Each day I try to find things to celebrate in my life. On some days that is easier to do than on other days. Recently, I have been blessed with a serendipitous turn of events. 5 GREAT things are happening in my life. I wanted to share them with you.
August 27, 6-7:30 P.M., at Tony’s Books and Coffee in Darrington, Washington, I am the featured author for this month for Darrington Library’s Summer of Authors. I am very honored to be part of this wonderful program to showcase local authors. A drawing will be held at the end of the evening for a signed print copy of Run or Die, my newest mystery. Participants will also receive a print copy of an original short story as a thank-you for coming. http://www.amazon.com/Run-Die-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KV8BK5A
Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, Special Crimes Team, is available as an audiobook! It can be purchased on Audible or Amazon. I was fortunate to have a wonderful narrator, Kathi Miles, for the production of this murder mystery. Watch this blog for a chance to win a FREE copy of the audiobook Sketch of a Murder. More information on that in an upcoming blog! http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ
Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team, is going into audiobook production! Will keep you up-to-date via this blog! Meanwhile, the ebook is available on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Street-Harvest-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KVREDIC
Old Woman Gone, Book 3, Special Crimes Team, is due out this Fall!
Met with Beth Jusino, Marketing Consultant. This knowledgeable woman set up a feasible marketing strategy for me. It is always a pleasure to work with Beth. She recently published The Author’s Guide to Marketing. GREAT book! Check out Beth’s blog: http://bethjusino.com
What wonderful things are happening in your life? Would love to hear!
By age 5, I–Cas Redner–had seen a number of flying saucers…sometimes, they even landed…on my stepfather’s head. My mother’s aim was very good, whether the object was a saucer, a Vick’s jar or a butcher knife. It wasn’t her fault that my stepfather moved so quickly.
Our family fit into our dead end—on so many levels—neighborhood. The cops rarely appeared with fewer than two units and four cops. Mostly they didn’t show up at all—probably hoped we would kill each other off. Sometimes, we did.
When Mom went into a rage the only person who could, without fail, calm her down was Miss Allen. Miss Allen lived in the house next door. Her yard adjoined ours. My mother called her Miss Allen with great respect and I knew better than not to be respectful to Miss Allen. If my mom didn’t knock me into next week, Miss Allen surely would.
Miss Allen, a big ebony woman with white teeth that showed often in a smile, black, kinky hair, huge pillowy breasts and a solid right hook, didn’t tolerate being dissed. I’d seen her knock a full grown man on his ass. She laughed loud, talked louder, hugged big and had a slow burn temper; you just better not keep on until it boiled!
Mom didn’t trust men alone with me, except for Daddy Reese, a short term stepfather, and my step-grandfather, Mom’s stepfather who I called Paw-Paw. I have lots of memories A.P., After Paw-Paw, but none B.P., Before Paw-Paw. There weren’t any B.P. He knew me before I ever knew about him, but then you can’t blame a two and some year old in an orphanage for not knowing her grandfather. Born while my mother was serving time for killing a man, the only person present during my birth, besides the medical staff and my mother, was Mom’s friend, a prostitute named Sue. I went straight from the hospital to the orphanage.
I grew up knowing my mother couldn’t keep me—no nurseries in prisons—and neither could my grandma. My grandfather set his foot down saying, “I’m not going to take care of the kids your daughter whores out.” End of discussion. Grandma cried but she couldn’t afford to take me if she left her husband and she wouldn’t leave for less than that kind of good reason. I’m told that a well-known attorney wanted Grandma to bring me home, leave me on her couch while my grandfather was at work and leave the door unlocked. He said, “When you return the baby will be gone to a good home and there’ll be a little something to help you out financially in an envelope.” Sort of like a puppy. I heard that Grandma drew herself up rigid and stared at the attorney. “I don’ sell my granbaby.”
I grew up hearing that story along with the story about the young couple who wanted to adopt me. They took me home, but when I got sick with a high fever and had a convulsion, they returned me. Nope, don’t want this one. It’s broke.
Mom served her time and hit the streets, in more ways than one. Prostitution paid better than any other job my unskilled mother could find. When Reese Hannah paid the young blond woman for a date, he didn’t know it would go so much farther. An older man with a strong sense of where he fit in the world, and where women fit—in the house taking care of kids and husband—he quickly fell under my mother’s spell. Mom could charm a polar bear out of its fur. Couldn’t blame her. Daddy Reese worked hard, had simple wants and loved my mother beyond all reason. The only condition he put on their marriage: mom had to bring me home from the orphanage.
I’ve never been able to decide if Daddy Reese did me a favor or not. Maybe Grandma should’ve sold me to that attorney?
Paw-Paw said when I came home I would go into a screaming terror if I saw a rubber doll and I was likewise terrified of thin switch-like tree limbs. Except for that, he said he’d never see a child not yet three years old stay as still and silent as I did.
