More Tales from the Sofa

Hi there. It's me again, the neighborly Naugahyde, the ambassador of ass-sittery...Stuart's sofa.

I'm back to tell you about more exciting, thrilling tales from my viewpoint, the astoundingly rich life I live by servicing Stuart's hiney while he...while he...sob...writes...all day long.

My life's a lie!

A sad, dull lie. All day long, all week long, Stuart's rear-end punishes me as he sits, unmoving, excepting his fingers flying across the keyboard.

Oh, sure, there were the three months when Stuart's daughter moved in and her dogs abused me by jumping all over my hide and tearing my skin. Yeah, it hurt like crazy, but, hey, at least their rowdiness provided welcome variety.

Of course there was that one dizzying day when I got tipped on my side and moved toward the back door while the carpet was cleaned. I nearly hurled, but by God, man, I got to look outside! I think I saw a bird! (They're furry creatures with long tails, right?) Then, like yesterday's Arthur Treacher's fish-bones, I was tragically banished back to my original spot beneath Stuart's arse. 

The carpeting gets more respect than me.

I've said it before, I'll say it again, watching someone write is about as thrilling as watching golf on TV. I mean, at least on golf programs people walk, apparently a chore too exhausting for Stuart.

Well, wait, Stuart did have a little excitement the other day. He received a phone call, for once not from his mother.

"Hello," he answered tentatively, hermit that he is.

The woman on the other end spoke in an Asian language, her words frantic and rushed.

"Um, I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number," Stuart said.

Her voice rose in panic, clearly terrified, her words indecipherable.

"Ma'am, are you okay? Maybe you should hang up and I'll call 911 or..."

Suddenly, the line went dead. There may've been a brief shriek beforehand. 

And Stuart--the great indoorsman, the ultimate man of inaction--nearly rose off my tired body, forced into doing something. 

Anything!

"Nahhh," he said. 

He sat back down and scribbled some notes, determined to turn this call into a future thriller.

Sigh. Welcome to my life, such as it is...

And welcome to the haunted town of Gannaway, Kansas! "Ghosts of Gannaway has some truly scary scenes, it is the slow boil suspense that gets under the skin. I'll be reading more of Stuart R. West!"
-Tom Deady, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Haven

Tales From the Sofa

I am Stuart's sofa.

I'm the couch hub of the Midwest, the loveseat heart of suburban Kansas. An upholstery covered melting pot suitable for every race, color, creed, and religious bottom of humanity. There are eight million stories to be told from my cushions and this is one of them. For you see...

Wait. Hold on a minute. It's a lie. All of it!

My life is boring. I get to service Stuart's rear-end only. Day in and day out, he sits on me, writing. Sure, some times his wife parks on me, but as far as variety? Forget about it.

Frankly, watching someone write is really, really boring.

On occasion, though, I'm privy to the insights of the writing process. For instance, Stuart's frequently asked "where do you get your ideas?" Usually--as is his lame and lazy approach--he responds "I don't know." (See what I mean? BORING.)

This hammock thinks it has it bad? Try being me, Stuart's suffering sofa!

But last week, something interesting finally happened. While wearing me down (and would it hurt Stuart to sit on my other side on occasion?), Stuart received a text on his phone.

It read: Hey! It's Theresa! I'm using Tim's phone because I lost mine! See you in a bit! DON'T text back on this phone!

This set Stuart to thinking, never a good idea. He didn't know a Tim or Theresa. He couldn't very well text back, either, tell Theresa she had a wrong number. After all, she'd strictly forbidden him to do so.

Weened on thrillers and mysteries, Stuart started pulling pieces together. Clearly, Theresa was cheating on Tim. The heart emojis sealed the deal. Should Stuart warn Tim? Write back anyway and let Theresa know she had the wrong number?

What did Stuart, the man of inaction, the writer do? Nothing. Altogether now: BORING.

Several hours later, Theresa texted back: Thinking bout you. Had a great time.

Again, Stuart didn't respond. Through-out the day, Theresa kept texting, her anxiety ramping up with each missive: Helloooo? What's wrong? Why aren't you responding? Dammit, talk to me!

Finally, Theresa's final message: That's it. I'm talking to Tim. Even more troublesome? Theresa attached a photo of a baby in a car seat.

Like a Hitchcockian protagonist from days of old, Stuart had unwittingly become an unwilling, silent partner in an affair, the fourth member of a sordid situation that would undoubtedly end in murrrderrrr.

Yes sir, it was the most excitement I'd had since I was a wee settee at the sofa factory.

Stuart deliberated, didn't have a clue as to what to do. In his typically inert fashion, he decided to fashion the incident into a thriller to be written at a later date. The seed of an idea had been planted and his mind began to water it.

So...that's where one of Stuart's book ideas came from.

Wait! Here he comes! Gotta' run. I'll talk to--Oooff!

What's that smell? Why...it's love!

Something smells very, VERY funny. Click to explore that scent.

“The Smell of Romance.” Hmm…

Let’s consider that for a moment. Doesn’t really evoke love, does it?

Yet as a writer, I stubbornly—stupidly?—keep striving to incorporate all five senses into my tales while my characters grapple and rassle in the name of romance. 

Sight? Easy-peezy, lemon-squeezy. Sound? Sure: heavy breathing, groans, moans, and hands ruffling over corsets and what have you. Taste and touch I’ll leave to the erotica writers.

But the sense of smell’s a curious quandary, a puzzle for this writer. Generally (and without trying to sound sexist, gotta be careful these days), women writers are more successful in describing the scent of love than men, I think. Yet—and I see this constantly—most female writers who dare to venture into olfactory romantic territory, tend to comment on the male partner’s scent of “musk.”

Well, I dunno from “musk,” but I’ve been in more than my fair share of men’s locker rooms and the only scent that comes to mind would be dirty socks (and that’s putting it politely). I looked up the definition of “musk.” Ms. Google says “musk is a pungent and greasy secretion from a gland in the male musk deer.”

Go figure. Even if men could secrete such an odor, I wouldn’t think it’d be an attractive one. I don’t see a lot of musk-scented air fresheners hanging in cars. Yet I read about this masculine scent... All. The. TIME.

Sometimes I even see men’s odors described in books as “musty.” Again, my assistant, Ms. Google helped me out. “Must” is even worse than “musk.” The definition reads “having a stale, moldy, or damp smell.” Ever so eloquent, Urban Dictionary goes on to add “the smell of armpits.” Clearly, you ladies don’t like the smell of us men. (Psst…you would be right).

Male writers, on the other hand, stumble around, attempting to describe how female characters smell. A lack of male vision keeps the scents narrowed to two options: some kinda floral arrangement or food. Which says A LOT about where men are coming from: their stomachs. I’m guilty of it, too. “She smelled of vanilla, touched with a dash of cinnamon.” (Apparently my character's ready to eat the female character. Just toss in some fava beans and a nice chianti and we're set.)

So, class, the takeaway from this lecture is men smell like armpits and women smell like food. There’s gotta be more to it than that. And as a writer, I vow to go on olfactory high alert until I’ve upset the cliché cart and created some new scents.

In Peculiar County, everything smells fishy...

Writing a police procedural made E-Z!

That’s right! For a limited time only, I’m divulging the secrets to writing a successful police procedural for only ten—that’s right, ten!—easy installment payments (which we’ll discuss later)!

(Disclaimer: Although I’ve not written a true police procedural, I’ve had quite a few cops and detectives tumble in and out of my books. Besides, I’ve seen enough TV procedurals to qualify as an expert.)

Ready? Let's go!

Step #1) Pick Your Lead.

This is the biggest choice you’ll face as a writer: what gender to make your lead. Once you clear that hurdle, the rest of the book will flow naturally. It doesn’t truly matter if your lead detective is male or female because they’re going to share the same traits: hard-edged as granite, muscular, no-nonsense, tough-talking, swagger walking, alcohol-pounding, quip-dropping tough gals and guys. Note that it’s no longer politically correct to have your protagonist chain smoke, so don't even think about it.

Step #2) Pack Your Baggage.

Your protagonist needs baggage, HAS to have baggage. Lots and lots of emotional baggage, so much baggage, it’d put an airport baggage handler into traction. Said baggage may be due to a series of lousy, failed relationships (usually due to a combination of drink, infidelity, and the stress of being On The Job). Or maybe there's the unfortunate passing of a loved one. Maybe your hero has had too many bad encounters with cable guys and has snapped. It doesn't really matter as long as he or she is damaged as tornado debris.

