Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a lovely holiday season and the new year finds you busy writing, plotting, or selling books!

As I took my tree down a couple of weeks ago, I was reminded of a conversation I had when I attended a party hosted by one of my friend’s aunts. The aunt had a large, beautiful tree decorated in black and white. The decorations included black bows, a couple of very large white owls, and smaller blackbirds. Black and white ornaments were scattered amongst the branches and complimented by white icicles and white bells.

When I asked if she always has a black and white tree, she replied, “Oh, heavens no. I have decorations to do an all-teal tree, but my favorite tree is decorated in purple.”

My hostess was drawn into a conversation with another guest. I stood in front of the black-and-white tree, wondering if I could ever embrace this type of décor for my tree.

Decorating my tree is my favorite part of Christmas. When I open boxes of ornaments, I feel like I’m greeting old friends. Each decoration has a story, and I love remembering the ornament’s origins. I like grouping my Nutcracker ornaments together and keeping the handmade gifts from my kids and grandkids in the same area of the tree. I also like distributing my collection of Santa ornaments throughout the branches.

My nine-foot tree tells the colorful story of my life. Ornaments handed down from family members no longer here bring a smile to my lips as I remember past holidays. Each time I place my glass avocado next to the small plastic tequila bottle, I find myself longing for the beaches of México. And though my grandkids don’t visit at Christmas, I still hide the dill pickle ornament they gave me just in case they make a surprise appearance.

Recently, one of my readers asked me why I decided to write a series featuring repeating characters in the same setting. The question echoed in my mind this year when I returned my ornaments to their storage containers, and it occurred to me that my fondness for the characters in my novels is like the adoration I feel for the baubles that brighten my tree each year.

Luckily for me, I write two series. My suspense/thriller series, México Mayhem, has some repeating characters, but each book has a new heroine, hero, and villain. The locales change, too, since I move one or two minor characters from the previous book forward into a new story.

I can’t imagine never creating my very first heroine, Clara Marsh. When I wrote “Peril in Paradise” long ago, in 2008, I had no idea that I would suffer losing a child as Clara does. It stunned me the first time I reread the passages in the book after Clara’s daughter was murdered. How did I know her grief so well before I’d experienced it myself? And though Clara is a figment of my imagination, to me, she is real and a kindred spirit in my life.

My first hero took me by surprise, too. I’m a very independent woman, so when Jackson Brady wanted to protect Clara and rescue her from Damian, I found it hard to let her be rescued or trust Brady. Growing up, I never bought into the whole white knight coming to the damsel’s distress. But being part of Clara’s journey into Brady’s arms was a fabulous experience.

The only writing kudos I ever received when receiving countless rejection letters was: “You do write an excellent villain.”

Creating my villains is one of my favorite parts of crafting a story. I find it easy to heap on evil traits, but I also try to craft a backstory explaining their bad behavior. In “Peril in Paradise,” the reader eventually learns that Damian Garza thinks his stepmother killed his biological mother. Damian’s hatred for his stepmother causes him to mistreat women, but his ego eventually leads to his undoing.

In my mystery/suspense series, Stoneybrook Mysteries, I created a fictional town full of fabulous characters that starts the reader’s journey in “Redneck Ranch.” Every time I open a WIP for a Stoneybrook novel, I feel like I’m home. The chatter of patrons at the Babbling Brook Café fills my mind, and I can smell the bacon and eggs. When my heroine, Harley Harper, trudges to the barn to feed her animals, I’m reminded of my childhood on the family dairy. And though I’m lucky to have numerous friends, I never really bought into the “best friend” label. But I thoroughly enjoy writing about Busy and Harley’s “bestie” moments.

Sheriff Wyatt Stone is a culmination of all the incredible male role models in my life. Wyatt is diligent in his quest to protect the residents of Stoneybrook from harm. I don’t consider myself a romantic, but I enjoy the developing relationship between Wyatt and Harley. He exhibits quiet strength and endless patience, especially when interacting with his autistic cousin, Deputy Derrick Stone.

When I get to write a scene with Derrick, it takes me back in time, just like the ornaments on my tree. I love remembering our lunch dates after shopping at the local Goodwill. Derrick would always find some treasure he had to have, some of which I kept after his passing. Creating a fictional character to honor my son has been a soothing elixir.

