Yep, it’s true, writers are strange creatures, and we are surprisingly accepting of this fact. We’re different and that’s okay. The reason we are so blasé about our uniqueness is because without it we would not have the rabidly creative minds it takes to write book after book. We are like Russell Crowe in that movie A Beautiful Mind only without all the math. Our thoughts bounce at warp speed from one idea to the next. We have so many more plots for great books than we will ever be able to write, and that saddens us. Some stories just need to be told. And when someone tells us they DON’T want to write a book, we gasp. We are taken aback.
What? You DON’T want to write? Are you insane?
It’s a concept we can’t quite grasp, kind of like the math from that movie. And yet, it’s one we’re secretly grateful for. If everyone wanted to write, think how much harder it would be to get published. The competition’s bad enough as it is. I mean, JR Ward? Jeaniene Frost? Jacquelyn Frank? Get outta here.
And that brings me to our favorite kinds of people. Readers! Ah, how we love readers. They make all of our dreams come true. They are brutally honest and get genuinely upset when our characters are hurt. They suffer right along with them. They expect a lot and force us to deliver our best work. Because we don’t want to let them down. Because we strive to make their lives a little better. Their day a little brighter.
And with that, I would love to know who makes your day brighter. Who gets you through the week and spices up your nights? But more importantly, if the Earth were about to explode and you were on the last spaceship to salvation, but you could only take ONE book with you, which would you take?
One lucky commenter will get a signed copy of his or her choice of my books.
Excerpt from Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet
With renewed energy, I pulled back onto Academy— after hitting a drive- through for a mocha latte— and had just started for home when
my phone rang.
“Yes?” I said, illegally talking on the phone while driving within the city limits. Scoping for cops, I waited for Uncle Bob to stop talking to whomever he was talking to and get back to me.
My uncle Bob, or Ubie as I most often referred to him, was a detective for APD, and I helped him on cases from time to time. He knew I could see the departed and used that to his advantage. Not that I could blame him.
“Get that to her, then call the ME ay- sap.”
“Okay,” I said, “but I’m not sure what calling the medical examiner ay- sap is going to accomplish. I’m pretty sure his name is George.”
“Oh, hey, Charley.”
“Hey, Uncle Bob. What’s up?”
“Are you driving?”
“Have you heard anything?”
Our conversations often went like this. Uncle Bob with his random questions. Me with my trying to come up with answers just as random. Not that I had to try very hard. “I heard that Tiff any Gorham, a girl I knew in grade school, still stuff s her bra. But that’s just a rumor.”
“About the case,” he said through clenched teeth. I could tell his teeth were clenched because his words were suddenly forced. That meant he was frustrated. Too bad I had no idea what he was talking about.
“I wasn’t aware that we had a case.”
“Oh, didn’t Cookie call you?”
“She called me a doody- head once.”
“About the case.” His teeth were totally clenched again.
“We have a case?”
But I’d lost him. He was talking to another officer. Or a detective. Or a hooker, depending on his location and accessibility to cash. Though I doubted he would tell a hooker to check the status of the DOA’s autopsy report. Unless he was way kinkier than I’d ever given him credit for. I found his calling me only to talk to other people very challenging.
“I’ll call you right back,” he said. No idea to whom.
The call disconnected as I sat at a light, wondering what guacamole would look like if avocados were orange.
I finally shifted my attention to the dead kid in my backseat. He had shoulder- length blond hair and bright blue eyes and looked somewhere between fifteen and seventeen.
“You come here often?” I asked him, but my phone rang before he could say anything. That was okay. He had a vacant stare, so I doubted he would have answered me anyway.
“Sorry about that,” Uncle Bob said. “Do you want to discuss the case?”
“We have a case?” I said again, perking up.
“How are you?”
He asked me that every time he called now. “Peachy. Am I the case? If so, I can solve this puppy in about three seconds. I’m heading down San Mateo toward Central in a cherry red Jeep Wrangler with a questionable exhaust system.”
“Hurry, before I get away!”
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New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Darynda Jones has won numerous awards for her work including a prestigious Golden Heart®, a RITA®, and a Daphne du Maurier. As a born storyteller, she grew up spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in distress for any unfortunate soul who happened by, annoying man and beast alike. Darynda lives in the Land of Enchantment, also known as New Mexico, with her husband and two beautiful sons, the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys.