Hooked on #Audio by Betsy Ashton

I blame this affliction on my mother. And on my grandmother. It's inherited, just like my silver hair came from both women. Maybe a bit of nurture thrown in, but mostly it's nature.

I am a hopeless audio addict. I love listening to books read by great readers. I love poetry read by the poets, many of whom are the only ones who should read their words aloud.

My addiction started when I was two. My grandmother read stories before every nap and at bedtime. She'd read them over and over, particularly Little Golden Books. She'd check them out of the library or buy them used. I listened and by three was following along, my tiny finger tracing the words. Once I dared to correct my grandmother when she misread a sentence. She thought I'd heard the story so many times that I'd memorized it. She said, "Show me the word." I pointed to a word she'd read wrong. I was right.

Mom read to me as often as my grandmother did. Even when I was six or seven, Mom and I would curl up in an easy chair where she'd read aloud. Black Beauty. My Friend Flicka and Thunderhead. Sand Dune Pony. By then, I was reading the books myself, but it was our special time, Mom and me, when she'd read to me.

Many decades later, when she was too ill to read, I read to her. Role reversal at its finest. I finished one of her favorite books, The American President, the day before she closed her eyes the last time.

When my husband and I travel, we load up on audio books from the library. We're hooked on suspense, thrillers, and, of course, Stephen King. We take at least four long car trips every year, so we plow through writers like Jeffrey Deaver, John Gilstrap, Lee Child, Vince Flynn, and the Douglas Preston/Lincoln Child Pendergast FBI series. We've almost missed turnoffs because the story was so engrossing. And we've been known to sit in the driveway to finish a chapter. More than once.

There is something about the marriage of a good reader with the written word. I'm looking for the right reader for my Mad Max series. So far, I haven't found the right female voice, but I will. I want other fans of the spoken word to enjoy her as much as I do on the printed page.

If you listen to audio books, which are your favorite writers?

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Betsy Ashton is the author of the Mad Max Mystery series. Her stand-alone serial killer novel, EYES WITHOUT A FACE, is a departure from her normal fare.

Swim Lanes, Or How To Keep Order In Your Writing by Betsy Ashton

Nearly anyone who has worked as a consultant knows that projects are broken down into sections, with those sections broken down into smaller parts. In order to manage large projects, project managers draw up charts with sections listed along the left side and major tasks or milestones listed across the top. The same holds true for writing.


Normally, I begin on page one and write straight through until "The End." I don't care about the niceties of the story, just about getting the bones sketched out and words on paper. I am a self-confessed devotee of Ann Lamott's "shitty first draft." I only begin writing when I begin editing, moving parts around, worrying over every word, every sentence. That works for a linear novel, which
is what I usually write. I decided about a year ago to write a different form of novel. New for me, it's a novel in stories, or a series of linked stories that can stand alone if they want. That said, several different narrators tell their stories, often observing and commenting on the same actions, but from different points of view.

After I finished what I thought of as the really shitty first draft of eight stories, I put it aside for a week before going back for a reread. Oh, golly goodness, gee whiz. Three of the stories nearly knocked my socks off. The rest drew a big "meh." Holes all over the place, missing stories, overlapping material written nearly word for word in three stories. How did I go so far afield?

I didn't have an outline. I tried to write the way I always do, linearly. Doesn't work if your story isn't linear, but is more circular than anything. When the narrator of two stories commented on a letter, I put the letter verbatim in each story. So not needed. When I let one character comment on the situation but not read the letter until later, the conflict made sense.

I decided an outline wouldn't be enough. I needed SWIM LANES. Out came the old consultant's hat. Out came a flip chart. Out came Post-It notes and marking pens. And out came the manuscript in all its flawed glory. First, I needed to know what chapters I wanted. Then, I had to populate those chapters with characters. I had to be certain I didn't refer to a character introduced in a different story but not mentioned in the current one without some degree of introduction. I needed to know how old each character was, what year(s) the story covered, who else was in the story, and what the central conflict was.

