celebrating afterward with Enid Writers Club members Marsha Kay, Morgan, me, Dennis, and Peter

Summer Word Slam

The power’s in our words and writers from all over northwest Oklahoma will be coming together today to share short readings —both prose and verse.  We’ll also be signing books and listening to the new writers that come to our open mic.  I hope if you’re in south Kansas or Oklahoma, you’ll drop by for the fun.  Always a surprise will jump out and spook you or tickle your funny bone.


For the first time in public, I’ll be sharing my poem, “In a Shard of the Bedroom Mirror” from Veils, Halos and Shackles: International Poets on the Abuse and Oppression of Women which will be out in Spring 2016. Here are some of the news articles:



The Chemistry of This Scene

I walk a lonely road
The only one that I have ever known
Don’t know where it goes
But it’s home to me and I walk alone.
~ Green Day

It’s a killer song, but even the “American Idiot” isn’t walking alone in it. He has his shadow, his shallow heart and the Boulevard of Broken Dreams to interact with.

Nobody is ever alone. Each moment of a scene stems from interaction. In stories driven by character, the chemistry of those interactions determines whether it blows up or just simmers with bubbles rolling along the top. When I’m revising a scene, I ask three questions:

• What is the general chemistry between these characters (or the character and the moment or place)?

• How is that chemical reaction affected by the heat or pressure of this situation?

• Can the chemistry give me a rhythm or timing to this scene?

So if you think of one character as water and another as potassium, what might happen is something like this:

That sizzle is the base reaction between those characters. But what if we keep them from touching or lower the temperature? What if the water is frozen? In the same way, the conditions will affect my scene, but the base reaction between them has to be a factor.

The chemical interaction has to be true to character.

The Problem with Being “Fine”

This post is in honor of Brain Tumor Awareness Month and ANA Awareness Week May10-16.
Most people would rather not talk about the tumor. Plus it’s over, right? Docs took IT out two years ago. Why talk about it now? You’re fine.

Except I wasn’t. Sure, I kept telling myself all was better now, as fine as could be expected. Refused to look at the bad stuff. Wanted to be a good patient, good wife, make the most of life. And to shut up.

But as long as “fine” and “could be expected” were the focus, I couldn’t get back to being me. My brain didn’t seem quite right. And mostly, I wrote shit. THAT I could never accept.

So I started complaining, just a bit at first. Told doctors it was NOT acceptable to not write fiction. I made them angry, seemed ungrateful. I laid out clearly that being able to clothe myself, clean the house, hold a job was not enough.

No. I wanted my life back.

And when I told them about pain and dizziness when I tried to create characters or stories, they looked at me like I was crazy. That was fine. Most people think writers are crazy. We were making progress.

After saying the same things to one neurologist for three visits in a row, he finally said, “Well of course you’re having trouble with linguistic thinking. Topomax suppresses that. People have trouble recalling words and such.”

Words, dammit!

The very drug that had restored my ability to function after a “brain incident” was taking away the things that made me myself. And it took 9 months to get a doctor to say it. Sort of like an afterthought. It never occurred to him that I might accept more pain if I could write again, imagine … etc.

So now I’m writing. My husband’s thrilled because I’m not only easier to live with, I’m back to being me again. Most days, that slight pain or dizziness is just an afterthought. Less of an issue all the time. We don’t have to talk about it, except…

I would never have gotten here if I had accepted being “fine.”


Check out the many patient stories at the Brain Tumor Assn website.

Blue Duende

(Photo above by Anastasia Sofia Jones at Gallivant Girl.com)

Y’all have been so supportive that to thank you I’m sharing a scene from the middle of PARADOX. You don’t have to know much about the story to “get” this scene: Adele is an art crimes investigator. Mark is a dark ops agent assisting her in Morocco. Eannatum is a 12-inch, stolen Mesopotamian sculpture. And duende is a word that doesn’t translate from Spanish. ~Lucie

“Seeking the duende, there is neither map nor discipline. We only know it burns the blood like powdered glass, that it exhausts, rejects all the sweet geometry we understand, that it shatters styles and makes Goya, master of the greys, silvers and pinks of the finest English art, paint with his knees and fists in terrible bitumen blacks…” ~ Garcia Lorca

We arrived in Chefchaouen as the sun set over its deceptive, blue-wash walls. The center of Morocco’s most profitable industry, hashish, its loyalty rested with the drug cartels, not the king. Constant glimpses of gun barrels and gun-bulges under clothing didn’t surprise me, but what I never expected—what the FBI could never prepare me for—was the mystical quality of Chefchaouen’s old town.

Originally painted by Jewish refugees from Nazi Germany, its kaleidoscope of periwinkles, aquamarines, sapphires and indigos created a feeling of serenity and, at times, the illusion of walking through sky. In its maze of twisting alley-streets, just wide enough to walk two astride, Mark led me around blind corners, each revealing a new shade of blue with smiling faces offering a room, handmade jewelry, or a smoke of the sebsi hash-pipe.

The streets smelled of freshly baked bread, mint tea and cannibis. I knew this mystic medina veiled a ruthless web of intrigue–and in my beaded evening bag I held Eannatum, the trophy I had stolen from that ruthless, hash-web’s kingpin.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons by محمد بوعلام عصامي
Photo from Wikimedia Commons by محمد بوعلام عصامي

“So beautiful,” I said as we turned a corner laced in orchids.

“It’s a brilliant deceit,” whispered Mark. “The blue represents heaven and hope but it also provides this sense of tranquility, lowering your guard.”

“So they can pick your pocket?”

“Don’t have to. You’ll lay down the cash yourself.”

