Keepers of the Box by Betsy Ashton

Every family has a keeper of the box. It's often the eldest child, or the only girl, or the one interested in genealogy. The box can be literal or figurative, but there is always a box.

My husband and I are both only children. The boxes handed down to us from our mothers have no other home. My mother-in-law didn't believe in keeping what she called "old stuff," things like family documents, photos, etc. She kept a few, but not enough to reconstruct the history of his family.

My mother kept tons on documents, photos, report cards. I found information on land I didn't know the family owned, land lost to unpaid taxes. Photo albums with lots of pictures of people who have gone ahead and have not left their names behind. Legal papers. Ticket stubs. She kept so much of my childhood that I haven't taken time to unpack it.

As writers, we are all keeps of our characters' boxes. To create a complete character, we need to know ever so much more that we will ever use. We need to know what each character, main and minor, looks like. That means small details like the shape of ears, small scars and other marks. We should know what a female carries in her handbag, a man in his pockets. Where do they put their keys? Do they empty handbags or pockets every night? What is on their dressers, in their medicine cabinets? Do they floss?

You'll never use these details, because in real life they are both automatic and boring. But, if you know these things, you know your characters. And then you can throw these minutiae away and get on with the story.

At times, however, one or more of these details demands to be unpacked and imagined. When did the item, if it is literal, enter the character's life? What's its importance to the plot? Can you avoid writing about it, or will you miss an opportunity to enrich the story with just the right detail at just the right moment.

Take for example, a concert ticket stub. Did the character attend the concert alone? With a best friend? With a long-lost love? What emotions go through the character's mind when she holds that stub in her hand? How can you exploit the moment to illustrate something bigger?

Yes, families are the keepers of the box. Writers are as well, because our characters constitute our other families. What boxes do you have packed away? And how many of them have you unpacked?

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Betsy Ashton is the author of the Mad Max mystery series, Unintended Consequences, Uncharted Territory, and Unsafe Haven. She also wrote a dark psychological suspense novel, Eyes Without A Face, about a female serial killer, who unpacks her life and career in first person.

An Open Letter To My Father by Betsy Ashton

Let me start by saying I never celebrated Father's Day. I never bought a card, picked out a terrible tie or a pair of socks, or visited the man who was my father. Why? Because I never knew him.

My father was married to my mother for about two years, during which time I was sired and born. And while my mother was carrying me, he had another girlfriend who became pregnant about the time I was born. Needless to say, my parents separated before I was nine months old, before my half-sister arrived. You left my mother to raise me by herself with no child support, although the courts ordered it. She did a damned fine job.

My father contacted me twice, once for half a day when I was 13, again for half a day when I was 17. A card or two followed the visits, plus a weird invitation to come and live with him, his wife, and my half-sister. Why would I leave my mother, who had been my sole caregiver, for a man I didn't know? NOT!

My mother was annoyed at first when I started referring to the old man as my sperm donor. To me, that was what he was. Nothing more. I knew later how much that phrase demeaned their relationship. I'm forever sorry about it.

So, now that both my dear mother and the sperm donor are gone, I have some words for SD.

I hope you were a better father to your second daughter than you were to your first.

I hope you taught her how to play catch, played hide and seek, and did all the great dad things, like eating ice cream in a snow storm.

I hope you taught her a sense of right and wrong, gave her a strong ethical foundation, and were there for her when she needed you.

I'm sorry you were estranged from your own parents. I wasn't, because my mother kept in touch with your mother and father until I was old enough to write. I know she did. Grandfather sent me a box of her letters, cards, and photos of me. She kept me alive in their thoughts until both passed.

I'm sorry you never got to see how I turned out, but then, you would have had to keep in touch. Once Grandfather died, there was no touchstone with your side of the family until a couple of years ago when your brother's older daughter reached out. We've established a long-distance relationship, one I once wished I'd had with you.

For this Father's Day, I don't send good wishes. I don't send bad wishes. I send the same type of wishes you sent me all these years. None.

P.S. Thanks, Mom, for being the best father a girl could have. Happy Father's Day.

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Betsy Ashton is the author of the Mad Max Mystery series, Unintended Consequences, Uncharted Territory, and Unsafe Haven. She is also the author of the stand-alone psychological suspense novel, Eyes Without A Face.

It Reminds Me Of The Time...#Good Friends #Good Memories

                                          OneWeekend of Reminiscing 

Two old friends came to stay with me this past weekend and it was like the years fell away and we'd seen each other yesterday. Food, conversation, and laughter filled my home. Though we've kept in contact through emails and phone calls nothing means as much as a face-to-face visit.

So much has happened since all three of us were in the same room together. We are now empty nesters. One has her first grandbaby on the way. Another one has a new daughter-in-law. My children are spread around the country and I got to tell how much fun it is to visit Arizona and Colorado when visiting them.

As I was shutting the curtains that first night, chimes filled the room, and I remembered that one of the women had given me the temple bells. Looking around I re-discovered my home was filled with gifts they'd given me over the years.

Pointing this out started a conversation of "I still have this (insert various items) that you gave me at such-and-such a time." It was a time or renewal and remembrance through the gifts we'd given over the years. Those things that we still keep on display year after year because they mean something to us. Take the elephant vase on my mantle as an example. I'd seen one and, for some reason, didn't buy it. I went back later to get it but it was gone. Tam, who was with me both times, kept an eye out for it unbeknownst to me. A year later she gave it to me after having found it in another state.
 
So the visit ended and my friends physically departed from my home. Yet, I realized, they're never truly gone. Not as long as I can hear Cathy's laugh every time the curtains brush the temple bells. Or when I look at the elephant vase that Tammy searched high and low for because she knew it would please me.

There are countless little memories of people and places throughout my home. All I need to do is remember to stop and remember.

 Eli Grayheart, vampire demon, lesser Lord of Inferna was banished to the mortal realm. For a decade, he has been reduced to working the night shift for human employers and little pay. As he desperately seeks a way back to his homeland, he has plotted his revenge. The pink Fae, known as Keeda Weranseer is going to regret the part she played in his exile. Ever more graphic plans for revenge fuel his life, and, he swears, if it takes forever and a night he will find his way back to Hell.

Enjoy my series featuring a family of vampires in the Blaustsaugers of Amber Heights Series for a little escapism. Where love, laughter, a little of the 'ick factor, and adventures fill the page.

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