I don’t recall much about Daddy Reese. I remember him coming up the hill from his job in the evening, black rounded top lunch pail swinging from one big hand. I’d run as fast as my legs would carry me down the hill, screaming, “Daddy Reese!” Just before I reached him, he’d put down the lunch pail and spread his arms wide. I’d race into him, and he’d scoop me up and we’d twirl around and around. Then he’d give me a kiss on the cheek and put me down. I’d insist on carrying his lunch pail though it hung nearly to the ground, I was so small. He’d take my hand and I’d skip-walk back home with him. That’s the only memory I have.
My fourth birthday came and Daddy Reese left. Mom had gotten pregnant by another man and divorced Daddy Reese.
My new stepfather, Andrew, was not permitted to be in the same room alone with me, and he wasn’t permitted to speak to me. Nor I to him. I’ve never understood how Mom could control people the way she did, but they did whatever she demanded. Until my mother died when I was nineteen, Andrew spoke to me only three times, and those times remained my and his secret.
A couple weeks after my younger half-sister, Helena, was born Mom had me sit on the frayed couch and taught me how to hold, bottle feed, burb and change an infant. A few weeks later, after I’d had a bit of practice, one day after Andrew left for work, she handed the baby over to me. “You have to take care of her, Sis. Andrew has to work and I have to go find a job, too.” I am sure I nodded because any other answer would not have been acceptable to Mom. Unlike some four year olds, I was mature for my age, and I understood how to live with my mother with the least amount of pain—literal pain as she despised being back talked or disobeyed.
People have heard me relate these things about my mother and they have said, “Oh, God, she was so mean to you!”
No, Mom wasn’t mean. Our world was harsh. To be female in our world demanded a toughness that even men didn’t have to don. And a vigilance beyond what any boy or man had to maintain. It was years after I’d left home that I finally comprehended my mother’s actions.
The Chameleon’s Legacy is a new, coming-of-age novel I am working on. This is a VERY rough first draft of Chapter 1. Leave a comment! I appreciate all comments.
For other books I’ve written, go to: http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar
Stop by and say hi at: http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar
Time moves on, sometimes far too quickly. I left Hidden Springs Campground and meandered north on Highway 101.
I swung off my course long enough to visit Ferndale once again, enjoy the old buildings and hit the Ferndale Pie Company. They advertised “Great homemade pies topped with Humboldt Creamery Ice Cream”. The mixed berry pie and vanilla ice cream lived up to the hype and I grabbed one of their “small brownies”–read large enough to feed half of Darrington!–and hit the road.
That evening I camped in a small campground a couple of miles south of Orick, California. When I rode in, it looked like the proverbial cheap sites place, probably with limited hot water that ran red from old pipes. Couldn’t have been more wrong about the showers, or the place. Within yards of my campsite, a Roosevelt Elk calf lay in the grass while mom grazed in the field.
The next day dawned with clear skies and I hopped my bike, anxious to ride. Somewhere breakfast called my name. Just inside the southern boundaries of Orick an old motel and restaurant squatted beside Highway 101. Since the town was so small, choices were limited so I parked and walked into what appeared to be a run-of-the-mill greasy spoon–emphasis on greasy spoon.
I headed for the far corner and sank into the chair. The Palm Cafe served eggs done to perfection, the waffle browned and sporting luscious red strawberries, the bacon crisp, the sausage gravy and biscuit to die for. I washed it all down with coffee black, hot, and wonderful.
The 88 year-old woman who owned the restaurant came in every morning to bake fresh pies from scratch. Being told that, I had to try a piece though I wondered how I’d move, much less get up on a horse! The strawberry cream pie melted in my mouth and made me forget all about how many calories it had.
I sucked down some more coffee then headed off for my horseback ride. The brochure of The Redwood Creek Buckarettes hooked me with the siren call of “ride among ancient redwoods”. As soon as I saw the big beasts, I recalled that a horsewoman I was not and wandered if maybe I should’ve plugged my ears.
The woman guide grinned at me and pride wouldn’t let me walk away. She walked a red quarter horse over to the mounting block. I dragged myself onto the saddle. Jade was so broad I felt like I was doing the splits. I’d never been that athletic!
Still, once we got moving–just me and the guide–the rocking motion of Jade put my mind at ease and let my eyes wander. The path ran straight beside a small river then began a gentle climb up the hill. Within minutes the climb steepened and the trees closed off the modern world.
The trail meandered into the National Redwood Forest through a stand of old growth redwoods that had escaped mankind’s rapacious greed. Silence broken only by an occasional bird call wrapped around my soul. Two hours later, we emerged at the base of the hill and on back to the rodeo grounds from where we’d left.
I slid off Jade and walked bowlegged over to my bike.
That night as I listened to the lapping of the waves against the shore, I swallowed down Ibuprophen, yet couldn’t stop smiling at the memories of the horse’s rocking motion, the quiet, and the ancient trees. That night I dreamed of redwoods and horses.
I awoke to the chill of a Crescent City morning with harbor seals barking on a rock just offshore. I listened until the fog rolled the rest of the way off the water and the seals barking had died away. The Apple Peddler Restaurant lay a few miles south of my position, the opposite direction of my travel, but I remembered their mouthwatering food and strong hot coffee. What’s a few miles? After breakfast, I followed Highway 101 along the Pacific Ocean and on up to Oregon.
That afternoon, I rode into Battle Rock, Oregon. The Battle Rock Wayside and City park on the left caught my eye. I drove in and shut down the bike.
The Redfish Restaurant , a small square building with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the beach and situated on the edge of the park looked like the kind of place to be pricey with tiny portions and mediocre food, but I was hungry and too impatient to check out the other offerings in town. Besides, all the tables were tables had a view. I figured that was worth something.
The butternut squash soup was creamy and flavorful, nearly as good as the soup Falomi made at Mother Earth’s Bounty. The pulled pork sandwich was done right–tender, juicy, smoked pork without the smothering bottled sauces too often used. The salad was a nice mix of crisp, fresh spring greens.
It seemed like every time I had made a snap judgment based on appearances, I’d been proven wrong. My friend, Jaimie Wolfwalker, would’ve said Creator was trying to teach me to withhold judgment based on appearances and to learn to evaluate life on substance. Of course, Jaimie walked closer to the spiritual side of life than I ever had. Guess that went with being psychic and part Native American.
Late that afternoon, I crossed the highest bridge I’d ever ridden then the sand dunes in Oregon snuck up on me and I nearly ran off the road gawking. The sign for Spinreel Dune Buggy called to me, though I was by no means sure I should heed the call. I turned off and headed that way, just to check things out. Size wise, the rental place wasn’t that big. I wandered in, checked out the buggys and nearly left.
I’d walked to my bike, started it up and began backing out of the parking area when a vision that had never happened flashed across my mind: Alicia laughing as she raced a buggy down the face of a sand dune. I shut down the bike, took a deep breath and shook my head at myself. Alicia had been far more adventurous than I, and it appeared that her ghost had taken up challenging me to act beyond my doubts.
Being a conservative driver, I only raced down one cliff face of sand, holding my breath the entire distance. Of course, I wouldn’t have gone down it, but I’d already topped the dune and didn’t know how to go anywhere except straight down!
If you like roller coasters and the way they teeter at the pinnacle of drops, you’d love riding dune buggys. I hated roller coasters. Alicia had loved them. At the Puyallup Fair, she’d teased me into taking her on one–five times! Each time I got off, I swore I’d never do that again, yet I climbed back on because I loved hearing Alicia laugh.
More than anything else during my trip, the Spinreel Sand Dunes momentarily brought Alicia back to me. I left them feeling as if I had gained some great gift; and, I had.
Idling into Florence, Oregon, long after most people were home and vegging in front of television sets, I found BJ’s Ice Cream right on the main road, a dessert junkies dream. Ice cream made from scratch nestled among the baklava, cheesecake, tiramisu, tarts and cream horns.
Nick and Ron, the two young men behind the counter, gave me a brief rundown on BJ’s. Cole Brother’s Creamery started in 1917 in Slatter, Idaho, beginning a four-generation family tradition of making old-fashioned, batch ice cream. A three scoop ice cream sundae later, I groaned out the door carting a bag with a selection of tarts and cream horns.
That night I tossed my sleeping bag on the ground close enough to hear the ocean whisper and shush. I awoke to sand and the chill of a coastal morning.
Saturday afternoon found me drifting through DePoe Bay, Oregon. A sign bragged that it was the “World’s Smallest Harbor.”
Fifty miles north of the Oregon border, I rode through the small city of Raymond, Washington. Large steel sculptures popped up all over the town. Wildlife, people, pets, even an ox pulling logs through what was once a lumber town.
Once through Raymond, I stopped a few times during the rest of my ride home, but I was tired and eager to get home. I pushed hard. Around Aberdeen, Washington, I picked up Highway 12 East and caught Interstate 5 a few miles north of Olympia. A few minutes after midnight, I rode into my driveway.
I was home.
