The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster appears, if you have the sense of humor for it, to have all the answers to the origins and purpose of life—which is, of course, to enjoy lots of pasta . . . I think . . . and provides a lot more fun answering those questions than its more serious counterparts.

But the theme of the linked site isn’t nearly as silly as it appears at first glance. It’s a humorous illustration of the absurdity of the current push to reform how evolution is taught in the classroom. (more…)

Late yesterday afternoon, I read a severe weather alert about possible thunderstorms. I looked out the window, and wondered what the weather people were seeing that I wasn’t. The sky was nearly clear. Maybe half an hour to an hour later, a bright flash outside the window over my writing desk signaled the beginning of the day’s first thunderstorm. I reached up to open the blinds, and the crash came—close and deafening. That storm lasted several minutes. Then it was over. That was exciting, I thought. I relaxed back into writing.

Later in the evening the lightning and thunder started up again, rumbling in the distance for a few hours, and every now and then moving closer. First it was west of us, then east of us. Now it was on the other side again. There was very little rain, and I knew that wasn’t good. It was the same weather pattern that had ignited palm trees down the hill from us about five years ago.

After midnight, we were still awake, not because of the storm but because those are the hours we keep. We’d just turned off the television and were starting to wind down when the lightning moved in close again. Then came a blinding, deafening flash and crash, so close I let out an involuntary yelp and the dog jumped to his feet.
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I had jury duty last week. I have to go back this week to sit on a panel. They’re selecting for a long trial—about two months. Part of me thinks, wow, that might be interesting. Another part wonders what will happen to my writing flow, my other interests—the rest of my life—if I’m selected. All in all, I’m not thrilled. Please don’t think I’m trying to get out of doing my duty. I believe in the jury system and all that. I’m even fascinated by the chance to watch any real life court proceeding—as long as it doesn’t involve me paying a settlement or serving time. The educational experience can only help me as a mystery writer. It’s just that I’ve done this duty so many times, it lost its novelty a long time ago. (more…)

My current novel started out as a story told from a single point of view, that of a young woman named Iris Somerset, who’s a tarot reader. She gets caught up in a murder investigation, mainly because the police don’t believe she had a psychic vision of the murder. She doesn’t really blame them. She can hardly believe it herself.

The first draft seemed to go great, and I finished it quickly.

It felt a little flat to me. There was a lot more story seeping into my mind, as the original idea developed and morphed over time, than was apparent in that draft. The main problem was the limited viewpoint. After debating with myself for a while, I decided the story needed a second viewpoint character. Actually I have to admit the character himself told me this. Yeah, sounds a little crazy, huh. But this is fiction. He was coming to life, and he wanted a voice.

The character was already there. I just had to make him a viewpoint character, change some scenes that involved him so he could tell a portion of the story from his perspective, reveal some of what he knew.

It sounds so simple. (more…)

I doubt I’m alone in having run the gamut of emotions this past week while the world watched as tragedy unfolded along the Gulf Coast. Sadness, horror, anger, rage, helplessness. I doubt anyone in the world who bothered to pay attention escaped most of these feelings. What I used to see as melodrama in disaster films became stark reality.

A couple of times I started posts here, and I found that just writing about it didn’t feel right. It was too much like what I saw leaders doing, or appearing to do, merely talking about the problem when action needed to be taken. And how can I really complain about them? What am I doing? I saw what was happening as horribly familiar—it reminded me of the lifeboats on the Titanic, only on a much larger scale. Suddenly class, racial, and economic distinctions stood out in relief. I found myself wondering what it meant about America when the Gulf Coast called 9-1-1 and got put on hold. (more…)