The only rotating character in this series is the villain. And once again, what I lack in romantic tendencies, I make up for in crafting dark and twisty bad guys.

My Christmas tree ornaments have been stowed away for another year. The hustle and bustle of the holiday season has settled down, and the usual demands of everyday life await me each morning. I feel blessed to have these characters, recurring and newbies waiting in the wings, to greet me when I lift the lid of my laptop and place my fingers on the keys.

Just like decorating my tree, I enjoy greeting each character like an old friend or introducing myself to someone new, placing them exactly where they need to be in the book. Oh, what a journey each story promises to take me on… one ornamental word at a time.

I knew I wanted to write a Thanksgiving blog for this week, but I’ve been struggling to express my thankfulness. As you all know, my sister, Lori, has a short time left to spend with her family and friends due to her pulmonary fibrosis lung disease.

She really wants to feel festive and be present for her husband, kids, and grandkids, so we’ve been planning our Thanksgiving celebration at her house this week. A feast of all the favorite family dishes, including the “delicious” (not) Green Bean Casserole, will be served, but I’ve been worried that the sentiment of thankfulness will make an appearance.

When I searched Amazon for paper plates so we wouldn’t have to worry about doing dishes, I found making a selection difficult because most of the choices featured lovely fall scenes captioned with “Thankful and Blessed” or “Give Thanks.” I finally found a set adorned with a simple design of leaves and pumpkins.

I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, rushing from one book event to another. Today, as I made the three-hour drive home from my oldest son’s house, I reminded myself that this holiday season is not about me and that I needed to refocus on what’s important: creating a fun holiday memory for all of us that we will carry in our hearts going forward.

Lori has been battling a cold the last few days, making it hard for her to breathe through her nose. This is concerning since she is on ten liters of oxygen twenty-four hours a day, delivered through a nose cannula.

This morning, she told me she’s struggling to get enough air and feels dizzy throughout the day. We discussed home remedies that might open up her nasal passages and agreed the humidifier her husband, Keith, has bought will hopefully bring her some relief.

When I arrived home, I texted Lori, thinking she’d call to chat if she was awake. When I didn’t hear from her after a few hours, I texted again. Still, I received no response, so I texted Keith and her daughter, Tera, concerned that maybe the cold had compromised her breathing enough that she was back in the hospital.

Lori finally calls and opens with, “I’m sorry I didn’t text you back or call.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “But it would be great if your family would respond so I know you’re not in the hospital.”

“I know,” Lori agreed. “I’ll remind them they need to text you back.” Silence fills the line for a beat, then she continues, “I didn’t have a very good day.”

“Oh, no. What happened?” I asked.

“Well …” Lori’s tone holds a hint of humor. “Keith wanted to go hunting, so I said I would be okay alone for a few hours.” She pauses to catch her breath. “After about an hour, my little dog, Georgie, needed to go potty.” Another couple of deep breaths. “I took him outside and managed to get down the steps to the small pen we put him in to do his business.” She giggles. “He moved to the other side of his pen, so I had to step over a small bin of Christmas decorations that Keith left at the bottom of the stairs to pick him up.” She takes a breath, followed by laughter. “I lost my balance and landed in Georgie’s pen.”

Now we’re both laughing. Belly laughs, which brings tears to my eyes and causes Lori to cough for a few minutes.

“It took me a moment to catch my breath after I fell, and Georgie has moved away because I screamed a few swear words.” Lori pauses for a beat. “I finally managed to get to my hands and knees and noticed little bits of dried dog poop sticking to my clothes.”

“Oh, that’s awful,” I said.

More laughter ensued before she continued, “I crawled out of the dog pen and called for Georgie, but he wouldn’t come to me, so I slowly climbed the stairs to the house. I called him again, but he still wouldn’t come.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I shuffled into the house and left the door open.” More deep breaths. “I was struggling to catch my breath and couldn’t worry about him anymore.”

“He didn’t run away, did he?” I tried to control the panic I felt from echoing my tone.

“No,” Lori said. “I went to my room to change clothes, and when I pulled on a clean shirt, he was sitting in the doorway, then jumped onto my bed.”

