Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Review of Mayhawk Rising by Nicole Schlaudecker


Mayhawk Rising Review

Mayhawk Rising is a glorious Arthurian tale by a talented young author, Nicole Schlaudecker.  Actually, calling this glorious adventure a story about Arthur is deceiving. It chronicles the early life of Gawain, the man who would become the king’s loyal knight.  Schlaudecker has recreated the authentic Celtic world and has drawn a host of vivid characters that lend authenticity and humanity to this lushly drawn narrative.

The story opens with Gawain’s birth. His mother Margaise, the wife of the brave but harsh King Lot, wants nothing more than her husband’s love, but it is the one thing she cannot win no matter what she does.  Even after bearing him a healthy son, Margaise still can’t find genuine favor with her war-like husband. So desperate is she for Lot’s love that she succumbs to the trickery of her sister Morgan, a reputed witch.  When told that her infant son might bring about his father’s downfall, she conspires in the death of her own child, but the baby is rescued by the mysterious Merlin, the advisor of her late step-father, King Uther Pendragon. When Lot learns of the attempt on the child’s life, he places the boy under the care of his kinsman and advisor Eloil and his steadfast wife Liusaidh.  Schlaudecker weaves a spell that draws in the reader. We despise Margaise for her coldness to her son but pity her unrequited love for Lot.  We hate Lot’s treatment of his wife but admire his bravery and love of his children.

And it is here where the story becomes magical. When the young Arthur unwittingly pulls the sword from the stone and is declared king, the tale becomes one of battle and adventure.  Lot, Gawain’s father, does not support the new king, and the story moves from Gawain’s personal tale to one depicting the rise of a king. Schlaudecker has created characters that fascinate us, and her depiction of the ancient Celtic world also draws us in.  We are in the rugged countryside as Lot’s men face the Saxons.  We are in the heat of battle when the young King Arthur’s men go against Lot and his followers.  Let’s hope Nicole Schlaudecker continues with her series and tells her unique rendering of the tale of Arthur and his men.

You can find this book at Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/Mayhawk-Rising-N-K-Schlaudecker/dp/1492320307


Monday, December 23, 2013

My Writing Process and World


The Writing Process and World:

1.     What am I working on?

My current work in progress is a mystery and involves the murder of a New Orleans high school principal. Tentatively entitled In the Bayou, the manuscript also sees the return of Lt. Etienne Baptiste and his partner Sgt. Duane Morrow, who first appeared in A Fair Grounds Mystery, www.redrosepublishing.com.  They are called to the murder of this popular educator and learn that her death may involve very prominent and respectable members of the community as well as a long-ago unsolved murder. 

2.     How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Like all writers, I have my own style and approach.  I love to craft intricate plots in both my historical fiction and in my mysteries, but what I like to develop very well is character.  No one will keep reading if the main characters are unappealing.  That doesn’t mean they can’t have an evil streak or be challenging, but they have to possess substance and complexity.  Even in my mysteries, my detectives are intricately drawn.  I incorporate their personal lives as well as their demons into the narrative.  I’m a huge fan of James Lee Burke, and he does that very well in his mysteries.  I love reading his plots, but I also want to know what’s happening to Dave Robicheaux, his family, and his friends. 

3.     Why do I write what I do?

Well, for me, writing is therapeutic.  When my mother died, I really immersed myself in writing.  That said, I don’t limit myself to one genre.  I love the research involved in historical fiction.  My background as an academic really helps me there.  I love the challenge of creating a tight mystery, and I also love creating contemporary characters. 

4.     How does your writing process work?

My process varies with the genre.  Historical fiction takes a great deal of research. I love the adventure as well as exotic nature of historical fiction. Love at War involves WWII and the hell of that conflict.  Pirate Woman is the story of Grainne O’Malley and 1500’s Ireland.  From Ice Wagon to Club House is the story of Jude Mooney and his adventures in Storyville, Prohibition, and WWI. I always outline, but I first develop my main characters. 

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Idiots, Arsonists, and a Sad Heritage


Idiots, Arsonists, and a Sad Heritage:

Last Friday, arsonists set fire to the abandoned LeBeau Plantation in Arabi, Louisiana.  The building has a storied past complete with tales of ghosts and a sad heritage.  Originally built by Francois Barthelemy LeBeau as a weekend getaway, the plantation was completed the same year the wealthy aristocrat died.  The building remained in his family as a hotel and then casino until 1905. Joseph Mereaux purchased the property in the 1960s; however, the once ornate structure soon fell into disrepair. 

