Winter 2025: When the Universe Tried to Warn Me but I Refused to Listen

 

 

Happy Holidays. Wishing you all the best. 
Since you come to this site to catch up on my literary news, I’ll say that works are in progress and for now, those works remain in progress. 
And now to the sad part.

Last January on the blog Type M for Murder, I posted about the passing of Scout, my Shiba Inu. I added that we had adopted a rescue, a cream Shiba Inu named Dirk, and that he had come to us after suffering years of neglect in a puppy mill run by drug-dealing criminals. Long story short, Dirk has left us.

The day it happened, when I was getting dressed that morning, I began thinking about death. Since I’m a mystery writer, death is a staple plot device, so the subject wasn’t that unusual. What was unusual was that I was thinking about sudden death, in that, as we make plans for the day, for tomorrow, for our future, we never think about being here one moment, then gone the next. We might be struck down in a fatal accident, hit by a DUI, or the victim of a violent crime. 

Then when I was taking Dirk for his noontime walk, I began thinking about getting a cord and making a wrist tether attached to the leash in case Dirk jerked it out of my hand. As that’s never happened, I dismissed the idea.

That day I took Dirk on an especially long walk in the neighborhood, then brought him along to the credit union and a stroll through Olde Town Arvada, followed by a trip to Molly’s where Dirk got to ride in a shopping cart, which he always enjoyed.

 

That night I took him for our evening walk. For several months I’ve been taking him along the busy roads so he gets used to the commotion to realize it’s just noise and no threat. I was at the corner of 32nd and Federal, a place we’ve been to dozens and dozens of times. Then something spooked him and he jumped, jerking the leash from my hand. He was crouched in the street by the curb not five feet from me. I knew that if he ran, it would be straight into traffic, and he’d be killed. Cars honked and flashed their lights at him, and I approached, calling his name.

Then he bolted onto Federal. No doubt the racket and me lunging for him triggered a flashback to his early years of treachery and abuse. He ran full speed, looking over his shoulder at me, oblivious to what was in front of him. A pickup approached and the driver, to his credit, swerved to avoid Dirk but it did no good. Helpless, I watched the catastrophe.

When I scooped Dirk’s limp body into my arms he made no sound, no movement, and strangely, there was no blood. As I carried him, I hoped that he would shiver and wake up, but that didn’t happen. Once home, I wrapped him in a bedsheet and put him in my truck. My girlfriend and I drove to a 24-hour animal hospital where we turned his body in for cremation.

The next days were especially gloomy. We collected dog dishes, put away the dog stroller, and removed the doggy blanket from the backseat of the car. We gathered his water bowls, his remaining food and treats, and his cage, which we gave to a friend to donate to a rescue. For the first time since I’ve lived in this house, I could go in the backyard and not worry about dog poop. We divided Dirk’s stuffed animals. My girlfriend claimed his lamb and I took his Tigger, given to him at his foster home. 

My mind spun through what-ifs. Every morning I used to cup Dirk’s handsome fuzzy head and promise that we would do our best to make up for the neglect he had suffered before he had been rescued. The attention and care I was to give him would be my small part to offset all the rottenness in the world. But I felt like I failed him, that I had failed the good people at his foster home, that I had failed my friend who had suggested Dirk to us. Then I remembered my thoughts of sudden death and it was like God, or the universe, or cosmic conscience, whomever, had warned me, “Death is coming today,” and then later, “By making this tether, this is how you will save Dirk. But you refused to listen.”

These memories tortured me with guilt. When I shared this with my girlfriend, she gave her interpretation about what had happened. She said that for weeks now, she worried that Dirk’s digestive problems were too similar to the symptoms Scout first suffered when he began his decline. Plus, we had removed from Dirk small tumors so who knew what health problems loomed in his near future? She explained that as horrific as the end was, it was quick, instantaneous. Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise in that Dirk would not endure the 18-month ordeal that had tormented Scout, not to mention sparing us very expensive vet bills. 

I’m sure all this is my rationalizing over what is unfathomable. I miss Dirk more than I thought I would. Perhaps the best way to ease the heartache are to mind these words: Grief is the price of love.

And: Be a hero. Make the world a better place by adopting a rescue dog.

Autumn 2025

 It's that time of the year when we surround ourselves with witches, ghosts, and goblins. 

