Month: January 2026

Guest Blogger ~ Kathy Sechrist

~ patyjag

From Memoirs to Mystery: Crafting a New Narrative Through Healing
Writing has always been my sanctuary—a place where I can sift through the cacophony of life’s experiences and find meaning. After penning two deeply personal memoirs about my journey through domestic violence and the healing that followed, I never imagined that my next literary endeavor would take a sharp turn into the realm of mystery and murder. Yet, here I am, sharing with you the unexpected evolution of my writing journey.

The Healing Power of Words
Before I delve into the origins of my latest book’s premise, I must first acknowledge the role my memoirs played in my life. They were not merely books; they were lifelines. Writing them gave me the courage to confront my past, the compassion to forgive myself, and the empowerment to advocate for change. Each word was a step toward healing, an act of defiance against a world that often silences survivors.

As I shared my story, I realized how deeply connected I was with others who had walked similar paths. This connection fueled my desire to continue writing—not just for myself, but for those who needed their voices amplified and their stories told. But after two memoirs, I found myself at a crossroads. I wanted to explore new narratives and challenge myself creatively while continuing to honor the themes of courage and resilience.

The Birth of a Mystery
The idea for a mystery novel came to me unexpectedly, like a whisper in the quiet moments of reflection. It began with a question: What if the very skills I had honed while writing my memoirs could be used to craft a story that was both thrilling and meaningful? Could I weave a tale that captivated readers while subtly addressing themes of empowerment and justice?

The premise for the book took root in my mind while I was reflecting on the concept of duality. In life, as in writing, we often wear many hats and navigate different roles. I was intrigued by the idea of exploring the dual nature of people and circumstances—the light and the dark, the seen and the unseen. This duality became the cornerstone of my mystery novel.

Characters with Depth and Purpose
My transition from memoir to mystery was guided by the essence of character development. In my memoirs, authenticity was paramount. I had to be truthful, raw, and vulnerable. In crafting my mystery, I applied the same principles to my characters. They had to be real, flawed, and relatable.

At the heart of my story is a protagonist who embodies resilience and strength. This character is a survivor, much like myself, and her journey is one of empowerment. She navigates a world filled with secrets and shadows, using her intuition and determination to unravel the truth. Her past, marked by adversity, becomes her greatest asset as she faces new challenges.

A Plot Rooted in Reality
The plot of my mystery novel is woven with threads of real-world issues that resonate with me deeply. It’s not just a tale of whodunit, but a narrative that examines justice, moral ambiguity, and the power dynamics inherent in society. These themes emerged from my lived experiences and my advocacy work, reminding me that fiction can be a powerful vehicle for change.

The setting, too, is steeped in authenticity. Drawing on my life’s journey, I crafted environments that reflect both beauty and menace. The juxtaposition of a seemingly idyllic community with its hidden undercurrents of treachery underscores the novel’s central conflict. Just as survivors often navigate the complexities of their own environments, my characters must traverse a landscape where nothing is as it seems.

Empowerment Through Storytelling
Writing a mystery allowed me to explore empowerment in a new light. While my memoirs focused on personal empowerment, my novel broadens the scope to include communal and systemic empowerment. It challenges readers to question their assumptions and consider the broader implications of justice.
The process of writing this book was an empowering journey in itself. It required me to step beyond my comfort zone, to trust my instincts, and to embrace creativity as a tool for advocacy. Every twist and turn in the plot was an opportunity to highlight the resilience of the human spirit and the importance of standing up for what is right.

A Message of Hope and Courage
Ultimately, my mystery novel is a testament to the transformative power of storytelling. It is a reminder that we all have stories worth telling and that our voices matter. Through the lens of fiction, I hope to inspire readers to confront their own truths, to seek justice, and to find strength in vulnerability.
In writing this book, I discovered that the line between memoir and mystery is not as stark as it seems. Both genres require honesty, courage, and a willingness to explore the depths of human experience. Both offer the chance to connect, to heal, and to advocate for change.

As you turn the pages of my mystery novel, I invite you to embark on a journey of discovery—a journey that echoes the resilience of survivors everywhere. May it inspire you to embrace your own story, to seek the truth, and to find empowerment in unexpected places. Together, let us continue to write new chapters of hope and courage in the book of life.