Like many plantations of long ago, the old building boasts a troubled past.  The LeBeau family was rumored to be extraordinarily cruel to the slaves. Rumors abound that some of the family members murdered slaves and then forced the other slaves to bury their comrades.  Still other tales of suicide (apparently some LeBeau members wound up hanging from the rafters by their own hands) and mayhem persist.  Even in the 1970s, the then-rented house was the scene of tragedy when a little girl seemingly was thrown from a window, and rumor circulated that a flesh and blood person was not her murderer.  Lore has it that the ghosts of former slaves haunt the premises.  Lights supposedly switch on and off—even though the electricity has long been non-existent on the property.  Still others have told of a lady in a white dress who passes by the windows. Is she one of the mourning LeBeau ladies?  

The men charged with arson allegedly were smoking weed and ghost-hunting when they set a T-shirt on fire and threw it into a stack of combustibles. Frankly, I think they were on stuff stronger than weed.  Meth, anyone? Maybe their defense could be that a ghost told them to do it. Actually, I don’t mean to belittle anyone.  Some may argue that the old building came to a just end. It was the scene of suffering and torture—a monument to the injustice once visited upon a group of people in this country.  Still, I only can hope that some remnant of that property can rise from the ashes and become a monument—not to injustice but survival.  Wouldn’t it be just if some church or charitable organization could purchase the property and make it a home for troubled youth? Then, the scene of so much misery would become a place of hope like the old Milne Boys Home in New Orleans or like the one-time Penny Lane in Liverpool, England; LeBeau Plantation would rise Phoenix-like from the ashes to save disturbed young people and at least begin to heal past wounds.  While I know nothing can make amends for the horrors slaves faced, maybe their ghosts can rest knowing that the place of their misery is now a place where people try to save young people like those who torch buildings. 

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

A School Lesson in Steubenville, Ohio


Earlier this year, a great deal of press was given to a shameful incident involving students at a Steubenville, Ohio school.  The case involved the rape of a teenager at a party. The girl was intoxicated, and her attackers were well-respected members of the school football team.  One can only imagine the kind of mob mentality that took over that night.  The girl’s impaired state was no excuse for the behavior of the young men who took advantage of the girl’s diminished capacity, but what is most shocking is the behavior of school authorities that engaged in a conspiracy to protect the football players. 

A school superintendant, a counselor, and a coach have been charged for their various roles in the alleged cover up—and they should rightly be held accountable.  Even if those “adults” did not take part in the crime, their responsibility as school officials and representatives was to report the incident and take the necessary disciplinary steps, not conceal a crime.

Parents and students should feel that teachers, counselors, and other school officials have their best interests at heart.  Protecting the players who attacked the girl helped no one.  Those predators needed to learn a lesson and accept the consequences of their actions.  Some will argue that the girl should have behaved more responsibly, and indeed, she should have.  However, cruel, insensitive people conspired to use her foolishness to their advantage and make her a victim.  “Adults” who should have looked out for her interests and not simply pandered to the local celebrities then betrayed her by protecting those who made her a victim. 

As a teacher, I have long been told what my responsibilities were. Any time a crime against a child is suspected, adults must speak up and see that the proper authorities investigate.  If the suspicions or accusations are proven untrue, the school representative will not be charged—as long as he or she acted in good faith.  If a school authority does not act, the negligent person can be held responsible.  If that official suspects physical or sexual abuse by friends or guardians, he or she must act.  If someone brings a suspicion to that person’s attention, he or she must act.  That school authority cannot protect the teacher, coach, or counselor who may be a friend.  The school official cannot protect the suspected person’s children from scandal.  Students who terrorize or brutalize each other cannot be spared as well.  Playing favorites on such an important issue cannot be tolerated.  The endangered student must be the priority.  Those school officials in Ohio should be removed from their positions and stripped of their licenses.  Some should even face jail time.  

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Hypocritical People


The hypocrisy of some people never ceases to amaze me, especially by those people who are religious hypocrites.  I know of many people who profess high religious ideals, but they have little charity or compassion.  They judge others, believing themselves morally superior to their fellow beings.  They gaze with disdain on those of us who are lowly sinners and proclaim their own superiority with booming authority.

I know several people who epitomize this hypocrisy.  When a local school sponsored a diaper drive to help women in crisis pregnancies, many responded with true charity and generosity; however, two people responded with judgmental cruelty.  One young teacher said, “No one had ever bought me diapers.” This comment comes from a woman whose husband makes a handsome salary as a pharmaceutical salesman.  Yet another said, “Those women bring it on themselves, and I never asked anyone for anything.” This same person has asked her administration for many breaks at her job as a result of ill health, and those in charge have been most generous.  Where would she be without someone’s generosity and charity?

Maybe these uncharitable comments derive from the frequent misconception that any poor people or “women in crisis” are derelicts who despise hard work, but that is stereotypical thinking and not always the case.  Most of us are not millionaires.  Many of us are poor, not because they don’t work, but because they have not achieved the education, opportunities, or simply the breaks others have obtained.  They are not all lazy welfare queens looking for handouts from rich women who teach Catholic school.  Ironically, one of these women also hails from a family of recent immigrants.  What would have happened to her family had some bigoted Americans shut the door on her family? Does she also not realize that some people would despise her for her Hispanic heritage just as she despises those women who are “in crisis”?