Some of the places Jaz talked about: (not in any particular order)
www.northwestplaces.com/trips002/Raymond001 (Raymond, Washington–a town of steel sculptures)
www.redwoodcreekbuckarettes.com (horseback tour among the ancient redwoods)
www.ridetheoregondunes.com (Spinreel Dune Buggy and ATV Rentals)
BJ’s Ice Cream, 2930 Hwy 101, Florence, Oregon
www.savetheredwoods.org/ (Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park: the most old growth redwoods in California)
http://www.redwoodhikes.com/Humboldt/Founders (Coast redwoods once grew naturally in many places across the Northern Hemisphere. Due to manmade and climatic changes, Coast Redwoods now only grow naturally in a narrow 40 mile wide and 450 mile long coastal strip from southern Oregon to southern Monterey county in California. The Dyerville Giant which stood for approximately 1600 years fell on March 24, 1991.)
Darrington sprawled beneath a partly cloudy sky this July 4th as parade participants gathered in the Community Center’s parking lot. The Timberbowl Rodeo Queen, Lindsey, chatted with a woman before the parade got started.
Our “fire chief” was on hand to oversee the arrangements of fire trucks and floats.
Aya and her wife, Deva, were honored to be on the Grand Marshall float. Rows of chairs waited to be filled by a few of those who had volunteered during the Highway 530 Disaster. (The whole town couldn’t fit on the float)
Darrington, the therapy goat, was on hand. He gave Aya a kiss
and then told her a secret. Aya wouldn’t divulge what Darrington told her. After that, Darrington got busy and inspected the candy to be tossed to the kids along the way.
Will Foster, one of the high school students who volunteered during the disaster as well as an up-and-coming writer and artist, smiled as we got ready to start on the parade route.
Smoky the Bear joined the parade train.
We idled through town, throwing candy at the kids. The water gun folks hit their targets most often
but the kids ate our “ammunition”.
The Pack Station’s Mule Train wandered through town, but I think they may have gotten into the mash. They kept going in circles and weaving up the street.
A number of antique cars joined in the fun.
Even an antique PUD truck.
It was a lot of happy chaos
as we meandered over to the city park where there was food and fun for everyone.
AYA’S BOOK RATING SYSTEM (1 to 10 Stars with 1 Star the highest rating–so busy reading can’t take time to hit more than one star!)
( no response to a four-alarm fire in the trash can next to reader)
(distracted, barely mumbles) Hmm? Did you say something? Okay, whatever, now go away
(picks up head, blankly stares at interruptor then resumes reading with a wave) Go away. You’re disturbing my reading
(picks up head, momentary alertness in eyes that says reader is in the present) Did you say Godiva chocolate and a venti mocha? I’ll take some. (promptly returns to book)
(shuts book with a bookmark to hold place and sets it next to favorite chair before going into the kitchen to fix cup of coffee and retrieve chocolate. Returns and resumes reading)
(shuts book, tosses it on the couch, goes out to have supper at Italian Restaurant. Resumes reading late that night)
(tosses book on end table, resumes reading a couple of days later)
(Looks at book, leafs through it) Yeah, I’ll read this when I run out of other books.
(picks up book and opens it to read. Sighs) Guess it beats reading the back of a cereal box
Erika Szabo: The moving force behind the creation of Read For Animals
“All my pets were either adopted from #shelters, or they found us. We live in the Catskill Mountains and unfortunately the “summer people” who rent a home or own one, often bring #puppies and #kittens with them for the entertainment of their #children for the summer. When autumn comes, they move back to the cities where pets are a nuisance or not allowed in the apartment building. Some of them just close the door behind them and leave the animals outside to fend for themselves. Since we moved to the country from the Bronx over 20 years ago, eight cats and three dogs have found us and stayed with us until they had to go to animal heaven.
I want to help animals in need, any way I can. Being a writer, I decided to use my God given talent for storytelling to help struggling animal shelters. Our furry, feathered and scaly friends need our help to survive.
I wrote some funny and true stories about my pets, and about fox pups that grew up in my backyard. I invited a few author friends to join me in this project to publish a book, Read for Animals, and to donate the money collected from the sales–after publishing fees–to different animal shelters every three months.”
Contributors to this book:
Authors, poets, animal lovers: Erika M Szabo, Lorinda J. Taylor, Cindy J. Smith, Jeanne E. Rogers, Zrinka Jelic, Patrick O’Scheen, Kristine Raymond, Shebat Legion, Sandra Novelly, Shannon Sonneveldt, Julie Davis Dundas, Linda Whitehead Humbert, Debbie D. (Doglady) . Artist: Klarissa Kocsis
I’d like to thank #AllisonBruning at http://www.allisonbruning.blogspot.com for nominating me for The Lighthouse Award. Never heard of it, but love what it stands for: #bloggers who like to help people! It always feels so good to be recognized.
There are gifts given to every person. How we use those gifts determines what kind of human we become. Writing is one of my gifts. For me, writing is about helping others: it provides mental relaxation, adds to knowledge, highlights important issues, provides role models and most of all, gives us hope.
Another gift is my love for Mother Earth. In 1996, my wife and I purchased 12 acres of abused farmland that we named Wild Haven. What had once been forested wetlands had fifty or so years before been logged, the pathways of water changed and made into farmland. The farmland was then abused by overuse and negligence. By the time we bought it invasive weeds controlled eleven acres of the 12. Bodies of dead animals and birds lay scattered like discarded rubbish. The people that had owned it loved to kill, not to eat but to destroy. Not even a bird flew over the land until our medicine man came and cleansed it. The first bird to return was a hummingbird. Now we host 68 different species of birds over the course of a year’s time as well as a number of mammals such as coyote, fox, rabbit, possum, raccoon, deer, an occasional cougar, and a black bear who loves our fall apples. Three species of salmon now call our creek a pathway to spawning grounds. In 2001 the National Wildlife Federation certified our farm was Wildlife Habitat. In 2002, we have won a county award for Wildlife Farm of the Year. In 2003, we won the Washington State Award for #Wildlife Small Farm of the Year. #Conservation is the gift we give to the generations yet to come. What kind of world will we hand on?
To see more photos of Wild Haven, go to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar Look at Jaz Wheeler’s Farm board.
The third gift I have been graced with is the ability to look at writing of others and see where I can suggest changes that will make it stronger, clearer. I don’t do the polish editing like my wonderful editor, Lee Hargroder Porche, but what I call developmental editing. I help clarify timelines, pick up on dialog that isn’t realistic and other details that can make an author’s work a bit more real.
The Lighthouse Award requires that a blogger:
• Display the Award Certificate on your blog.
• Write a post and link back to the blogger that nominated you.
• Inform your nominees of their award nominations.
• Share three ways that you like to help others.
• Nominate as many bloggers as you like.
When I think about all the people who #blog and who make helping others a large part of their lives, there are too many to list. But here are some that I nominate for The Lighthouse Award:
#RubyStandingDeer at http://www.rubystandingdeer.com whose Native American series is a spiritual journey
#ErikaSzabo at http://www.authorerikamszabo.com who tirelessly worked to bring to us the Read for Animals book and event
#WiseandWildWomen at http://wildandwisewomen.com whose entire goal is the uplifting of women
#JenWilliams at with http://myraysoflight.wordpress.com who constantly brings forth issues we need to consider
#JumbledWriter at http://www.jumbledwriter.com whose blog and subjects are all about conversations that help people consider timely issues
Please visit these wonderful blogs. You’ll be glad that you did! Be sure to CLICK and FOLLOW so you don’t miss new posts!
To share in the conversations, join Aya on http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar
To check out Aya’s latest works go to http://www.facebook.com/AyaWalksfarAuthor
To see some really cool photos click over to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar
I write about, blog about, tweet about and facebook about strong women, women who make a difference in the world. Just as women impact the world, the world—especially the world of words—impacts women.
One part of that world of words is novels. Thousands of #women read, daily. After a difficult day at work, they go home, grab a cup of coffee, toe off the mandatory high heels and kick back with a good book. Unfortunately, many novels depict women as weak, unsuccessful without a man, unhappy when not involved in a relationship, indecisive and in need of rescuing.
Print on demand and ebooks have blown open the publishing industry. There has been a great influx of #indie #authors. Will these authors simply repeat the same formulas that undermine women’s self-image or will they redefine female characters?
This week, I asked my guest, John Dizon, indie author of several books, how he portrays the role of women in his novels.
Aya: John, I noticed in your books that the women play a definite secondary role to the men. Many male authors seem to have strong male leads in their novels, with very few strong female characters. How do you choose the gender of your lead characters?
John: It all depends on whether a major female protagonist can support the novel. I take pride in the fact that most of my novels feature strong female protagonists, and that more than a couple are recognized as women’s fiction. Obviously I won’t create an unrealistic world in which women are stronger than men, especially in action/adventure. I came close in “The Brand”, in which the pirate queen Belen and the Mohawk princess Nightshade were feared by most of the males they interacted with. Sabrina Brooks of “Nightcrawler” has everyone thinking her masked alter ego is a male. These are exceptional woman, however, and I don’t write novels about Amazon worlds. I deal with reality and make a strong female as realistic as logic dictates.
Aya: On the subject of strong female characters, I noticed in Vampir that Celeste is portrayed as an attorney with some strong moral codes about helping her client, yet in the end she divulges all of his information. Throughout the book, Celeste gets herself into some bad situations, and she is rescued by others, usually her boyfriend, Shea. Why did you choose to have her rescued rather than having her rescue others? And why did she go against her original code of ethics?
John: We’re dealing with a number of different narratives in “Vampir”. From Page One, Radojka commits suicide and leaves Celeste holding the bag as she’s accused of smuggling the weapon into his cell and possibly even doing the deed. At the least she may end up being disbarred. Plus the fact that Count Radojka is being revealed as a serial killer and mass murderer after she had taken him on as an elderly client needing his estate issues resolved. She’s treading deep water, being held in psych care at the MCC, and is hoping her boyfriend can save her. I could have had Shea as the lawyer and Celeste as the cop, but a lot of it wouldn’t have worked, especially in the partnership with Bob Methot as an NYC detective. Ninety percent of the women I personally know (and I know some tough women) would have never condoned such abuses of authority and police brutality.
Aya: In the end Celeste is judged mentally unstable and hospitalized. Was there a reason for that as versus having one of the male characters seen as mentally unstable? Could there have been a different way of handling that line of story logic that would show her as a stronger, rather than a weaker, character?
John: Again, if we reversed the roles we would’ve had Celeste going way over the top in condoning Methot being Dirty Harry on steroids. Another thing is to consider the genre. Whether we like it or not, there’s a lot of sexual tension in the vampire genre, which would have been released had it been about Shea as a ‘gentleman in distress’. As far as the hospitalization, it can be seen that Celeste’s personality begins changing drastically throughout her incarceration, and in the last line we find out that she has actually been possessed by one of Radojka’s demons. That was my prompt for “Vampir II” if I can overcome my critics! (big grin)
Aya: How do you define a strong female character? What attributes would she show in a novel?
John: She’s got to be very attractive and physically gifted (which is all about self-confidence and capability), above average intelligence, eager to compete in a man’s world and have a kind heart. Princess Jennifer of “Tiara” is probably my most feminine heroine, but even though she’s kidnapped and nearly killed, her spirit never breaks. Bree “Nightcrawler” Brooks is very feminine, but when she pulls on that balaclava she’s the toughest of all. At the other end of the spectrum, Debbie Munson of “Hezbollah” and Bridgette Celine of “The Fury” are hell on wheels. They would give Belen and Nightshade the fight of their lives.
Aya: Which of your female characters do you believe display the traits of a strong female? And why? Which traits make her as strong?
John: I’ve got to go with Bree Brooks. She is America’s oldest virgin (at 24) despite the fact she was a party girl and a police academy trainee before she took over Brooks Chemical Company after her father’s death. She’s ridiculously old-fashioned but, paradoxically, is street-wise and has the charm and people-smarts to excel in a man’s world. What makes her a role model is her indomitable will and her desire to help others. She can sit on a pedestal and have the world at her feet, but she continually risks her life to save the planet, one person at a time.
Aya: Do you believe that words matter? If so, what impact do you feel the portrayal of women in novels as being physically in need of protection, mentally unstable even when they are telling the truth, has on the self-esteem, on a subconscious level, of women who read those novels?
John: This is where authors encourage readers to discuss works of redeeming social value, and raises the bar for us to write such works. This interview, in itself, has been a litmus test and a wonderful opportunity to discuss my work from a female perspective. I would hope that women engage in discussion of my female protagonists and determine whether they are realistic, and whether novels such as “Nightcrawler” and “Hezbollah” qualify as women’s fiction. Most importantly, I would want the work to be recognized as portraying women as overcoming obstacles in male-dominated environments. I would be walking on air if I got an e-mail from a female reader telling me she resolved an issue by asking herself “What would Bree Brooks do?” or “What would Debbie Munson do?” Belen or Nightshade — not so much.
One novel that deserves particular mention is “King of the Hoboes”. Veronika Heydrich goes undercover and is forced to live on the streets to infiltrate the Hobo Underground. Her boyfriend, Evan, desperately tries to keep track of her, but is nearly killed in the process. The dynamic in this novel is showing the continuing ordeal that homeless women in New York City deal with on a daily basis. There are enormous discrepancies and gender discrimination within the homeless community as well as the City’s attitude and levels of accommodation. People have no idea how dangerous it is for homeless women and children in NYC, and Roni’s experience helps people understand that situation. They are in great need of special attention and this must be addressed and resolved in the very near future.
Aya: How can we as novelists help increase female self-esteem?
John: I don’t think you ever want to portray any of your protagonists in a weak light unless you’re trying to make a point. Rummaging through my anthology, the only ‘weak’ female protagonist is Jana Dragana in “Wolf Man”, and she’s portrayed as such because she’s been victimized as a beautiful woman who finds work as a model and ends up in a downward spiral through drug addiction. Yet she grows stronger as the story unfolds, and at the end it is Steve Lurgan who fails the test. She’s able to overcome her addictions, but Steve ends up committing suicide because he can’t endure living with the werewolf curse.
Whoops, did I just lose a couple of sales with that spoiler???
Thanks for the invite!