Bodies Under the Bluebonnets (no cover)

Book 1 in the Secrets Never Sleep series.

Sara Matthews comes to China Grove searching for peace. After a lifetime shaped by control, fear, and survival, she buys a neglected house on the edge of a small Texas town, hoping distance and silence will finally offer her a fresh start.

But peace is hard to find when bodies begin turning up beneath the bluebonnets.

As the town reels, Sara becomes entangled in a murder investigation that exposes long-buried secrets, betrayals, lies and dangerous loyalties. Police Chieff Dean Williams believes the deaths are connected—and the closer he gets to the truth, the clearer it becomes that Sara’s past has sharpened instincts others ignore.

Having learned to read danger long before it shows its face, Sara recognizes the warning signs no one else wants to see. Yet each step toward the truth draws her deeper into a web of threats, where trust is fragile and survival is never guaranteed.

When the case finally closes, Sara learns one unsettling truth: China Grove has been hiding secrets for decades—and the land remembers all of them.

Bodies Under the Bluebonnets is the first novel in the Secrets Never Sleep Series, a gripping small-town Texas mystery in which buried crimes resurface, and a woman who survived one kind of violence must face another to reclaim her life.

Available Late Spring 2026.
Be the first to know when Bodies Under the Bluebonnets is released—follow kathysechrist.substack.com for launch updates, behind-the-scenes details, and early announcements.

Parris Blue Photo

Kathy Sechrist is a survivor of domestic violence and a dedicated advocate for those who have experienced similar trauma. Through her powerful and honest writing, she shares her journey of healing and resilience, offering hope and support to others. Kathy is passionate about raising awareness of the prevalence of abuse and breaking the cycle of silence that often surrounds it. Critics and readers praised her work for its raw vulnerability and its ability to connect with readers on a deep emotional level. Kathy resides in the Hill Country of Texas with her companion, Dean, and Toby the cat, Warlord of the house.

www.kathysechrist.com

Welcome 2026

~ patyjag ~ 9 Comments

I wouldn’t say I’m giddy, but I am excited about 2026. I’m not sure why. In March, I will be living in town, something I only did for about a year when I was 19. I finally talked my hubby into retiring from farming, and we knew the only way he would actually get away from work was to move to town.

What he didn’t tell me, he will be staying on in a house on the farm he’s been managing next to ours for this coming hay season to help the new man taking over and to help the person who bought our place. So I will only see him a couple weekends or for a week a month until September. Not a bad thing, but I had hoped we’d make more progress on the remodeling of the house in town.

Because he will only be coming to the new house once in a while, Nia, my chiweenie, and I won’t have to cook meals, I’ll be able to do day trips to Wallowa County to research for my Gabriel Hawke books and hang out at the Umatilla Reservation, where my Spotted Pony Casino mysteries take place. Not to mention some girls’ weekends with my friends.

Oh! and a fun thing that is happening, both Crapshoot, book 7 in the Spotted Pony Casino Mysteries and Wolverine Instincts in the Gabriel Hawke novels are semi-finalists in the CIBA Award. I’ll let you know if they become finalists. I’m not attending the conference but if one or both are finalists, I may attend the dinner and award ceremony.

But I’m also excited because I’m trying to figure out something to do to celebrate the fact that my first published book came out 20 years ago in May. I want to do something in May to celebrate. I can’t decide whether to offer 20% off all my books on my website or across all vendors. Or do a big social media campaign where I give away prizes for 20 days, or??? Does anyone here have some good suggestions?

I have also booked an event that I attended the first two years the event started. It’s called Wild Deadwood Reads and is in Deadwood, South Dakota. Those years, I hosted games on various trips the participants went on and we all went to the PBR Rodeo and sat in a section together as well as had short stories in an anthology that we sold at the event and gave proceeds to the Western Sports Foundation, an organization that helps injured rodeo athletes.

The event has been streamlined to a couple of learning days, a Saturday breakfast with authors and readers, and a full-day book signing. In the past, I took my niece and sister-in-law because it’s a two-day drive, and I didn’t want to do it alone. This year, I’m hoping a friend will go with me. On the way back, I’ll spend a night or two with a high school friend who lives about halfway between Oregon and South Dakota.

Right now, I am packing boxes for the move, about to publish the next Spotted Pony Casino Mystery, and starting the next Gabriel Hawke novel. There is always something book-related going on in my life, and that makes me happy. As my hubby noticed early in our marriage, I am happiest when I am writing.

Here is a peek at the soon-to-be-on-preorder book, Full House, book 8 in the Spotted Pony Casino Mysteries.

When the past knocks on their door, the future they planned begins to unravel.

On the brink of their wedding, Dela Alvaro and Heath Seaver’s plans shatter when a ten-year-old boy appears, claiming to be Heath’s son. The truth is even darker: the boy’s mother—the woman Heath thought died years ago at Pine Ridge—was an FBI informant hidden under a new identity, left to raise his child alone before dying of addiction.

As Heath wrestles with awe for the son he never knew and fury at the FBI’s deception, the past turns deadly. When the agent who lied to him is found murdered in Pendleton, the FBI shows up on Dela’s doorstep, bringing danger straight to their home.

With their future on the line, Dela and Heath must confront a web of secrets before it destroys the family they’re just beginning to build.

Here’s to looking forward to the future with gusto and exuberance.

Endings and Beginnings – Happy 2026

~ Margaret Lucke ~ 10 Comments

By Margaret Lucke

“The difference between reality and fiction? Fiction has to make sense.”

Variations of this quote have been attributed to numerous authors, from Mark Twain to Tom Clancy. All of them have had to deal with one of the big challenges of writing fiction—coming up with an ending that works.

How things end is one of the biggest ways in which fiction differs from reality. In a novel or a short story, the events of the tale are supposed to come to an orderly, or occasionally disorderly, resolution. The writer is supposed to tie the plot threads together, if not in a big bow then at least into a somewhat tidy knot. The ending doesn’t have to be a happy one, but it does have to make sense.

In real life endings are often messy. Whether it’s a romance, a marriage, a friendship, a job, a war, a civilization, the ending sometimes comes out of nowhere, a total surprise. Or it’s not so much an ending as simply a point where something stops or runs out of steam. Now and then we don’t even realize that an ending has occurred until much later.

But our human brains, aware that time marches steadily forward, like endings—and beginnings too. When we can bracket a set of events with a start point and an end point, that helps us impose a sort of logic on what’s going on in our lives and lets us achieve a measure of understanding.

Even better are the new beginnings that can follow an ending. This doesn’t happen so much with fiction unless the author is writing a series that chronicles the continuing adventures of a particular character. But in real life the closing of one door often provides us with a way to open another. New possibilities arise; we have new opportunities to reinvent ourselves.

That’s what drives our celebration of New Year’s Eve. The end of the year marks the start of a new one, a fresh page offering hope and the potential for better things to come. We make resolutions of a different kind than the ones we mean when we talk about the resolution of the plot in a work of fiction. We resolve to get organized, to lose weight, to become better people. We entertain the belief—though by now we realize that this may be another work of fiction—that the coming year will be better than the one that has just passed.

Right now we’re in that annual season of endings and beginnings. Last week, in celebration, we put on silly hats (well, not me, but some of us), we blew our noisemakers, we counted down as the ball on tower at Times Square descended, we lifted glasses of champagne in a toast (you could count me in for that one).

We said farewell to 2025, and some of us may not be sorry to see it go. We are ten days into a fresh new year, 2026, which at this point is full of hopes and dreams and positive potentials. May all they all turn out not to be fiction but become a positive reality.

I’ll close with my favorite New Year’s toast, my wish for all of you:

“May 2026 be better than any year that’s come before, and worse than every year that will follow it.”

Cheers, everyone! And Happy New Year!

Starting Over Again… Again

~ janispattersonmysteries ~ 10 Comments


by Janis Patterson

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.


The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.


Small wonder we’re all confused.