These calloused, cruel people also profess strong Catholic ideals and Christian spirit. I wonder if they would rather the woman in crisis abort her baby because she can’t afford them or drown her existing children in the bathtub. Then, these same women would condemn those women as foul murderers and unnatural mothers.  They condemn people who rely on food banks as “lazy,” but I wonder if they would rather those hungry, desperate people commit suicide rather than accept charity.  Aren’t such acts also sin? What some of these spoiled people don’t realize is that they one day may need help, and I’m sure they would condemn the people who turn a deaf ear. Some people just like to condemn others. 

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

George Zimmerman and Rage

Earlier this year, George Zimmerman managed to divide this country.  His name and that of his young victim aroused deep emotions among various segments of our society, dividing the country along racial lines.  Did Martin say something to provoke Zimmerman? Why did Zimmerman continue to pursue a potentially dangerous person even after police urged him not to do so? We may never know the answers to those questions, but the rhetoric following the event was intense, inflammatory, and divisive. My guy and I were at a function where an elderly white man obviously wanted to hold onto some imaginary territory.  To him, Zimmerman's innocence was clear.  This young punk had broken his nose.  Zimmerman acted in self-defense. Yet another white guy, ex-military, told the other elderly man they were going to "take back the country."  From whom, I wonder? Why did these two older white males feel so threatened by this trial and its outcome? I see this need to hold onto territory in the pages of social media outlets, the media, and in private conversations. Many white people assume that because I'm white I hold their racist views.  What I find ironic is that some of the very people who supported Zimmerman at his trial would--under normal circumstances--hate him and his Hispanic heritage because "those people" also have made inroads into a once predominantly white culture.

Now, however, we are seeing a darker side to George Zimmerman. His wife left him, casting doubt on his innocence and pure motives.  He has gone to jail because of violence against the girlfriend he tried to choke.  In his rage against her, Zimmerman said he had "nothing to lose." We don't know if Zimmerman's rage existed before he killed young Martin, but I wonder about the people who supported him before.  Do they still condone his violence against women? Is that acceptable, too? I'm not judging him.  I don't know what has happened in his life, and I know that God also holds those people accountable who judge others.  Still, we have to wonder now what happened on that street earlier this year.  Was Zimmerman provoked and couldn't hold his temper? Why are people so easily enraged these days?  Would the outcome of this whole tragic ordeal been different had Zimmerman walked away and let police handle the situation as he'd been urged to do?

Monday, November 18, 2013

Violence, Labeling, and Hatred

Every day, we read about violence.  For some of us, the violence is on our streets and too close to home.  We also hear of the violence occurring in war-torn countries--violence against civilians in the form of rape, murder, and pillage.  Since humankind's existence, we have found ways to torture our fellow human beings.  In war, countries often initiate conflicts for ostensibly lofty reasons when in reality, they want no more than to snatch land from someone else.  Still other wars are fought because someone decides he or she doesn't like the indigenous population of a region.  They may be the "wrong" race, ethnic group, religion or political philosophy. Labeling them "The Other" is easy.  We have someone to hate, and at times, finding that "other" is safer than learning about that person, finding out what makes him or her tick, and then making a friend. "Those people: are easy to hate because of their race, religion, etc.  Too often, haters cloak their animosity in the language of righteousness.  Hitler did this injustice in Nazi Germany.  Jews were "Christ-killers," and their fellow Germans were right, even holy, in condemning them.  Westerners did this to Blacks taken in the slave trade in Africa.  The color of someone's skin relegated him or her to the status of a slave. Any violence could be committed against that individual because he or she was no longer a person.

We can all see ourselves as superior in some way. Most of us would say we "aren't prejudiced," but even those who don't use ethnic or religious slurs often hold deep-rooted bias.  Still, we think we are above people like Hitler and his Nazi goons.  "This" couldn't happen in our country.  Well, it did.  We enslaved people.  We put out signs saying, "No Irish need apply." We rounded up Japanese Americans during a time of war and placed them in camps. No country is in any way superior to another in the "hatred" department.

And what of the violence in our streets? We hear young people say this or that  person wasn't in their neighborhood, their church, or of their color. Again, we have turf war, and the victims of those wars have been labeled "The Other" by someone. Being "Th Other" negated that person's right to exist.  Another who found him or herself superior had the right to stamp out the life of "The Other" or outcast.

When will we stop seeing our fellow beings as "The Other"?