Whew! The gaps became painfully obvious. One reader of a story asked why one character was so angry all the time. "What she always this bitchy?" Well, no, she wasn't, but circumstances overwhelmed her, turning her to vodka. To understand and empathize with her, I needed her backstory. Oh, my another chapter.

I had several pages of notes before I went to the flip chart. The first image here contains notes and suggestions, arrows and scratch-outs. Not easy to follow. The second image is a pencil chart of what I thought I needed.  At that time, I needed to know what year a chapter took place in and how old the central and ancillary characters were. Still not enough. The image of the flip chart is what I'm using now. I can take a quick glance, move a sticky note around, move a chapter around, all without messing up anything.

If all this works, the book, Out of the Desert, will be out toward the end of the year. I hope.
This is my story about how the novel in stories is progressing. I'm sticking to it. I'll keep you up to date as things progress. Until them, write away, write now.

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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. Her works appear in several anthologies, including 50 Shades of Cabernet. She resides at Smith Mountain Lake, VA.

Seasons of the Sun by Betsy Ashton

With the darker days of late winter settling in, with snow/sleet/icy rain falling, and with a kitty who is bored out of her freakin' mind but won't go out and get her paws wet, I offer four haiku to brighten your hearts.

SEASONALLY AFFECTIVE ORDER 

Whites, browns, yellows, blacks

Screeching, shoving—

Gang warfare @ the bird feeder.

Gently rocking waves

Lull one to sleep—

The nose peels.

Apple, cherry, pumpkin

Pies in the oven—

Time for the gym.

Ice-shrouded world

One slippery step—

Technicolor moon.

And on that last note, watch your steps, ya' hear?

An Interview With An Author Part II by Betsy Ashton

Welcome back. I'm your Intrepid Reporter interviewing Betsy Ashton, author of the incredibly chilling EYES WITHOUT A FACE.

IR: I'm here with Betsy Ashton. Welcome back.

Me: Thanks. And thanks for the coffee.

IR: We've already talked about the cover and why you wrote the book. I want to talk now about the killer herself.

Me: I'm good with that. This killer got under my skin.

IR: She doesn't have a name.

Me: I think you mean she doesn't have a given or family name.

IR: Right.

Me. In her small town, most kids grew up with nicknames, Buddy, Bub, Junior, Princess. Her family nickname is a representation of how her family sees her.

IR: Did they really call her That Thing?

Me: Alas, they did. It shaped her worldview.

IR: I found I couldn't always believe her.

Me: Well, she is unreliable. She doesn't want you to believe everything she says, but she wants you to believe everything she does.

IR: That sounds contradictory.

Me: It is and isn't.

IR: I see, I think. Is she a sociopath?

Me: She doesn't think so.

IR: So, she's a psychopath?

Me: She doesn't think so.

IR: That's why she's called unreliable, isn't it?

Me: That's part of it.

IR: I may be foolish, but sometimes I found myself rooting for her.

Me: Good. That's what she wants you to do.

IR: I got a distinct Dexter vibe. Was that intentional?

Me: By no means. I have heard of Dexter, of course, but I've only seen one episode. I don't receive the channel it was on.

IR: Did you have any television show in mind?

Me: Criminal Minds. I think the episodes are perfect for that show.

IR: Do you see any of the actors playing That Thing? G-Man?

Me: Casting That Thing is for a different interview. If Joe Mantegna weren't so old, I'd like to see him play G-Man. That said, I wouldn't turn down Shemar Moore...

IR: Do you have any advice for a budding author trying to do what you did with this book?

Me: Humanize your character.

IR: How do you recommend doing that?

Me: Give her a cat.

IR: I'm afraid our time is up. I hope I can have you back to learn more about how you write and what you are working on now.

Me: It would be a pleasure.

An Interview With An Author Part I by Betsy Ashton

Recently, I sat down with an Intrepid Reporter who wanted to talk about my serial killer book, EYES WITHOUT A FACE.