 

While these tropes serve as Halloween decorations, they do tap into our acknowledgement of the supernatural, of forces beyond our physical world that influence our lives. Belief in the supernatural developed into a key trait that allowed us humans to survive, that trait being our ability to control our surroundings, or rather, to exploit our environment to sidestep uncertainty and bring about favorable outcomes. Our ancestors would track the weather, animal migration, the position of the stars in an attempt to predict when to plant, when to hunt. They would study phenomenon to establish patterns and from those, make predictions. This led to the linking of seemingly unrelated events, such as reading the stars or animal entrails to determine when to marry, build temples, or embark on military campaigns. While today we would regard such methods of decision-making as superstitions, we still act upon superstitions to ensure success and avoid bad luck. For example, changing course when a black cat crosses your path. The reason is that way back when, people regarded cats as semi-enchanted creatures for their ability to sneak around, and as the color black became associated with bad tidings, then encountering a black cat surely meant that misfortune was in your immediate future.

 While we scoff at superstitions as irrational, we will hold dear to us certain notions in an attempt to forestall bad luck. How many of us wear "lucky socks" to bring victory to a favorite team? Or consult astrology? Or carry a talisman like a special coin or wear a piece of jewelry? An object that should we forget to bring, its absence will surely bring bad luck. At the very least, we justify these superstitions by telling ourselves, "It couldn't hurt."

A superstition of mine is a variation of "not counting my chickens before they hatch." What I try not to do is jinx myself by jumping the gun. When I was in the military, I wouldn't buy any special badge until I completed the related course. While many of my fellow students in Airborne school bought their jump wings and related paraphernalia like t-shirts, caps, etc., as soon as they could, I held off getting any such merchandise until I graduated. I did this to keep my parachutes from malfunctioning during training.

A personal challenge is to balance this superstition against another supernatural force, which is to manifest success by stating your intentions. At what point do I declare to the world what I intend to accomplish without the fear of fate putting a stick in my spokes?

Which brings me to my current works in progress.  I am working on two ambitious projects, one is a historical non-fiction, the other a crime novel. With my local writing peers, I've shared details but to the greater world on the interwebs, I'm keeping mum until both projects are closer to completion. In other words, stay tuned.

Until then, here are links to my recent posts on Type M For Murder.

In July, I interviewed a neighbor who's an avid reader of mysteries. 

In August, a reflection on strange occurrences and the circumstances regarding my sister's new memoir.

In September, how my morning fitness walk turned into an episode of getting judged.

 

Summer 2025

 This summer I had two author appearances of note. My friend (and fantastic writer himself) Mark Stevens invited me to the Mesa Verde Writer's Conference in Mancos, Colorado. It was an opportunity to pimp my books in a new venue and meet writers new to me. I gave a workshop on writing motivation, Demons and Angels, Why You Don't Write and Why You Do, and participated on a panel, Versatile Voices, about finding and presenting your voice across genres.

 

My fellow panelists, left to right: Jim Tritten (retired US Navy aviator), Lisa C Taylor (conference co-director), Catlyn Ladd (writes horror and the metaphysical), and Shannon Lawrence (fantasy author).

 

 

After returning from Mancos, I followed up on a invitation from the Regis University's Mile-High MFA in Creative Writing and the Center for the Study of War Experience for a veterans' reading and Q&A. From left: Ryan Charaba, Steven C. Dunn, and me. Zooming in: Khadijah Queen. Off camera: Jeff Curry. The other vets on the panel read from their non-fiction memoir, sharing pointed and poignant recollections from their military experience. I was, as usual, the outlier, since I've never written about my military service, and my observations are filtered though fiction. In my earlier work, I tended to go for absurdities and low-brow humor, but remember:

The deepest truths are found in fables. 

Coming soon: More fables as in a collection of my published short fiction and my crime novel. Stay tuned.

Spring 2025

 I won't hesitate to tell people that the secret to my success as a writer was joining Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, where for the first time I met published authors, who freely shared writing advice and the trials and tribulations of their journeys to publication. But key to that success was belonging to a critique group, but not just any group, but one that offered the necessary writing smarts with members pushing one another forward. I was fortunate to be invited into such a group by its moderator, the late Jameson Cole, who ran critique like boot camp. Strict rules. Leave your ego at the door. Reading assignments. Incisive questions about craft and story telling. Three in our group eventually got contracts with big NY houses. Jeanne C. Stein, Jeff Shelby, and me.

Over the years, people came and went. The group sat dormant for a while, then emerged from hibernation stronger than ever. The imbibing of specialty cocktails helped. When the pandemic hit, we like most everyone else, migrated to Zoom. But with so much of our lives on Zoom, critique lost its unique appeal and fell to the wayside. I focused on ghostwriting projects, and the work pace was such that I didn't have the opportunity to ask for critique. Besides, after more than a decade as a published writer and creative writing instructor, I was sure that I had a good enough handle putting words on paper that I thought my work didn't need another set of eyes besides mine and the client's. 