Taking Responsibility in Schools

As a teacher, I'm always amazed that so many people don't want to take responsibility for their actions. Some of my students find inane excuses for not doing assignments or homework.  Maybe part of it is our busy lifestyle, but some of it is also a desire to avoid work and then blame someone else.  I've actually heard students say, "My grade dropped because she gave me a zero on my homework." Well, the student had a zero because he/she didn't do the homework. Sorry, Sugarplum, but that was your responsibility to do the work in a timely fashion.

Don't get me wrong.  Kids are not alone in this. An incident involving students lying was almost totally ignored by a disciplinarian at a certain school.  Her response to the teacher was, "Why don't you email the students and speak to them? You know the details." Well, the teacher did speak to the girls, but she wouldn't see them until last period.  The instructor more than willing to speak to them, but this wimp also needs to do so. She has the real power.  The teacher explained that she would be in class as a teacher and a sub nearly the whole day.  Couldn't THE DISCIPLINARIAN call the girls down and speak to them with the teacher at a specific time when the teacher was out of class? Why do some people collect a paycheck if they are so inept? The teacher had caught the deception and dealt with it as best she could, but a higher authority also needed to take control when the incident involved lying and a direct violation of school policy.

Too many people in authority have no guts.  Another friend of mine was denigrated by a parent while the principal stood by, doing nothing.  The principal feared the parent and was more than willing to see a veteran teacher smeared by a parent upset because his child had a C.  Gee, Mister, did you think your kid was going to be valedictorian? Maybe the child needs to do her homework and take her tests.  Mr. Principal, you say you value my friend as a teacher, but you let a parent become almost violent.  Maybe you really want my friend--who is set the top of the pay scale--to quit.

Our society wants to hold teachers accountable for everything.  I'm a fan of accountability, but I also think we have to make students accountable for what they must do, and we need to make parents accountable, too.  Don't assume your child will pass an AP class and ace the national test when she doesn't do her homework or at least make an effort.  Don't assume every elective will be easy.  Your child might not pass if he or she doesn't work.  It's called "Creative Writing" for a reason.  Why has your child taken the class if he or she doesn't have a creative bone in his or her body or doesn't even want to make an effort.  I'll answer for what I must do in the classroom, but I'd love if someone else occasionally took responsibility.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Vows and True Love

This year, I've been to three weddings.  A colleague married in early summer, and my precious goddaughter married in mid-summer.  Yet another relative married this weekend.  I'm thrilled for these young people and wish them the best, but at one time, I questioned the validity of marriage.  Many of the couples I'd met were unhappy, arguing over money, sex, and children.  We live in a world beset by misery: crime, corruption, and natural disasters afflict the whole world.  Why do people stand before clergymen and take vows? Maybe that's the reason I started to write romance.  I believed in true love in the abstract, but I had little faith in it in reality.  Nevertheless, I wanted to believe that true devotion and commitment were possible. Many of my books look at lovers who hold it together no matter what the odds.  In Love at War, my protagonist Nuala joins the war effort to avenge the death of her husband.  In Pirate Woman, Grainne supports her husbands--both of them--even when they are idiots.  In The Doctor and the War Widow, wounded Harley finds true love again after losing her husband to war. (All of my books are available at wwwredrosepublishing.com.)

I still, however, felt love had eluded me personally. Then, after Hurricane Isaac when I was really down, I met Ben.  There was just something about him.  I made him chase me--but not too far. He called me a lot, and I liked it.  After several months, something started to happen.  I really missed him when he wasn't around.  I always wanted to be with him. If he was ill, I worried about him.  He makes me happy. I want to make him happy. Instead of only shopping for myself, I find myself shopping for Jerry Garcia ties.  He buys me skirts and calendars.  I now listen to the Grateful Dead and call myself his Scarlet Begonia.  Love, who would have thought I'd find it? I guess it's only write that a writer find real love.

A Tale of Two Nuns

When I was in kindergarten, my parents introduced me to Catholic school education.  I hated kindergarten because I was very attached to my mother, and I wanted to be with her during the day.  However, kindergarten was overall a pleasant experience.  Then, I began first grade at another Catholic school. The clientele was different, to say the least. These students came from a much more upper middle class background. They reeked privilege and were rotten, spoiled brats.  The "religious" who populated the school were no better--well, most were not. These nuns were from Ireland and were used to disciplining children in a much more stringent manner.  Well, I'm not against discipline, but the "discipline and justice" doled out by these women was only "injustice" and "cruelty." They used corporal punishment--which then was legal. However, they meted out their "discipline" to only the less affluent children.  My father was not the doctor or lawyer as were some fathers.  He trained race horses and owned a bar.  We had working class roots, and ironically, were of Irish descent.  One Irish nun in particular tortured those of us who had less than the more well-off spoiled brats.  I was quiet, but any mistake I made met with this one woman's ire.  She humiliated me and others more quiet or less aggressive.  I couldn't stand her. I left that school thinking religion was invalid and the domain of rich men.  This woman had come from a poor background herself, yet she hated those of us less prissy and those who came from less important families.  Some of the lay teachers were kinder, and I left with a terrible image of religious people.