“Oh, thank God.” My relief that Georgie was safe was quickly replaced by concern for my sister. “Did you get some rest?”

“Yes,” she replied, then said “Okay” to Keith, who I could hear in the background. “My dinner’s ready.”

“Go eat and text me when you’re awake in the morning,” I said, then ended the call.

I’m not thankful that my sister is dying. Or that this will most likely be her last holiday season with us. Or that she has to struggle to do the simplest tasks.

But I am very thankful for her ability to find humor in falling into Georgie’s dog pen. Thankful that, for a few moments, we were just two sisters laughing about a silly mishap. Thankful we’ll all be together for Thanksgiving … sharing our favorite dishes, being in each other’s company, and enjoying a laugh or two.

And I’m thankful for all of you … Happy Thanksgiving, Ladies of Mystery!

Unless you’re living on an island, sipping margaritas, you know the holiday season is upon us. Only 58 shopping days until Christmas!

I decided to try something new this year and signed up to have a table at the Red Mitten Market, which is held every year at the Canby Grange from October through December. Excited to showcase my books for the first time at this event, I decorated my table with other vendors’ holiday craft items. Currently, I’m displaying Halloween décor.

I’m not required to “man” my table daily, but I love meeting potential readers and talking to people in general. And don’t tell my husband, but I’m not driven by money. However, I enjoy telling shoppers about my writing journey and how my two book series originated.

On my first day at the market, several readers stopped by to visit, and as an added bonus, I sold books and book bundles. Of course, I’m thrilled to have new readers, but I’ve also kept notes about the benefits of participating in the Red Mitten Market.

First, and I know you Ladies already know this, but I’m thankful I’ve taken the time to publish in all formats: Paperbacks, eBooks, and Audible.

The bonus to selling paperbacks is knowing someone is holding my “work of art” in their hands, turning pages, and enjoying the journey from beginning to end. I like to imagine their reaction to learning whether Clara gets justice or revenge against Damian. And did they laugh aloud when Busy asks Sheriff Wyatt Stone, “What’s a girl gotta do to spend the night—” I wonder, too, if they fall asleep with the book open on their chest.

I’m probably most grateful for ensuring my books are available for Kindles and eReaders. The best response to potential readers who say, “I only read on my Kindle.”—is—“Oh, perfect, because all my books are available as eBooks.” Then, I send them off with a handful of bookmarks so they remember to buy the eBooks. As a former “book collector,” I respect the need to downsize and love that I might still get my books in the hands of an electronics-only customer.

It was a difficult journey, but I managed to get the first book in each of my series published as an audiobook. Since I’ve had to return to square one on this project, I’m now struggling with whether to narrate my books or tackle the daunting task of finding a new narrator. In an effort to see the bright side, I enjoy being able to say that I now have these books in audiobook format.

Each time I “man” my table, I’ve had an opportunity to speak with someone who has enriched me beyond monetary compensation. One woman who loved the premise of my Stoneybrook Mystery Series and bought “Redneck Ranch” shared with me that her niece narrates audiobooks. I jotted down the niece’s name, and as an added bonus, she lives near me in Salem, Oregon.

Another woman asked how I liked participating in the Red Mitten Market. I explained it was my first time, but so far, so good. The woman then informed me that she is a six-figure author, so she doesn’t need to have her books at a market. I bristled at her remark but smiled and congratulated her. Did I mention I’m not driven by money? She continued sharing about her success, and I continued to smile and nod. Then she asked if I’d ever heard of Matthew J Holmes and his Facebook Marketing Program. Needless to say, I had not heard of this platform, but I did some research and plan to put Mr. Holmes’s marketing strategy to work next year.

You may recall my blog, “Scritch, Scratch, Feedback,” from a few months ago, which was inspired by my love of country music. I couldn’t let go of a song idea I had, and I finally finished the lyrics. One problem, though, is that I can’t sing or play any music. Undaunted, I considered teaching myself how to play guitar. Because who needs sleep? Today, I had a young lady ask about my books, and after my usual spiel, she said she understood the creative process because she likes to write songs. What?!? After I told her I’d written a song, she said, “Send me the lyrics, and I’ll put music to them.”