Aya: The views expressed in this interview are exclusively the views of author John Dizon. What did you think of John’s answers?
What do you think of John’s definition of a strong female character (see definition below)? Do you agree/disagree with his definition?
John: “She’s got to be very attractive and physically gifted (which is all about self-confidence and capability), above average intelligence, eager to compete in a man’s world and have a kind heart.”
Leave a comment! I appreciate hearing what you think. What readers think is important to me!
“Take a little time out of your busy day/To give encouragement/To someone who’s lost the way
(Just try)/Or would I be talking to a stone/If I asked you/To share a problem that’s not your own
We can change things if we start giving/Why don’t you
Reach out and touch/Somebody’s hand
Make this world a better place/If you can…” Diane Ross 1970
The wrinkled, smudged envelope lay stuffed among my junk mail. I studied the faded words. Neither the handwriting nor the no-name return address rang a bell. The barely legible postmark read: Ukiah, CA, but the zip code had faded out. The date stamp read: Aug 21 20… The rest of the year had smeared into blue oblivion.
As I trudged back up the potholed drive, I wiped the liquid August heat from my brow with the tail of my dirty t-shirt. The mystery letter provided a good excuse to take an iced tea break. Inside the old two-story, clapboard farmhouse, I reached toward the sink sideboard to flip on some music. My hand groped empty air then I recalled that the DVD/CD player had been one of last night’s casualties.
No-last-name-revealed Susie, a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen that I’d brought home from the Seattle streets the week before ran off sometime during the night. Three hundred dollars in cash and the compact disc player ran off with her. It’d been a long time since that had happened. The missing material items didn’t hurt as much as the feeling of failure.
Maybe Tim had been right. His shouted accusations from six months earlier still gnawed at me. “Just because you can’t have kids, doesn’t mean my life should be embroiled in chaos created by other people’s juvenile delinquents.” His lip had turned up in that hateful way he had as he’d shouted, “Do you really believe you’ve changed a single one of those brats’ lives? All you’ve accomplished is to wreck our marriage!”
Life would certainly be simpler, and quieter, without rebellious teen girls and angry parents who stormed up to my door in the middle of the night. They refused to take their child home, yet demanded I turn her out. Facing aggressive abusers at fifty is a lot scarier than at forty.
The month before Tim stormed out of my life, I’d had to call the police on a stepfather waving a handgun outside my back door. After the police hauled the man off, Tim issued his ultimatum. “Sandra, it’s either me or those damn girls. One of us isn’t staying here.”
How could I close my door against #girls whose only other choice was often sex for food?
I carried the letter into the living room and folded onto the faded sofa. One foot tucked up under me, I took a sip of lemony tea then set the glass on the scarred cherry wood end table. Carefully, I slit open the envelope. A sheet of yellow tablet paper with scrawled lines fell out.
“Dear Sandy,
It’s been ten years since I split in the middle of the night with all the cash I could find as well as the clothes you bought for me. I hitched a ride with a trucker from your place in Bellingham to Mom’s house in Ukiah. Two weeks later I caught a bus back to the streets of #Seattle. I’d picked a fight with Mom. Mays, of course, grounded me. The truth: my running had nothing to do with Mom or with my stepfather, Mays. I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable anywhere.
After living with you for those eighteen months, I viewed street life differently, somehow. Maybe it was those late night gab sessions that you, Stoney, Jaimie and me used to have. Slowly I realized that none of us street kids were the glamorous outlaws whose personas we tried to don. Those outlaw clothes hung on us like baggy rags. Just scared, hungry, stoned kids running from one thing or another, but not running to anything, except a dead end life.
Eight months after I hit the streets again, my best friend, Lydia, died from an overdose. She lay dead, there on the filthy mattress in the back room of a crack house next to me. I woke up from my own drug run and felt her cold arm against mine.
As tears rolled down my face, I could hear you telling me the first time we met on First Avenue in Seattle, “It’s up to you, Michelle. You can stay here on the streets where there isn’t any future, except death of one kind or another, or you can walk away now and with work become anything you want to become. It’s your choice.”
When I dragged home, neither Mom nor Mays ever said a word. Back at school, whenever I felt like quitting, I’d recall how you took me in and told me I could make my life count for something good. You peered through the caked on makeup, the green hair, all those piercings and saw me. I promised myself that I’d write when I became someone you’d be proud to know.
So, I’m writing.
When I received my degree in psychology, Mom and Mays helped finance the opening of a halfway house for street girls. We call it Phoenix Rising. It’s not much. Five acres and a rambling old farmhouse that Mays and the girls are helping me remodel. In the pasture are two horses, Lost and Found, both from auction, both headed for slaughter. They keep company with a goat named Bad Manners. Our orange housecat was a feral kitten a friend of mine live trapped, injured and flea ridden. Her name’s Welcome and that’s what she does to every girl who walks through the front door. Our lab mix came from the local shelter. We named her Friend, and she’s been one to every living thing on this place. Every day those animals keep teaching me the lessons I first learned from you, lessons about having an open heart, believing in others, and giving.