Intrepid Reporter: I understand you recently wrote a book about a female serial killer. Do I have that right?

Me: Well, since you are reading from the press release, yes, you have that right.

IR: What ever possessed you to write about such a dark subject?

Me: Nothing possessed me, if you mean, was I taken over by a spirit or something like that?

IR: Huh?

Me. It was the result of a double-dog dare. You can never turn down a double-dog dare.

IR: Really? Who dared you?

Me. I took a course on writing mysteries a few years back. One of our challenges was to write the first sentence of a mystery. I wrote: "My sorority sisters were into sex, drugs, and rock and roll, but that wasn't enough for me. Then, I killed someone and found my true calling in life."

IR: Well, now.

Me: That's what the teacher said. She went on to double-dog dare me to turn the opening into a novel. I did.

IR: May I assume you are not a serial killer?

Me: You may.

IR: How were you able to get inside the head of such a, um, well different character?

Me (signing): It's called using the creative gene. I imagined what it would be like to be a killer and wrote about it. Simple as that.

IR: I think it would be very hard to write this book in first person.

Me: No harder than in third person or from the point of view of a dog.

IR: A dog?

Me: Never mind. It was a challenge, but one I was ready to take on. I'd never written anything with such an unlikable character. Strike that. Some people think she's likable.

IR: Eeuw! Really?

Me: Really.

IR (shaking her head): I couldn't, but then again I'm not you.

Me: And you should be glad you aren't. Imagine what my husband had to live with for the three years it took to shape and polish the book.

IR: I'd rather not. Let's move on. The cover is very chilling.

Me: It's supposed to be. I asked my son to put on a hoodie and ski mask that covered his lower face. I gave that picture to a cover designer who took out the rest of his skin, overlaid the eyes, and created a character without a face but with eyes that follow you.

IR: I can't imagine what your dinner table conversation is like.

Me: Pretty normal, actually, except talking about using KA-Bars or switchblades for killing.

IR: But you don't have a KA-Bar in the novel.

Me: Aha, you have read the book. I did, but I took the scene out. I may use it as a short story because I love one line in the section: "I don't use guns because you never have to reload a KA-Bar."

IR: I think it's time to take a little break.


The second part of this interview appears on this blog on January 27. Stay tuned.

The Ghost of Christmases Past and Present Part Two by Betsy Ashton

In spite of the years of isolation and living on the edge, Dan and Jennifer made Christmas Eve their special day. They established their own family traditions, celebrating their love on the eve of a sacred holiday. Tradition evolved into dressing up for Christmas Eve dinner, a champagne toast at midnight, snuggling under the covers and making love until dawn, when they rose and opened their special presents. They didn’t have much money, but they didn’t care. If they could be together, that was good enough.

Jennifer made a fancy dress for each Christmas Eve. Her labor of love was testimony to how she felt about Dan. She had a new one each year. Four years. Five years. Six years.

When they passed their sixth anniversary with no recent sightings of the witch’s bloodhounds, Dan and Jennifer abandoned their vigilance. They moved freely in the large city where they lived and worked. They reveled in each other, hoping for a baby. Maybe a grandchild would lessen an end to the old witch’s hatred.

On their seventh anniversary, tragedy struck. On the way home from their traditional anniversary dinner, a truck T-boned their car, crushing the passenger’s side and killing Dan on impact. The driver ran from the scene, leaving no fingerprints in the cab. Witnesses said he aimed his truck at their car and struck it at high speed. News accounts in the local section of the large city paper mistakenly printed Dan and Jennifer’s real names. Within a day, the witch sent someone to snatch Dan’s body from the funeral home. She reinstated the restraining order in their home state to keep Jennifer from attending the funeral.

The witch demanded the police charge Jennifer with vehicular homicide, but even her vast small town wealth had no sway of a big city police department. Weeks of worry and harassment resulted in no charges. Jennifer hadn’t run the stop light. She hadn’t been drunk. What she believed, however, was that she had been the target, not Dan. She was positive the witch had hired someone to ram their car and kill her. Under normal circumstances, Dan would have been driving, and she would have been in the passenger seat. This night, he suffered from a sprained ankle.