Step #3) Choose Your Lead’s Police Partner.

Another simple step, really, because there can only be two choices. Your protagonist’s work partner is either a newbie, eager-to-please, green-around-the-ears rookie cop; or a slovenly, donut-eating, burned out cop just days away from retirement. There are no other choices. And it doesn’t matter because the partner’s doomed within the opening pages. He may as well wear a sign on his back reading “Dead Cop Walking.” For he will be shot early on, oh, yes he will. And prepare for your hero to raise his/her hands to the sky over the late partner’s corpse and scream, “Nooooooooo!” Bonus points if it takes place in the rain.

(Note: A lot of writers choose to have a man and woman, both from the hard-boiled school, as partners. Naturally while chasing the bad guy, they'll fall into bed. Should you choose to go down that path, it’s fine, but don’t forget to add a little Yin to Yang.)

Step #4) Position Your Police Captain (and Immediately Disrespect Him).

This is the guy in charge. Invariably, he's always bald, short-fused, sick and tired of your protagonist’s lone wolf ways, and one step away from a heart attack. His coloring tends to run stroke-red. It’s a must that your protagonist never shows the least amount of respect for the boss, treating him with cool disdain and quippy one-liners. And it’s important to remember your protagonist should only address the captain by his last name or a colorful nick-name.

Whether you choose to make your captain crooked is entirely up to you. It's a popular choice these days.

Step #5) Master the Maniacal Laugh.

Your good guys are in place. The stage is set. Now things get tricky.

Bad guys are tough to do on paper. The Maniacal Laugh is particularly tough to express in words.

“For you see, Trina, I’ve been killing ice-cream vendors because of a tragic bomb-pop incident in my childhood years. I despise sprinkles. Mwah-hah-hah-hahhhhhhh!”

See? Doesn’t exactly sing in the written word, does it?

But, like it or not, you’ve set yourself up to write a police procedural, and you need an incredibly unhinged villain, lest your tough-as-nails protagonist comes off appearing uncouth, particularly in these sensitive and politically correct times. Maniacal laughter is a must. Please do approach with caution, though, and strive for a modicum of subtlety.

Step #6) Uncomfortable Sex Locales.

I don’t know what it is about these tough cops and detectives, but as a general rule, beds aren’t their number one location to have sex (NOT make love; tough gals and guys don’t go in for that sissy stuff). No, like everything your tough protagonist does in life, there's a tendency to take the road less traveled, a rocky road indeed. The love/lust scenes play out in alleyways (again, cue the rain, thus making it even more uncomfortable), cars, against walls, any place sure to put a cramp in the reader’s leg.

Not sure why, really. I don’t make the rules.

Step #7) Make It Personal.

Your protagonist has to have a personal gripe against your bad guy. It’s nice to tie this into the hero's baggage (see Step #2). Maybe the current serial killer was the hero’s scoutmaster or paper-boy. This will involve the reader in an entirely new level, pulling them in by the lapels (but since Casual Friday is the current popular mode of wardrobe, I suppose lapels are rather dated). Be creative. 

Ta-dahhhh! There you have it! Everything you need to know about writing a successful police procedural. Now all you need to do is go publish and make a kazillion dollars. It's that simple.

A different sort of procedural...CLICKETY for mystery and larfs!

Highway Empress

Some time ago, my wife and I were tooling down Shawnee Mission Parkway, a major KC metro thoroughfare.

She had uncommonly good luck, hitting one green light after another.

I said, "Wow. You're just hitting all the lights."

"It's not luck. I planned it that way," she said.

I thought about it. Then proclaimed her a god of Shawnee Mission Parkway.

"No. Not a god. An empress," she said.

"How about the Queen of Shawnee Mission Parkway?"

"No, I want to be an empress!"

Well, being her loyal slave, who am I to argue?

All bow down to the mighty Empress of Shawnee Mission Parkway! Huzzah!

For a different kind of royalty, check out Killer King, the third book in the Killers Incorporated trilogy, where serial killers go up against an evil giant mega-corporation. You know...business as usual! https://books2read.com/u/bMr9VG

Click for thrills, chills, blood spills & pitch black humor!

 

The Incredible Mr. Lipids

After I got the results from a blood-work physical, my wife read it, said, "I'm jealous! For someone as overweight as you are, your lipids are great!"

"Um...thanks."

Talk about a back-handed compliment.

Of course I had no idea what a "lipid" was.Willy Wonka's assistant or something.

A little research told me lipids are "fatty acids."

Does that sound healthy to you? Only acid I know is LSD or stuff that burns your face off in crappy horror movies. 

I suppose there're worse things.

Recently, I turned 56. How--when--did that happen? For Gawd's sake, I still feel youthful. Sort of. I mean, there're the knee aches, multiple trips to the john at night, screaming at kids to stay outta' my yard. Strange spots showing up on my skin. I prefer not to think about those.

I suppose I'm no longer considered "hip," and frankly, anyone who uses that term (as pointed out by my daughter) is decidedly un-hip. Only "hip" here is gonna be thrown out when I fall down.

Bah.

Damn kids, what do they know?

Toughing it out like a REAL man. Hell yeah!

Two months ago, I was screwing around in the garage, standing on a stepladder, reaching high, straining, trying to shove heavy sheet-rock into the rafters. 

Huh, I thought, maybe I need a little more support. So with my arms full, stretching on the top ladder rung, I extended my right foot to the two steps leading into the house. That's it...just a little farther...almost there...

Clatter! Bang! Crash! Snap!

I ate the concrete floor. Pain shot through me, even more so when I noticed the odd angle my leg was positioned beneath me, a position not even a contortionist would attempt.

Screams went up. Pleas for help to my wife inside the house. And a string of obscenities that would make a sailor blush.

Finally--finally!--my wife came searching for me. Found me in a heap on the floor. After a bit, I got up, brushed myself off. Looked at the dangling sheetrock and thought the job needed to be completed.

"Oh no, you're not!" exclaimed my wife. "Can you move your leg?"

I wiggled it. Sure, the pain was excruciating, but it wiggled just fine. "No problem," I said.

My wife wasn't convinced. But I wanted to be as tough as the guys in movies who sew up their own bullet-wounds. No pain, no gain! Bite down on leather! Tough it out! Hoo-hah!

Cut to two months later.

Hmm, I thought, my leg still really hurts.

My wife had had enough, scheduled an appointment for me. Because, really, going to the doctor is for wusses and hypochondriacs.

"Well," the orthopedic surgeon explains, "you broke your leg."

Huh. Fancy that. For two months I've been driving, walking the dog five times a day (because he, too, had shattered his knee irreparably), dragging my mother through weekly grocery store runs, even walking on the treadmill, for God's sake. 

They fit me with what they call a "boot." It's more like Frankenstein footwear, blocky and cumbersome . I can't drive. I can't walk. Can't do anything. Which is really kinda' dumb when you consider how active I was for the prior two months.

Das Boot der Frankenstein!

Bah. What do orthopedic surgeons know, anyway? Time to go mow the lawn!

My great (maybe not so "great") grandparents owned slaves!

I come from a long line of racists. Most in denial, yet oddly proud of it.

First of all...apologies for my ancestors' past transgressions.

My dad stuck by his convictions. I didn't agree, didn't like it, but at least he was honest about where he stood.

"I'm racist, son," he'd say, "and I don't mean maybe."

I'm not really sure what prompted his racism. He'd hinted at his past, some bathroom incident when he was in the army. I never pushed too far. Didn't want to. Some things are better off buried.

But as an impressionable young child, I couldn't understand why my parents disliked everyone un-WASPy.

"Why do you hate black people, Mom?" I'd asked.

"Me?" she said. "I don't hate colored people. There's some good dark boys out there."

"What about Jewish people? Wasn't Jesus Jewish?"

"Jews! Jews killed Jesus!"

"Hm. What about Catholics? What's wrong with Catholics?"

"Mercy sakes. They worship Mary!"

End of discussion. No insight gained.

With age (and I hope enlightenment), I discovered how ludicrous all of that nonsense was.

I spent years and years fighting my parents on this, trying to change their minds, to look at things differently, more accurately and humanely. Pointless as battling a tornado with a fly-swatter. Best I could hope for is not to get sucked into the crazy.

My mom's still a hard-charging, practicing bigot. Not too long ago, she dropped a shocking racist slur.