My mother still insisted I attend Catholic high school.  She thought that was my ticket to some mythical top she hoped our family would reach.  Well, it was no Mecca, but I did meet one woman--again a nun, who changed my perspective on religion and on teaching. Sr. Martha Maguire was also an Irishwoman, but unlike her mercenary and unjust countrywoman, Sr. Martha loved her students--all of us. She didn't reject us because we were less wealthy than some. In fact, she decried injustice of any kind and advocated equal rights for all races. She identified with African-Americans because she knew how the Irish had suffered under British injustice and decried the lack of Black students in our school.  When one girl had a baby out of wedlock and then saw it die at birth, Sr. Martha was the only teacher to pray for her.  The others--religious and lay alike--were silent in their righteousness.

I became a teacher because of women like Sr. Martha--not because of those like that other cruel woman, and I prayed that I would be able to inspire my students as she did me. i think I've reached most of them.  They tell me things like, "I loved your class. We cold tell you cared about us." Others say, "You were tough, but you taught me to write." Others say, "I still hear your voice when I think of Macbeth."

Thank you, Sr. Martha.  And to that other woman who shall not be named--I'm quoting Shakespeare, "Leave her to Heaven."

Monday, September 9, 2013

Erin, my best friend!


Erin is my best friend—and my sweet girl. She’s getting old now, but thirteen years ago, she was a little pup who easily fit into my arms and won my heart.  I didn’t name her. Someone at animal protection did, but as a lover of the Emerald Isle, I never considered changing her name.

An animal protection agency had invaded an area bookstore.  The group showcased several puppies and kittens for sale. I looked at a round ball of fur wagging her tail and was smitten.  She was a vision of auburn fur and white paws.  My hair color minus the white socks! She could be my kid minus the long snout and four legs! I’d never seen a prettier puppy. The shelter workers told me she was probably part Corgi and part Sheltie. 

Of course, I already had a dog and was living with my unwell mother.  The sheltie we already owned was beautiful, prissy, aged, and set in her ways.  My mother also was set in her ways. Mama said she and Myah, the Sheltie, were on the same speed.  (My mother had an amazing sense of humor all her life.) Myah didn’t like this puppy that had invaded her space.  Erin wanted to play too often and even grasped Myah by the fur. The Sheltie was horrified! How impertinent, whipper -snapper! The old dog would bark at the puppy and move behind the safety of a bookcase.

When Myah died, Erin took over as princess of the house—not that her new rank altered her mischievous personality.  She chewed the buttons off a blouse, gnawed her way through an Irish blanket, and tore a hole in my bed sheets.  My mother fumed, shook a newspaper at the wild thing, but never struck her.  When I trained her to behave well, Erin was rewarded with delectable treats. 

After a year, Erin settled down and into our hearts.  I held her at night while I watched television.  She slept in my arms like a baby.  My mother fed her treats, and she followed us around like a shadow.  At night, she and I cuddled together, my arm thrown over her.  In the morning, I would awaken to find her so close she was almost in my skin. 

When my mother was really ill, Erin was her four-legged bodyguard and best friend.  She adored the sitters and watched the home health people with suspicion as they worked on my mother. She remained alert to my mother’s every need.  If Mama called for me at night, she jumped on the bed to awaken me. She stood in the doorway, poised, until I was up and tending to my mother.  Only then would she jump back into my bed and hurl herself onto the pillows. 

Now, my precious girl is an old lady.  She is susceptible to infections and has back trouble.  Two weeks ago, she woke up and couldn’t walk.  She’s better now, but I know that old dogs—like old people—don’t live forever.  That crushes me. She’s been my best friend and little baby for a long time. 

I always owned dogs as a kid.   I loved my dachshunds, and the Shelties were sweet. None, however, were as loving and loyal as this little Heinz 57.  I love dogs, and maybe that’s why in The Doctor and the War Widow, www.redrosepublishing.com, a dog plays such a prominent part. Nico saves Harley’s life—literally—and while Erin hasn’t done that for me in any literal way, she’s saved me in

Erin, my best friend!


Erin is my best friend—and my sweet girl. She’s getting old now, but thirteen years ago, she was a little pup who easily fit into my arms and won my heart.  I didn’t name her. Someone at animal protection did, but as a lover of the Emerald Isle, I never considered changing her name.

An animal protection agency had invaded an area bookstore.  The group showcased several puppies and kittens for sale. I looked at a round ball of fur wagging her tail and was smitten.  She was a vision of auburn fur and white paws.  My hair color minus the white socks! She could be my kid minus the long snout and four legs! I’d never seen a prettier puppy. The shelter workers told me she was probably part Corgi and part Sheltie. 

Of course, I already had a dog and was living with my unwell mother.  The sheltie we already owned was beautiful, prissy, aged, and set in her ways.  My mother also was set in her ways. Mama said she and Myah, the Sheltie, were on the same speed.  (My mother had an amazing sense of humor all her life.) Myah didn’t like this puppy that had invaded her space.  Erin wanted to play too often and even grasped Myah by the fur. The Sheltie was horrified! How impertinent, whipper -snapper! The old dog would bark at the puppy and move behind the safety of a bookcase.

When Myah died, Erin took over as princess of the house—not that her new rank altered her mischievous personality.  She chewed the buttons off a blouse, gnawed her way through an Irish blanket, and tore a hole in my bed sheets.  My mother fumed, shook a newspaper at the wild thing, but never struck her.  When I trained her to behave well, Erin was rewarded with delectable treats. 

After a year, Erin settled down and into our hearts.  I held her at night while I watched television.  She slept in my arms like a baby.  My mother fed her treats, and she followed us around like a shadow.  At night, she and I cuddled together, my arm thrown over her.  In the morning, I would awaken to find her so close she was almost in my skin. 

When my mother was really ill, Erin was her four-legged bodyguard and best friend.  She adored the sitters and watched the home health people with suspicion as they worked on my mother. She remained alert to my mother’s every need.  If Mama called for me at night, she jumped on the bed to awaken me. She stood in the doorway, poised, until I was up and tending to my mother.  Only then would she jump back into my bed and hurl herself onto the pillows. 

Now, my precious girl is an old lady.  She is susceptible to infections and has back trouble.  Two weeks ago, she woke up and couldn’t walk.  She’s better now, but I know that old dogs—like old people—don’t live forever.  That crushes me. She’s been my best friend and little baby for a long time. 

I always owned dogs as a kid.   I loved my dachshunds, and the Shelties were sweet. None, however, were as loving and loyal as this little Heinz 57.  I love dogs, and maybe that’s why in The Doctor and the War Widow, www.redrosepublishing.com, a dog plays such a prominent part. Nico saves Harley’s life—literally—and while Erin hasn’t done that for me in any literal way, she’s saved me in

Monday, August 5, 2013

Writing as Lt. Etienne Baptiste, my detective in "A Fair Grounds Mystery"


Lt. Etienne Baptiste from “A Fair Grounds Mystery”:

I’m a veteran of Iraq and of the mean streets of New Orleans.  I’m Etienne Baptiste, a homicide detective with the NOPD. The public and the media malign us.  We are overworked, but the City Council would disagree and constantly want to reduce our budget.  We are underpaid and outgunned; few people disagree with that.  Hell, I can’t complain.  I grew up with a hard-working Creole mother who could everything from elegant wedding dresses to Mari Gras Indian costumes.  My “Mere” was and still is a beautiful woman with mocha skin and high cheekbones.  My white father fell for her like an imploded building when he saw her working in his family’s bakery.  The problem was he had a wife.  Now that I’m older, I can tell that Calvin loved both women in a way, but at one time, I hated Calvin.  My mother remained his mistress, but I knew my brother Al and I were second to his children with his society wife. He gave my mother support, but for a long time, that didn’t lessen my anger.  His goddamned money was nothing more than charity as he fulfilled his lust with my mother.  When I was a kid, I was positive his interest in my mother was only sex; only later did I see the bond they shared. 

Growing up in that old Mid-City house with Mere and Al was idyllic.  We went to Catholic school, and nobody fucked with us. We were skinny kids but tall, wiry.  I thought I was hot shit at basketball, but Al was the best.  Everybody thought he’d go pro, and no one was more shocked than the parish priest when Al entered the seminary. Of course, Al still plays basketball with his CYO kids, and he showed amazing courage during Katrina.  He was with us in the boat when we scoured the city rescuing people.

Life got even better when I met Rita.  When I first saw her on the playground at school, I wasn’t immediately smitten.  After all, we were kids, and she was just some frail little Asian girl.  Al and I often defended her and her siblings against the taunts of students—black and white—who hated the Vietnamese, seeing all of them as enemies.  It was in high school that I realized she was beautiful.  Her almond-shaped eyes penetrated into my soul, and her hair was blacker than ink.

Our families opposed our proposed marriage. My mother, after all, knew the danger of interracial romance, but we married anyway at St. Anselm’s Church.  To their credit, the families came—even Calvin.  He offered me a job in his company, but I turned it down, still seething over his neglect. Instead, I joined the Marines, taking college courses while I served.  Rita had Joseph, the first of our three children, right before I left for Desert Storm. 

Desert Storm—what a shit conflict.  Marines were in the thick of that hellhole for months. I left with a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. Our unit was ambushed, and I carried two guys to safety even after I took a bullet in the leg.  Sometimes, the damned injury still hurts when I play basketball with Al and Joseph. Oh, what the fuck! We all have shit in life.  Never thought I was a goddamned hero. I just touched the St. Jude medal around my neck and ran to help those guys.  When I finally left the military, I was a lieutenant.  I went back home, took the badge, and enjoyed life with Rita.  We had two more girls and lived the good life. 