The witch and her hired bloodhounds left Jennifer alone. The witch had her son back; Jennifer no longer existed. Peace settled over the newly-minted widow. Peace and pregnancy. When she said her prayers at night, she prayed the witch would never learn she was going to have Dan’s child. She needed help to keep the child hidden, though. After much worrying and many sleepless nights, Jennifer asked her best friend Nancy from the big city to pretend to be the baby’s mother.

One morning in late summer Jennifer gave birth to a son who looked just like his father. She named him Dan II. Because she had a different last name, she was certain the witch would never connect a stranger named Dan II with her own son. Nancy, Jennifer’s friend and the baby’s pretend mother, moved into a rented apartment with Jennifer and Dan II. The two women moved freely throughout the city, one or the other of them taking the baby for a walk in a stroller. Neighbors who hadn’t met Nancy before Dan II arrived believed the lie. Neighbors who had seen Jennifer every day never knew she was pregnant, because she had always worn loose-fitting tops and long skirts. Dan II grew up surrounded by two loving mothers.

On Christmas Eve of what would have been their tenth anniversary, and as Jennifer had done every year since Dan’s death, she put on a fancy dress and kissed Dan II goodbye. Nancy promised to stay at home to protect the child until Jennifer returned.

Even though the restraining order had been invalidated with Dan’s death, Jennifer feared the witch, who was still alive and more powerful than ever. Jennifer sneaked into the town where she had been born. She carried a small basket with a split of champagne and some snacks to Dan’s grave. She spread a blanket on the ground and waited.

When distant church bells rang at midnight, she poured two glasses of champagne and handed one to her husband. Every year Dan returned to reassure her she was never alone, that his love survived his death and that she should live life to the fullest. She told him about his son, how he loved the memory of the father he would never know. She carried no pictures with her, because in heart she knew if the witch found out, she would kidnap him and win. She lay in her husband’s arms and drifted into a familiar dream.

No sooner had she fallen asleep than she was awakened by a flashlight shining in her face. The cemetery Rent-a-Cop pulled her to her feet and arrested her for public intoxication. She heard Dan’s voice whispering.

“I will always love you. Be well until next year. I’ll watch over our son until you get home safely.”

Jennifer’s holiday traditions were supposed to sacrosanct. Some couldn’t be kept due to circumstances beyond her control. She couldn’t lie with her husband except in memory. Other traditions morphed with time. Sadly, still others were broken, but Jennifer would never break her tradition of spending Christmas with Dan. She looked forward it throughout the year. This was no different until the last moment when she was arrested.

And that’s how she ended up in the drunk tank. On Christmas Eve. In jail. Alone.

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I hope you enjoyed "The Ghost of Christmases Past and Present." Thanks for stopping by.

Did you receive an Amazon gift card for Christmas? If so, my book, Mad Max Unintended Consequences, makes a good present for grandparents who are raising grandchildren, grandparents who aren't raising grandchildren. Oh heck, for anyone who wants a book that starts off in one direction and ends in another.

The Ghost of Christmases Past and Present Part One by Betsy Ashton

This was the last place she ever expected to spend Christmas.

For some ever was a long time. For Jennifer Warner and Dan Yates ever began in first grade in a small town in upstate New York. As small towns go, theirs was quite normal with a social elite and the rest. Dan’s family was part of the elite; Jennifer’s was part of the rest. All children went to the same schools regardless of background or wealth. No one in the elite group thought to send a child away to private boarding school unless that child was “not right” or behaved so badly he would have embarrassed his parents.

Dan was well behaved, right in the head and very bright. His singular weak spot was his friendship with Jennifer, the pretty redhead from the other side of Main Street. Because teachers seated pupils in alphabetical order, Jennifer always sat in front of Dan. They played games at recess. Later, in middle and high school, they hung out together with friends at the drive in or at sports events. By high school everyone knew Dan was sweet on Jennifer. Everyone knew they are a couple. Everyone was happy, except for Dan’s mother Mrs. Yates, the doyenne of the elite. She had no idea her son was involved with someone as unacceptable as Jennifer, that girl from the other side of Main Street.

At Christmas in their last year of high school, their relationship solidified into dreams of happily ever after. Jennifer never uttered a word about wanting to spend her life with Dan, but one of the mean girls in the school whispered something in the ear of another mean girl who told a third and so on. The fifth mean girl told her mother who happened to be best friends with Dan’s mother. To score points and break up the relationship between Dan and Jennifer, this mean girl’s mother ratted Dan out. Dan’s mother went ballistic. She forbade Dan to see Jennifer again. Ever.

“She’s not our kind, dear.” Like most doyennes, Dan’s mother had a misplaced sense of social propriety. Jennifer did not fit in her equation. Truth be told, she wanted Dan to marry the fifth mean girl to cement relationships between the two wealthiest and most powerful families in town.

Dan thought his mother was outrageous. He called his mother a witch, although Jennifer thought that was a typo. He threatened to run away if the witch used her power and social standing to stop them. The witch retaliated and secured a temporary restraining order against Jennifer, claiming she was stalking Dan and their family. The judge, a long-time family friend and executor of the family fortune, signed the order based on nothing more than a wink and the promise of a generous donation to his next judiciary campaign. Dan was sent to an Ivy League university. Jennifer stayed in the town and entered a local community college two towns over.

That first Christmas vacation of their freshman year in college found Dan and Jennifer hiding away in his car behind the football stadium. They kissed and made plans to elope on Christmas Eve. Jennifer had dreamed of a traditional wedding: white dress, family pastor, home church, friends and relatives surrounding them and toasting their happiness. Dan’s mother would never approve of them marrying. Two families from different economic classes were too much of a difference for the witch to handle.

Dan and Jennifer ran away on Christmas Eve. By early morning on Christmas Day they crossed the state line and found a justice of the peace to marry them. They hid from his mother. He heard through the rumor mill that his mother had begged her friend the judge to send the sheriff after them, but they were over eighteen. The judge could do nothing. The sheriff could do nothing either except to remind Dan’s mother that when the couple returned he would invoke the restraining order and arrest Jennifer. The witch could hope for nothing more.

The witch vowed to do everything in her power to find the couple. Dan and Jennifer severed all contact with his family. At first Jennifer called her mother often to let her know how happy she was, where they were living and what they were doing. Strange things began to happen after the second call.

Jennifer came home from her job at the grocery store to find piles of trash on the front porch of their rented house. Papers were strewn about and a sack with a sodden bottom rested on the mat. She opened the bag to find piles of fresh dog poop. Disgusted, she cleaned the mess and didn’t tell Dan. It had to be a coincidence.

The fourth time it happened Dan came home first. After a tearful confrontation, Jennifer confessed this was a pattern that had been going on for several months. Furthermore, she was positive she was being followed. She saw a strange car in the neighborhood and in the grocery’s parking lot every day. Could the witch have found them? Could she be behind the pranks and following?

Dan would put nothing past his mother. They moved to a different city, a bigger city where it would be easier to lose themselves. Jennifer dyed her hair; Dan grew a beard and wore fake glasses. They cut themselves off from friends and family because they were afraid of the witch. None of their friends knew where they were. Jennifer left her mother behind. They changed their names. They might as well have been in the witness protection program, because they all but disappeared without a trace.

They weren’t safe. Even though their only crime was love, the witch stalked them. Her vast wealth bought private investigators, some better than others. Whenever she received a report of Dan’s whereabouts, she sent men to threaten Jennifer and bring Dan home. Each time the couple learned they were being followed, they fled again. And again. And again.

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Thank you for reading part one of "The Ghost of Christmases Past and Present." Tune in tomorrow for part two. 

I'm the author of Mad Max Unintended Consequences, the first in the Mad Max series available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble.