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?”
“No.”
“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.”
“Charley.”
“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.