Now understand, the New Orleans of the 1960s and 1970s, the NOLA of my youth, was idyllic.  Oh, we had race issues. We had poverty and crime, but crime was negligible to what we have now.  My mentor was Jimmy Landry, a tough Frenchman from the Lower Nine who was hard-living and hard-working, but even Jimmy cracked when his son was killed during an undercover operation.  I’ve seen some shit.  People shot because of drugs. Women beaten to death by pimps.  White collar bad-asses who murder to cover up their oil-soaked deal and back-alley politics. 

My partner now is one of the best.  I joke and tell him I taught him all he knows.  He’s a white guy from North Louisiana who likes boots and jeans.  He’s younger than I am, but like me, he’s a Marine.  He looks like some male model, but I tell him only one of us can be handsome.  I like my suits.  It’s professional, you know.  Duane Morrow and I saw hell in Katrina, but we fought the good fight.  Now, we’re back solving homicides and some of the dirtiest homicides involve greed, sex, and envy.  Shit, the Bible was right about the Deadly Sins.  I keep sane with my family.  I’ve danced with my Vietnamese princess under the oak trees of City Park.  We fry fish on Fridays and eat in the backyard.  In a mad world, we hold onto sanity in our own warm embrace. 

Writing as Lily, my protagonist in "The Loving Wife"


Lily of “The Loving Wife:

I’m Lily Mohin Mulrooney, and I’m a murderer.  Well, at least I’m honest.  I don’t admit that publicly, but yes, I killed my husband Gerry.  I hope you understand why. 

Growing up, there was no one I loved more than my father, Jim Mohin. He grew up in Derry, North Ireland, a Catholic who hated the sight of tanks on his beloved Bishop’s Street.  As a boy, he threw rocks at those tanks and taunted the soldiers, but he wouldn’t join the IRA because he never wanted to hit soft targets.  The tension, however, was always boiling below the surface.  He married my ma in 1970, the same year I was born, and worked in a factory.  Though not overtly political, Jim did participate in marches, but Bloody Sunday galvanized his nationalism.  When those soldiers fired on unarmed, peaceful demonstrators, my father swore he’d fight for Ireland.  Jim and my mother Mary were walking together with the other protestors when the shooting began.  My parents saw people fall around them.  A bullet grazed my mother’s arm, and she was six months pregnant.  It was then that Jim really joined the IRA, and he only left Derry when a bombing went horribly wrong.  My parents sneaked onboard a merchant vessel with my brother Ian and me. We settled in New Orleans, and Jim went to work on the docks.  He soon began working for bookies, and before long, had his own book.  We soon moved into a spacious house on Canal Boulevard.  Life was good.

My father idolized me.  Early on, Jim saw that I loved dance and acting.  He sent me to the best coaches in the city, and I was soon acting in local productions.  Ian and I went to the best schools, and life was perfect.  When I was fifteen, my idyllic life came to an end.  My father died in a car accident.  The house was mortgaged, and we didn’t have much money.  We moved to an old shotgun in Mid-City.  My mother worked two jobs and soon began taking men home in exchange for money.  I could no longer take dancing or acting lessons, but I worked on my own.  Of course, Ian and I had to find other jobs as well.  I missed out on many opportunities because I was working odd jobs, and I sometimes missed work so that I could go to auditions.  I gave myself to boys and girls who would give me money or drugs.  (Not that I was a hard-core drug user. I liked being in control). I sometimes slept with local directors so they would cast me in plays.  Sex was never love or even pleasure. It was getting what I wanted. 

One of those directors started sleeping with my mother.  I wasn’t sleeping with him, but he’d heard about my reputation.  When he tried coming onto me again, I fought him.  He was strong, but I pulled a knife from the sheath I strapped to my thigh and ran it through his gut.  He fell like a bloated piece of pork.  I ran for my mother.  She almost panicked but then decided we needed to get rid of the body.  Ian wanted to wrap him in a blanket and dump him in the river. My mother thought it was too risky.  Then, a brilliant idea hit me.  I suggested we cut him up and cook him. The next day, my mother donated a delicious stew to a local shelter.  No one suspected a thing.

Too many times I scrounged for food in the pantry.  I hated poverty, but I studied hard and made it to college.  But—I also knew I wouldn’t make it to Broadway.  I became a drama teacher, but the pay was still too low for a girl who wanted to travel.  My brother, like my father, worked for bookies and tended bar in their establishments.  I wanted to help him and my ma. 

Then, I met Gerry.  I saw his big house and knew my troubles were over.  Luring him in was easy. It was even easier convincing those two morons to help me kill him.  I’ll soon be on a European cruise.  Maybe I’ll meet another man. 


Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Little Ole' Moi Giving Scandal to Bourbon Street


Giving Scandal to Bourbon Street:

Two weeks ago, I gave scandal to Bourbon Street.  Howe is such a thing possible, you ask? Well, it wasn’t intentional, but my guy and I were caught in such a lip lock that we fell against a barricade and over it went! Two rather casually dressed young men (grinning at us from ear to ear) raced to lift it for us.  They tipped imaginary hats to us and made casual salutes as they walked away, looking back in wonder.  They weren’t the only ones staring, either. 

Well, maybe the romantic evening inspired us.  We’d come from the rehearsal party for my goddaughter and her now-husband at Galatoire’s.  Romance was in the air.  There we were in our dressy attire behaving more scandalously than people thirty years younger. I’m sure the two men who helped us with the barricades found us a curious pair—two middle-aged (bordering on elderly) people caught in a thriller lip lock. 

The stares pleased me—not that I’m an exhibitionist—but I liked that we were showing the world that older people have a good time and enjoy each other.  I bet the guys helping with the barricades hadn’t given their partners a kiss like the one he gave me. 

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

On Being Single, Southern, and Female


On Being Single, Southern, and Female

Until recently, I was unattached and belonged to what many consider that sad category—single at 50.  We’re easy to find—single people.  We lurk in the frozen food section of the grocery, purchasing pre-made meals from the deli and from the national chains.  We go to movies, plays, and even concerts by ourselves; everyone assumes we’re lonely.  Some people are, I’m sure, but many aren’t.  We belong to groups, societies, and many associations.  We also sometimes party like rock stars. 

My life has changed in the last year.  I’m in a relationship with a great guy, and we definitely party like rock stars.  However, I’m still an individual who has her own interests, and I never felt like a lonely spinster.  Even though I’m having a good time, I don’t “need” a man, but there are some people who act as if my only achievement in life is meeting someone.  When was the last time I “needed” someone?  I’ve always supported myself.  At times, I supported my mother—especially when she was sick.

Still, some people in my life think my existence has been sad and lonely, and in the South, being unmarried at 50 is akin to some curse or death sentence. Southerners in particular love the idea of women being subject to men. At times, various men I’ve known have felt free to tell me what to do.  Please understand that these are not individuals who provide me with anything, but if a woman is single, men, especially some Southern men, feel it is their right before God to tell a woman what to do.  For example, some men I’ve encountered have lectured—yes, LECTURED—me on what to do with my mother’s property and even on where I should live.  By the way, they have no legal claim on the property.

Some Southern men still want to control women—even years after the Feminist Revolution.  (I apologize to those blokes from the South who are more liberal in their thinking. I know not all Southern men are not so backward.) This also has ticked me off because I’m very into minding my own business. I don’t tell my friends, family or associates what they should do—nor do I expect them to intrude on my life.  Don’t get me wrong! I love to socialize with people, but I believe every person should make decisions for him or herself.  At one point this “Budinskyyness” made me murderously angry. My mother was a true Southerner, and in many ways that’s good. (We say “sir” and ‘ma’am” and offer chairs to the old folks.) My mother was sweet and into keeping the peace.  Maybe I should be more like her, but my tongue is sharp.  I’m not by nature aggressive and was bullied as a kid, and I’m sick of taking crap from those people who have nor more education or advantage than I have. 

I’m happy with my guy.  He doesn’t subscribe to many of the bourgeois ideals linked to suburban America. Together, we laugh at the folly of suburbanites, and I no longer feel the urge to fight as much.  I also understand my mother’s philosophy much better, and when I’m with certain people, I simply discuss the weather. 

Thursday, June 6, 2013

My Father's Death and the New Orleans Fair Grounds

As I was growing up, I believed my father was murdered.  He was a horse trainer at the time, and he died at the track, tending to his horses.  Maybe my theory was my not wanting to believe my father's death was natural.  For a long time, I saw his death as a betrayal--an abandonment of my mother and me.  Years went by, and I was angry--not simply grieving but angry.  Eventually, I moved to acceptance.  I ceased to believe he was murdered--or, I no longer dwelled on it.  My father was an even-tempered man as well a very reasonable, but some might have profited by his death.  At least, I thought so.  Much of this was the product of my childish imagination and the fact that I wanted someone, anyone, to pay for his passing.

A Fair Grounds Mystery, my latest book, begins with a body discovered in a cemetery, but that body is linked to a cold case involving a race track murder many years before.  Like my father, a horse trainer died of seemingly natural causes at the race track. Like me, his daughter always believed he was the victim of foul play, not natural causes.  Unlike Iseult O'Flannery, I no longer believe my father was murdered, but like her, I still want someone, maybe the cosmos, to pay.