I am a writer… and that was not a conscious decision. I am the third (or fourth, or perhaps even fifth – the family history is sometimes a little vague) generation of a wordsmith family. Writers, teachers, editors… they festoon the branches of my ancestral tree like sweet fruit. Obviously I didn’t have a chance to be anything else, as words are encoded into my DNA.

At the age of four I wrote – and illustrated and published, using a #2 pencil, typing paper and white sewing cotton to stitch it all together – my first book, of which the entire family was very proud. It was a timeless tale of several children walking home from school through the park where they captured a lion which had escaped from the zoo and still got home in time for dinner. I had a melodramatic imagination even then.


So – you’d think with such a strong genetic disposition and a supportive family by now I’d be on the top of the writing heap, wouldn’t you? Consistently on all the best seller lists, two major book tours a year, lots of tv interviews, maybe even a castle in France… Didn’t work that way. Even with over 60 books to my credit (there are more, but we don’t talk about them) I’m still clinging by my fingernails to the bottom of what used to be called the mid-list.


So what happened? In a word, Life. While I will pit my wordsmithing skills against any and all, Life – sometimes called the blind villain – does happen. After selling my first two novels (New York was all there was in those days) I fell in love and followed a false path that did not end well. When I came back to writing the editors I had known had found other pets and though I still had a good reputation and could of course write very well, I had to forge new relationships.


I sold a few more books, then my father entered the lengthy downward spiral of his final illness. As there was only my mother and me and both my parents were then considered almost elderly, I spent more and more time helping her with his care and writing slipped to a less and less important position in my life. Then when he finally passed away there was another half year of keeping my mother together. They had been a very devoted couple.


My editors had been very kind and understood my problem and tried to work with my situation, but we both knew they had slots to fill and schedules to follow and services to coordinate… and while the door was never closed to me, it swung to a very narrow entrance.


And did I mention that during this long stretch of time I was working a very demanding full-time job?


Time passed. I wrote, made still more new contacts and sold a few books. I still had a good reputation, though by now I was pretty sure whenever my name was mentioned it was prefaced with ‘poor’…


Several years passed in this pleasant semi-stasis. I sold several books, never enough to justify quitting my job, though, and when my job dissolved I went into a series of other, very unusual jobs, not career stuff but some were fun and they kept the lights on. I kept writing, though, because I am a writer.


Then my mother fell suddenly and disastrously ill and my world changed. Writing had to go totally by the wayside. Suddenly I was not just looking after Mother, I was working two jobs, and occasionally a third one as well, because she had something rather exotic and strange, and nothing but experimental medicines would budge it. Experimental medicines are expensive, and most of them were not covered by her insurance. This went on for almost ten years.


During this time, though, fortune did smile on me, because I met my husband and married. Then mother passed away three weeks after the wedding, and I went totally off the rails. It had been just her and me for twenty years. My poor husband deserved better, but he was and is my rock.
Until some five months after Mother’s death, when he was deployed overseas. (He’s an officer in the Navy, thankfully now retired.) When he asked me what I was going to do while he was gone I murmured something vague about getting a job, but he shook his head. All I had ever talked about doing that I really liked was writing, he said, so perhaps I should go back to writing.


Could I? I didn’t know. I thought about it long and hard. The long empty days wore at me, though, and the siren song of words, of creating worlds and populations out of nothing but caffeine and imaginations worked their magic on me. so I dusted off my laptop and began again.


He was gone a year, and when he returned I had sold two books – both to small publishers, as my cred in New York was totally gone. The editors I had known there had either been promoted to the stratosphere, vanished completely or died. Sigh. It was writing.


This was the beginning of the era of self-publishing, and with no little qualms I began to investigate, eventually ending up with my own publishing imprint, a freelance crew with skills that would rival those of any NYC publishing house. I reprinted my old books as they came back to me, did a book or two a year with a wonderful small press and released at least one new book a year.


At last, I thought, things are finally going my way. It’s been a long time, but I’m finally on the way up!
Humph! This past July my husband and I were at a Grand Ball, the conclusion of a convention which we always attend. I was so proud to be wearing the beautiful gold-embroidered dress we bought earlier in Cairo… and just as the dancing started I passed out cold.