Late last year I had dinner with Samantha Cohoe and Angie Hodapp. Samantha's critique group had disbanded and she asked if Angie and I were willing to start one. Angie looked at me, Well? I hesitated, feeling not only that I didn't need a critique group, but it would represent yet another imposition into my time. But I couldn't back down. The next step was inviting members, which became a challenge. Many of our previous members had moved on, literally, having relocated to other states. Others were writing different genres or had pressing work demands. And others were no longer writing. Over the course of several weeks we found enough writers, scribes with years of writing and publishing experience, willing to meet on a regular schedule.

 For many months now I've been working on a WIP. I brought the opening chapter to critique, and what impressed me the most about that initial meeting, was how good I felt about the process. I not only enjoyed critiquing the other members' work, but getting feedback on mine. The comments help hone my prose and narrative to the point that I consider my critique group as a SECRET WEAPON.

 The sharp-eyed among you may notice that they're all women. At the moment, other than me, our men have had to bow out because of other commitments. So here you are, clockwise starting at top left, Angie Hodapp, Samantha Cohoe, Sue Duff, and Carolyn Kemp. Don't mess with them.

 

 

Winter 2025

I've got several irons in the writing fire, so stay tuned for news.

In the meantime, I want to share some of the books I've read recently. One of my teaching mantras is: "If you want to be a writer, then you'd better be a reader." Fortunately, as a writing instructor I found that my students were avid readers and well-versed in their genre. Mostly. Although I write fiction, I've always read non-fiction for inspiration and to better appreciate the world we live in.

 

 

One book that's been on my TBR pile and I finally got around to reading was Truman Capote's classic, In Cold Blood, his telling of the horrific 1959 slaughter of the Clutter family in rural Kansas. As one who appreciates crime stories, I followed the account with keen interest, wondering how I might apply some of the details in my own work and how the police investigation lead to the arrest of the killers. In today's belief that forensics and DNA are the ultimate tools that decide a case, in actuality, what leads to the apprehension of suspects is motive, circumstance, and a tip off. In this case, motive was hard to determine as little was taken. Turns out the killers thought there was a safe full of cash, and finding none, to get rid of witnesses, proceeded with sadistic zeal shotgunning their four victims in the face. As with most serious crimes, the big break was a timely lead, in this case provided by a former cellmate of one of the killers, who recounted hearing how this exact crime would take place. Of equal fascination were the interrogations of the two suspects. Pop culture leads us to believe that police, especially back then, would bring out the rubber hoses and beat out a confession. Instead, the detectives interviewed the suspects separately and let them talk, eventually tripping over inconsistencies, and then ratting on each other.

What drew me to In the Garden of Beasts were that the author, Eric Larsen, is one of my favorite writers, having penned The Devil in the White City and Dead Wake, and the story covers a period of history that I especially enjoy studying, the years leading to World War Two. The narrative is told through William L. Dodd, the American ambassador to Germany. We learn about the personal machinations inside the US State Department, often driven by petty concerns, the Dodd family dynamics, how his very social daughter cultivated dalliances with social climbers of various nationalities to include a Gestapo officer and a Soviet spy, and how Hitler and the Nazis seized power through terror and murder. The city of Berlin is a character in itself: cosmopolitan, modern, splendid, and it pained me knowing that this remarkable place would be blasted to apocalyptic ruin.

In this country, one of the driving references in our culture is the American Revolution. Like most of you, I'm aware of the events in broad strokes and what hooked me to read this book was the title: Our First Civil War: Patriots and Loyalists in the American Revolution by H.W. Brands. Violent revolutions are in fact civil wars, pitting the new against the status quo. In our history, we see our revolution as a fight against the Redcoats when there was a large contingent of colonists who felt they would be better off as subjects of the British Crown. This narrative was primarily a character study, mostly about George Washington and Benjamin Franklin, although with plenty of other personalities given time on center stage. My takeaways: George Washington deserves his accolades as father of this country. The sacrifices of the Continental Army and the militias were brutally punishing. I can't imagine winter combat in the clothing of that period. What deepened this examination of history were the often overlooked contributions of Native Americans and the slaves pulled into the conflict.

During the year, I contribute a monthly post to the blog Type M for Murder. Most recently:

November 2024

December 2024

January 2025