As you all know, I lost my son Derrick seven and a half years ago … Being the parent of a deceased child is a difficult burden to bear, and I’m sorry to share that I’ve met many parents who belong to this club. I wanted to make their tragedy more bearable by offering comfort to these moms and dads. When I discovered a pair of white metal wings on an Amazon shopping spree, they brought me a sense of peace. Now, I give these wings to other parents with a poem about not judging a grieving parent.

One of the women who stopped to ask about my books had recently lost her granddaughter to suicide. She said that she was heartbroken and felt her burden doubly because her son was also grieving the loss of his daughter. I shared my story with her, and we plan to have coffee soon so I can give her a set of White Wings and the poem for her son.

As I write this blog post, I’m saddened by the news that my younger sister, Lori, is dying. She has pulmonary fibrosis, and her pulmonologist says she has three to six months. Dying is a messy business, and I’m trying to be there for my sister and distract her from the inevitable. I didn’t know that when I wrote a scene about my villain in “Willow’s Woods,” accepting Jesus Christ as his Savior, I would be helping Lori do the same. We were raised in a Christian family, but she lost her way through the years.

So, participating in the Red Mitten Market for the first time has been a gratifying experience so far. Though I’ve sold books and made some money, the real reward has been the people I’ve interacted with, the real-life stories we’ve shared, and the tidbits I’ve gleaned from these fabulously casual conversations.

Happy Holiday Season, Ladies of Mystery!

Many years ago, as an aspiring writer, I ventured into the punishing realm of seeking a book deal for my first novel, “Peril in Paradise.”

Oh, what a glorious dream until the inevitable “No Thanks” letters began to arrive. Yes, I’m “rejection letters” old.

But I found encouragement among the “Sorry, “Peril in Paradise” doesn’t fit well with our current publishing format,” or “We don’t feel your novel is right for us” letters. Several no-thank-you letters commented similarly: “You do, however, write a very good villain.”

Besides giving me much-needed hope as a struggling novelist, their kind words told me two things: Since I wrote my villain in the third person, I write better in that voice than I do in the first person. And… I’m a tad dark and twisted!

When I wrote my villain, Damian Garza, in “Peril in Paradise,” I gave little thought to his backstory. Instead, Damian revealed himself to me as I wrote the book, creating a need to understand him better. Of course, this caused me to ask myself the “What, Why, When” questions, which led me to the age-old curiosity … Are villains born, or are they formed by their environments?

Now that I’ve written five novels and three novellas, I’ve learned to ask the three W’s sooner and outline what caused my villain’s evilness. Why does he or she desire to hurt people? When did their darkness begin to shadow their personalities?

Or were they simply born evil?

In my quiver of Google-related searches, I have a file labeled: Antisocial Personality Disorder (ASPD). This term encompasses both sociopath and psychopath disorders. Mental health professionals define ASPD individuals as having a consistent disregard for rules, social norms, and repeated violations of other people’s rights.

When I started my journey with Damian, I knew I wanted him to appear to be “Prince Charming,” which fits the persona of someone with ASPD. I also knew Damian would have little regard for other people’s feelings. Before I did my deep-dive research, I had created a villain who broke the law, was manipulative, and deceitful. Damian didn’t think twice about aggressively mistreating women and felt no remorse for his nasty behavior.

As much as I needed Damian to be a sociopath, I also felt a need to explain his wickedness, which brought me full circle. Did Damian mistreat people because he was born evil, or were his actions a byproduct of believing his stepmother had his mother killed? Had he been a beguiling child or wicked youngster biding his time until he could unleash his anger on those around him?

Recently, a reader shared how much she likes that my villains feel like real people, not cartoon stereotypical characters.

With each novel, I introduce myself to a new villain or villainess and ask myself the same questions: What? Why? When? Nature or Nurture?

Personally, I’m not sure if people are born evil. Although, with all the crime in the world, it seems as if this scenario could be true. It’s just hard to imagine a tiny baby destined to be a serial killer or a terrorist from birth.

I tend to believe people are genuinely good at heart … until they are not. My villains could have all been heroes at some point in their lives. Sarita Garcia could have married, had children, and learned to love running her father’s leasing company. Raptor might have lived a wonderfully boring life with Belen if the two had made it safely to Arizona. Carl Yates probably would’ve made a decent husband if he hadn’t suffered abuse at the hands of his aunt. But Sam Arnold seemed destined to abuse women, allowing his dark side to determine their fate.