Things went downhill from there. EMTs. Ambulance. Emergency room, then straight into surgery for a massive blood clot blocking my renal artery. Barely in recovery when suddenly a team of doctors ran in and snatched me back into the operating theater. Apparently either the clot had split, or there had been two of them. The doctors said nothing, but I heard my nurses whispering amongst themselves that I had died for well over a minute on the table. The writer in me stewed – one of the seminal events of life itself, an event people have discussed for millenia – and it actually happened to me, but I was under deep anesthesia and don’t remember a thing about it!


After a week in the hospital I came home, and moved into my own bed, where I didn’t move for weeks. Writing? I was doing good to eat. And six months later I’m still not up to speed. My own doctor said I was a bit long in the tooth for such extreme things. I told him it wasn’t my choice, and promised to be better. And I have been, sort of. Yes, we did take a Christmas Market tour of Southern Germany, a costly and long awaited trip and I was most definitely not going to deprive the husband, who had looked forward to it for months.


A fascinating but exhausting trip. I probably shouldn’t have gone, but I did and I survived it, even if I had to be wheelchaired off the plane and to the taxi. One small bright spot is if I do a story about it the entire trip is tax deductible. But I haven’t written a word in over six months. There are half-finished projects languishing on my computer which I cannot remember at all.


And so I am back to starting over. Again. Will I do it? That’s a dumb question. Of course I will, whether I choose to or not.


I am a writer.

Rituals of the Season

~ Janet Dawson ~ 2 Comments

Several years ago, I had knee replacement surgery. When I got out of rehab and came home, a friend moved in with me for a few days to help with my recuperation. On Sunday morning, she brought me a mug of coffee. I thanked her and told her it wasn’t my Sunday mug. She looked at me like I’d taken leave of my senses and told me I was high maintenance. Well, maybe I am, but I have my rituals and having my Sunday morning coffee in that particular mug is one of them.

Rituals are an important part of daily life, from starting the day with that first cup of coffee to the getting-ready-for-bed routine. One website I encountered while writing this blog says that rituals can bring a sense of wellbeing into an unpredictable life. We have social rituals, such as getting together to celebrate a friend’s birthday, or some other significant event. We have working rituals, too. I like to have a fairly clean desk while I write. And my filing system seems to be piles of paper. I like to have documents, notes and books close at hand, where I can reach them. And I prefer black ink to blue.

As for personal rituals, I read my morning newspaper in the morning. During the years when I was working, I got up very early so I could write before going to work, which meant I wasn’t able to read my newspaper in the morning. During the lunch hour, I would go for a walk if the weather was good or eat lunch at my desk or in the break room, managing to read a few pages then. Now liberated from the day job, my ritual after eating breakfast is to settle on the sofa with my coffee, usually with a cat or two vying for space on my lap, with me angling the pages I’m reading over a recumbent lump of fur.

It’s early January and for me the holiday season is not quite over yet. And the season is full of rituals. The day after Thanksgiving, I haul the Christmas decorations out of the storeroom, put up my little tree and start decorating with the ornaments I’ve collected through the years. I play Christmas music and sing along with Mel Torme, Johnny Mathis and Rosemary Clooney. Then I watch my collection of holiday movies. I usually start with Miracle on 34th Street and work my way through all my old favorites, culminating in White Christmas—Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney (again)!

Then let the baking begin. My holiday ritual is to bake loaves of pumpkin bread to give to friends and neighbors. I would miss it if I didn’t bake—and so would they. So my delectable pumpkin bread puts in its annual appearance. It’s delicious with a mug of coffee.

Back to those coffee mugs. Mom had quite a collection, which spent most of the year hanging on wooden racks on the kitchen wall. She also had holiday mugs. Every year, she would fetch the holiday mugs from the boxes where they were stored and put them on the racks, storing the other mugs until the season’s end. After Mom passed away, we divvied up the holiday mugs. Now, my own holiday ritual involves drinking coffee from Mom’s mugs as well as using a few of my own mugs I’ve collected over the years.

However, if it’s Sunday, I’m still drinking coffee from my Sunday mug.

What rituals bring you a sense of wellbeing in this unpredictable life?