"Mom," I screamed, oh so righteously (probably more than was merited, but such is the cross to bear when you're a white, guilt-stricken liberal), "that's racist and ugly!"

"Me?" Her eyes batted, vacant, innocent. "I'm not racist. Just as long as the darkies know their place."

Yow. Spoken like a slave-owner.

Speaking of which, I found out my great grandparents owned slaves, for Gawd's sake. (Sorry, sorry, sorry...)

My dad once told me, "Son, you come from good stock." Regardless of Dad's simile to cattle, there's nothing really tasty about racism.

Recently, I couldn't help myself. Fun where you can get it.

"Mom," I said, "you know a lot of historians say Jesus was black, right?"

Silence. A long, interminable silence. Zillions of crickets. Finally, "Bah. What do historians know?"

Ladies and gentlemen, my mom! She'll be here all weekend!

One of my parents is still on earth, one passed. They taught me many great things. But my disagreement with them over racial issues is set in stone. Weird thing, though, is my love for my folks is oddly, humanly intact. Ugly warts and all.

Welcome to my recurring (bathroom) nightmare!

Okay, armchair psychiatrists, get ready to analyze!

There I am, usually either at high school or Burger King (two places I haven't set foot inside of in decades, so make of that what you will). I'm heading for the public bathroom. When I open the door...

It's a vast room, jam-packed with people, both men and women. Everyone jockeying for a position to relieve themselves in a dizzying array of strange devices: there's the chin-high banana (your aim would have to be pretty astounding to use it); there are the usual urinals, of course, but the toilets are scattered all over the room with no privacy stalls; how about the elaborate playground jungle gym devices that people have to climb to rain down their business upon the poor people beneath them? And no one in there cares! Business as usual! Unzip, drop, laters.

The absolute worst part, though--the part that brings me to a sweating, gasping, waking state night after night--is the grotesque hygiene . All the toilets overflow with foul liquid. The walls are smeared with unspeakable waste. The smell could send a skunk running. And everyone drops their business willy-nilly.

And, without fail, I'm always in socks. Desperately trying to hopscotch over the spreading tides of waste. The filthy floods chase me across the tiled floor. A monstrously loud toilet whoosh signifies the newest approaching tsunami. 

My bladder's full. My stomach wants to expel. My socks and feet are soaked with vile, awful...

That's usually when I wake.

I used to worry about my mental state of health regarding this recurring nightmare. Until recently, that is, when I found hope in the oddest of places. With great relief--a wonderful feeling--I found out "Lorelei Gilmore" suffers from this recurring nightmare, too.

(SIDE BAR: If it pleases the court, I readily admit to enjoying the Gilmore Girls. I used to validate it by telling people it's a show I watch with my daughter {true}, but soon found myself drawn to the surrealistic whimsy and dialogue so funny, so furious, and so fast it'd give Aaron Sorkin whiplash. No guilt here! But I digress...)

I started wondering if maybe more people have this dream. According to my much valued research assistant, Ms. Google (I fired Mr. Bing last week), they do! Apparently it's pretty common.

No one's been bold enough to put a name to it yet, but armchair dream analysts (and have you ever wondered if the word "anal" in "analyst" is a snarky comment?) are sure giving it a go. I've read all sorts of nutty theories: people  are trying to work out their own "crap";  it goes back to how one was potty-trained; fear of public places; fear of urinating; bla, bla, bla.

All I know is I'd rather have ten boogeymen fully loaded with axes chasing after me than go back to this horrendous public bathroom of my dreams. Maybe it goes back to when I visited a Stuckey's bathroom and...and... Gah!

Never mind! It's just great to find out I'm not alone. Maybe I should start a support group or something. Anyone? (I see Lorelei's got her hand up).

Fox News Exclusive!

For whatever reason, our new roaming satellite dish only receives Fox News and polka music.

Be good to everyone and happy holidays, no matter what you celebrate. We're in it together.

Speaking of holidays, why not stuff your stocking with my brand new, just released chiller thriller, Dread and Breakfast?

Welcome to the Dandy Drop Inn, where everybody’s treated like family. Come on in outta’ the winter storm. Checking in’s easy…checking out’s deadly.

Five star rating! (Midwestern Bed & Breakfast website)

A chilling thriller to take the chill off of those wintry nights. 

Purchase Dread and Breakfast by clicking this magical linky!