When I met Joe Carson in “Whispering Willows,” I was conflicted. Joe wanted to be good, but his mother’s darkness smothered him, driving him to evilness. Joe created an opportunity for me to see if a villain could be changed and nurtured back to goodness.

As a Christian, I’ve always believed in forgiveness, so I asked this question for Joe: If he truly believed in Jesus and asked to be forgiven for his sins, would his newfound faith deliver him from his wicked ways? Would he embrace the comfort of God’s word and the peacefulness of knowing his soul is saved? Would Joe Carson rejoice with joy in his new-found destiny in heaven?

Happy Fall, Ladies of Mystery!

Over the years, I’ve taken a couple of nasty spills and hurt both of my hands. Of the two falls, my left hand experienced the worst injuries. So, imagine my frustration when I started having trouble with my right hand. By the way, I am not left-handed, but I am very left-brained.

My issues started when I tackled yard work this spring. I love working in the yard, removing winter debris and pesky weed upstarts that threaten to take over my flower bed. We live in a rural area, and our house sits on the edge of a farmer’s field. I’ve found weeds in my yard that I can’t identify. It’s like the well-known weeds invited the otherworldly weeds to come and join the fun.

Armed with my garden wagon, various tools, and new gloves, I set out on a lovely spring day to eliminate all unwanted plants. Within two days, I’d cleared the flower bed and began covering the ground with a weed barrier to prevent uninvited vegetation from putting down roots.

After a few days of gardening, both of my hands began to ache. But since I was close to finishing the barrier so I could spread river rock in the flower bed, I ignored the pain and pushed forward. And then it happened …

As I pounded a yard staple into the fabric and underlying dirt, my right hand cramped, and my ring finger slammed into my palm. I noted some pain, but what surprised me was that I couldn’t lift my ring finger. It was as if my brain couldn’t connect with my hand.

Now sidelined with a painful and swollen right hand, I abandoned my yard work. Thinking if I let my hand rest, it would be fine in a couple of days; I attempted to do tasks with my left hand. Everything took longer, and I felt extremely clumsy.

Thankfully, I schedule time to write every day and found my right hand managed to move across my laptop keys, albeit slowly. My current WIP, “Chaos in Cabo,” is moving slowly, too, and I started to think about the plot line and characters. Maybe I should shift my creative process to the right side of my brain as I’d done when switching to my left hand.

I have always been a linear thinker. I’m analytical when approaching my day job. Methodical in planning and organizing my calendar. I like order and logic. One of the compliments I receive regularly in reviews is: Kimila is a master plotter! The kudos belong to my left-sided brain.

My plot in “Chaos in Cabo” seems solid. Now, forty chapters in, I feel the beginning of the book has my characters headed down the right story threads. Sometimes, okay, maybe all the time, I struggle with the middle of my story, letting uninvited insecurities plant seeds of self-doubt in my head.

I decided it might be time to embrace non-linear thinking and let my imagination conjure up some implausible situations for my characters. Oh, what fun!

I’ve spent the last few weeks writing different scenarios for my characters than what I’d initially plotted. Maybe my hero can’t forget or forgive the past. If that’s the case, he might have to let the love of his life walk away and into the arms of another man. What if my heroine starts questioning who she’s really in love with, which could cause her to lose everything? Is my villain a good person whose moral compass was skewed after suffering abuse at the hands of a sadistic rapist? Or will she justify killing someone she perceives to be her rival?

Not only did I discover new things about the three main characters, but I also came up with the plot line for my next México Mayhem book, “Lost in Loreto.”

I decided on this blog topic those first few days of struggling to use my left hand. But it didn’t occur to me to Google (my favorite research tool) Left Brain/Right Brain until I began writing the piece last week. Since you’re all writers, I’m sure you already know this, but writers use both sides of their brain equally.

My right hand is still giving me trouble, and the preliminary diagnosis is osteoarthritis. Old age is definitely not for the weak of heart. But every time I have to switch to my left hand to complete a task, I smile and tell myself eventually, my hands will become equals like my very well-rounded brain!

Happy writing, Ladies ~