Currently, ten girls live here. Kathy and Melody have been here since a week after the house opened. Kathy’s a computer genius who has already been scouted by a couple of colleges. Melody plans to attend a nearby vocational tech school to learn carpentry.
Sandy, do you remember that night about two weeks after I arrived when you and I were standing, leaning on the top rail of your pasture fence? I told you that a person needed a nice car, good clothes, a fine house and money if they wanted to be happy.
You studied me for a few minutes then turned back to stare out at your Arabian, Angel, prancing across the field. Then in that quiet voice of yours, you told me that after your baby had been born dead and the doctor said you could never have children, you swallowed a handful of pills. The nice house, the fancy clothes and the big car couldn’t give you a reason to live.
Your friend, Rachelle, found you and rushed you to the emergency room. She stayed with you for days. The day you were discharged, Rachelle drove you down to First Avenue then on up and around the university district. She pointed out the street kids as she drove then she pulled over to the side of the road and turned toward you. In a furious voice, she said, “Of course, you can have kids! There they are!” She’d swept her arm to include a young girl probably no more than thirteen huddled in a doorway and another young girl panhandling on a corner.
“There are your kids. If you don’t claim them, if you don’t reach out and touch their lives, who will? And if someone doesn’t give a damn, they’re going to die. Same as your baby died, but for a whole lot less reason.”
You looked at me then. Tears glistened in your eyes as you told me, “The important things can’t be purchased. They can only be handed on, from one person to another, a priceless inheritance.”
Sandy, thank you for my inheritance.
Love, Michelle Dryer.”
Double-checking the phone number on the letter, I smiled as I punched it in.
“Hello?” An older woman’s voice answered.
“I’d like to speak with Michelle Dryer. This is Sandy Harmer.”
“The Sandy from Bellingham, the one Michelle stayed with for a while?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Eleanor. Eleanor Dryer. Michelle’s mother.”
“Oh, I thought the number on the letter was Michelle’s. You’re not going to believe this, but I just received a letter from Michelle that apparently got lost before it wound up here. In it she told me about her halfway house for girls, Phoenix Rising.”
“That letter must be almost two years old!” Eleanor gasped. “Michelle…” I heard a catch in the woman’s voice, a hiccup much like a strangled sob. “Michelle was killed a bit over a year ago.”
“Killed?” I sank back against the couch.
“Andrea, a little thirteen-year-old, was sent to Michelle by a street worker. The mother and her drunk boyfriend found out where Andrea was and showed up one night. They tried to force her to go with them, but Michelle got Andrea loose then the boyfriend pulled a gun. Michelle jumped him and yelled for Andrea to run.
“Poor child, she ran to the house and called the police and before she even hung up she heard a gunshot. She ran back outside. Her mother and her mother’s boyfriend were gone, but Michelle had been shot. She…she died before the ambulance arrived.”
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” I whispered as tears trickled down my cheeks.
Eleanor sniffed, cleared her throat. “It’s a great loss to all of us. Mays was devastated. He and Michelle had grown very close.”
Tim’s angry words echoed in my heart, “If you keep playing around in other people’s business, you’re going to get yourself or someone else hurt!” Now, Michelle was dead.
Almost as if she could read my mind, Eleanor said, “Sandy, we want you to know how grateful we are that you were part of Michelle’s life. We could’ve lost her on the streets, but we got to share our beautiful daughter’s life. We’ve been blessed to see all the good that she’s done.”
“I…I feel like I somehow got her…her killed.” My throat ached with tears and sorrow.
“Why, Sandy, you should see the girls who came when they heard. Some of them were just girls Michelle talked to on the streets, and others she helped in some way. And, the girls who lived here when it happened, they all stayed on with Mays and me. Said this was home. I don’t think we could’ve gotten through this year without them.” I heard her sigh then she said, “The life Michelle lived because of you was so much better than the life she would’ve lived without you. Thank you.”
After I said good-bye to Eleanor, I laid the phone softly back on its’ cradle and wandered outside. I headed up to the barn. Across the miles and years, Michelle had reached out and touched someone. Had renewed yet another person’s faith and given hope where hope seemed gone.
This time that someone was me.
The End.
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What do the bodies of two young children have in common with the murders of two adult men? Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. How can she convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team? Someone is abducting street children and their bodies are showing up sexually abused and manually strangled. Psychic and member of Missing Children’s Rescue, Jaimie Wolfwalker, is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned. Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team. Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more missing children, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before another child disappears?