“No, thanks” we repeated again and again to the predator guides offering to lead us through town. Mark knew these streets, didn’t need a guide and didn’t want their prying eyes.

An ultra-aggressive one followed us demanding payment for guide work never done. When we turned the corner, Mark flashed his gun. The man left.

Why were we here? was Mark insane? Like a crystal blue labyrinth, each curve, every archway revealed new secrets. Between tea shops and trinket stands, an old man winked at me, mimicking a smoke; a young boy offered us the greatest sex through a riveted purple-blue door; and a beautiful waif offered the “finest trip” up a staircase.

“Mesmerizing,” I said.

“I thought you would like it. Under better circumstances, I would bring you here as a tourist.”

Mark’s eyes constantly checked every direction for threats, his hand rested on the hilt of his Smith and Wesson.

“Look out!” he called as a soccer ball flew next to me, two boys in pursuit.

“Sorry,” said one in perfect British.

With the silk hijab over my dress, I didn’t stand out as much as before, but I was still wearing chopped-off, sequined heels. We were obviously outsiders. Mark pressed on through sky-blue twists and turns until an elderly woman in an orange dress, green and yellow scarf, greeted him.

Assalam Oualaikoum, Mr. Norquist,” her head slightly bowed, she shook his hand then touched her heart. She started to shake mine but Mark interrupted.

He said “Aisha, we need to disappear.”

She led us into a wider street with royal blue arched doors. Aisha opened one of them and we went inside what appeared to be a tiny bakery. A man stood up fast and, head bowed to Mark, shook his hand and touched his heart.

His voice quivered. “My home is honored by your visit, Mr. Norquist.”

Mark spoke coldly, forcefully, in a voice I had not heard before. “Make me disappear for a few hours, fast.”

Our host led us to a storage room that contained large sacks of grain next to plastic-wrapped bricks of hashish. He sat us down on the floor within a clump of them, spoke a few quiet words with Mark. Then he turned out the light and closed the door. The floor felt cold, damp with the only light coming from that crack under the door. Mark got up and started rearranging the bags to make a little chair for me. One bag came open spilling grain all over the floor.

He said, “Have a seat.”

“Won’t we ruin something?”

He smiled, pulled me up and said, “He doesn’t bake really. Ahmed’s a trafficker and paid informant.”

“Will he turn us in?”

“No, he’s completely terrified and thus loyal.”

“To the CIA?”

“No, to Mark Norquist, trafficker. He wouldn’t dare turn on me.”

Click. The door opened. In the same instant, Mark pulled a gun with his right hand and pushed me onto the floor with his left.

“I brought you some blankets and batbout,” the host said, his hands trembling as he laid out the stew with bread on a box. “I apologize I cannot do more without…being seen.”

“Any sign of Richter or his goons?,” said Mark, lowering his gun.

“No sir, Aisha told a tale of you going away a car. They left.”

“Thank her,” I said, but the man never looked at me. Instead he kept his eyes on Mark, lowered whenever he spoke.

With a dismissive air Mark said, “Keep me invisible.” The man left, his hand shaking as he closed the door.

“Mark, he’s completely terrified of you.”


I frowned. All I could think about was what he might have done to make this tough man tremble. Had Mark become the very evil he was supposed to defeat? Who did he work for? Instinctively, I reached for the P229 strapped to my thigh. Would I have to use it on the man who put it there?

“Priceless and a Paperback Sale!”

I’ve been extremely immersed in finishing Paradox.  Books get to that point where they take on a life of their own.  So please accept my apology for not posting that in honor of paper book lovers, DISTORTION is on sale, paper only:

DISTORTION reached #10 Top Selling Kindle Murder Mystery in Feb. 2014 and #14 in Nov. 2013
DISTORTION reached #10 Top Selling Kindle Murder Mystery in Feb. 2014

And here’s my latest book column in ionOklahoma Magazine.


“Creators” will you “All Fall Down”?

Art inspires new ideas. The main reason I freelance is to feed my creative impulse.  Two new articles accomplished just that:

Click through to read the whole magazine online.
Click through to read the whole magazine online. “Creators: An Art Party of Ideas” is on page 12


Inspired by a faculty exhibit at Northern Oklahoma College in Tonkawa, “Creators” is all about the magnificent cracks in each life. I highly recommend the exhibit, including the image I feature at the top of this post by Audrey Schmitz, and the entire issue of Art Focus.

And I was honored to interview NY Times bestselling author, Ally Carter, for my ionOklahoma book column this month. She’s amazing!  Check out her new book, All Fall Down.






Bending Time and Brainpower

Sorry to be so silent lately.  I’m crunching out some ideas for a feature.  After the brain surgery, I felt a creative rejuvenation beyond the everyday until I had a brain “incident” last February and had to slow way down. Now I feel a similar, boundless energy but not from recovery, from writing.

If you can imagine it, you can make it happen was my motto for many years. I’m writing from that space just now. Fewer features since I’m working full time but still committed to my regular clients.

In the meantime, I want to congratulate Dr. Charles Fishman on being chosen as the poetry winner in Aesthetica Magazine’s creative writing contest. Cool!  His interview is at: http://www.aestheticamagazine.com/blog/conversation-charles-fishman-poetry-winner-aesthetica-creative-writing-award/

In the interview, he talks about the Veils, Halos and Shackles anthology focusing on the abuse and oppression of women around the world. You can read more about it at https://www.facebook.com/veilshalosandshackles I’m honored that he chose one of my poems for it.

Meanwhile, I’ve recently interviewed a couple of physicists in chasing this fresh freelance idea. Maybe one of them will help me bend a little time-warp … for blogging of course. I promise to put up a new art crawl as soon as that warp presents itself.

Best wishes!


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