When Your Editor Calls You With an Idea...by Vonnie Davis

I love writing with a dash of humor. It's in my nature. My editor at Random House labels it as slapstick (insert huge sigh here). Let's not forget I grew up during the era of Red Skelton, I Love Lucy and Laurel and Hardy. Heavens, do any of you even know who they are? How about The Carol Burnett Show? They were each masters at comedic timing and slapstick.

If you've studied Shakespeare's plays in college, you know he was one of the original users of comedic relief. In the middle of a heavy, emotional scene when all of the spectators were on the edge of their seats, good ol' Bill would insert a couple off-color characters to suddenly have the audience rolling with laughter. He knew they needed an emotional break--and when. William Shakespeare taught me a lot.

So when my editor at Random House Loveswept called me about my next series, I had a few ideas lined up. I never got a chance to voice them. Ms. Enthusiasm pounced on me with, "I want you to write a series on wounded warriors who are also suffering with PTSD, set it in or near a small town, preferably in Texas. I'd like them to be former SEALs. I don't care how many points of view you use through-out the book, just give me two at a time. And here are the titles: HER SURVIVOR, HERS TO HEAL, and HER FOREVER HERO. I'm so excited about this! I know you'll do a fabulous job." The velvet steamroller promptly hung up.

I'd been taking notes as quickly as I could and just stared at my phone blaring a dial tone.

But...but....crap! Oh, fudge and buttermilk.

This was the last kind of series I wanted to write. I'd been doing bear shifters and, also, firemen, for HarperImpulse. How was I to turn men suffering from PTSD into the romantic heroes readers would swoon over?

My own grandson suffers from it. He's moody, at times belligerent, suicidal, and quick to fly off the handle, screaming and hitting things. The sweet Josh we knew is gone. He came home from Afghanistan with no physical injuries, just mental and emotional damage that might never heal. Could I write about a topic so painfully close to my heart? I was full of reservations, believe me.

How many men suffer to the extreme that Joshua does? Is his case mild or severe? To grandma, it's severe, but I might be wrong. So I bought books on the subject. I found an excellent one focused on PTSD and veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan and also a study done at Cornell University. I knew only the basics about SEALs, so I bought books on that branch of Special Forces. No one loves doing research better than I. This old broad was in heaven.

Then came the time to plot. Yes, this dyed-in-the-lycra pantser was going to have to plot, to lay out my little town, to create townsfolk (ah, my chance at some humor--thank God!), and the lives before and after SEALs for my veterans.. Decide on the book's main plot so it can be a stand alone and the strong thread running through them all, linking them together.

I had to show their physical injuries and their emotional traumas--and still make them lovable. I needed a couple unifying factors...their former Commander, their service dog, Nance, and their SEAL brotherhood.

In book one of Black Eagle Ops, HER SURVIVOR, Dustin Franks in still in the military hospital in San Antonio, Texas. He's in bed. Mail call has just gone through and he's received a box from Eagle Ridge Ranch, owned by his former Commander Zane Quinlan, or ZQ. The language is salty. These are warriors.
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A muted “Set Fire to the Rain” drifted from the box. What the hell? That was the team’s theme song they sang as they drove away from a fight. What was his old Commander—or Officer in Charge—from SEAL Team Five up to now? Dustin ripped open the box only to find a cell phone and a note. “If you don’t call me ten minutes after receiving my awesome, one-of-a-kind gift, I’m calling you, you candy-assed bastard. And I’ll keep calling until you answer. ZQ.”

The music stopped, and Dustin sighed. Thank God. When he arrived here eight months ago, ZQ was waiting and sat with him for the first three days. He talked to Dustin when he wanted to be left alone and read him poetry by Walt Whitman, which he liked but was too stubborn to admit. ZQ’s actions only reinforced what Dustin had always known; he cared for his men.

The song started again. Ah hell, ZQ. Give me a f__kin’ break here. He swiped his index finger across the phone’s screen only to find a picture of Nance, her tongue lolling crooked from her mouth. Her one ear missing after being shot off. The day it happened as they fought their way through Al Hasakah in Eastern Syria, her handler JJ—Jerryl Jacoby—had nearly lost his mind. Hell, they all had.

They’d grown somewhat accustomed to the screams and moans of wounded men, but to hear their furry girl’s yelps ripped at what goodness remained intact within their souls.

On the cell’s photo, a sign hung around Nance’s neck that read, “Call me! Press 2.”

“Damn you, Zane Quinlan.” Dustin muttered as he shook the phone in frustration. The Commander always did know his men’s weak spots and played them to his advantage. He claimed Dustin’s was his curiosity, which it wasn’t. Still, just how had ZQ gotten ahold of Nance?

Dustin pressed two and, after a couple rings, Nance barked a response. He talked to her a minute, teasing her like he always had. “Dance for me Nance! Dance.” Evidently recognizing his voice, she whined and howled. There was some slurping, and Dustin smiled for the first time since forever. The damn, sweet dog was licking the phone to get to him…and he lost it.

Neither realizing the explosion had taken his leg from the middle of his calf down, nor seeing his mother’s tears when he initially reached Walter Reed Hospital or finding out he’d missed his dad’s funeral… Not even his wife’s—hell, ex-wife, now—revulsion when she saw his damaged body tore at him so deeply as this dog’s reaction. Why the hell was that?

JJ’s firm voice in the background calmed her, while Dustin wiped his damp face.

Then ZQ took over the conversation.

“Hey, Dust, I knew if anyone could get to you, it would be Nance. Took you long enough to call me.” His team leader sounded like he’d just finished gargling with razor blades. Shit, Dustin wouldn’t be surprised if he had. The old man was hardcore. Not that he was really ancient, but any officer who’d survived fifteen years or more in an official capacity in Special Forces was respectfully labeled as “Old Man,” just not to his face.

“Is she at the ranch or are you visiting JJ?”

“Hell, they’re here at Eagle Ridge with me. Have been for over two months. JJ adopted her when his enlistment was up. The dog still had some time to serve but, having lost an ear, the big wigs gave her an early retirement.”

“I figured JJ would do his best to keep her, as tight as those two were. Nance trusted JJ with her life.”

“Still does. I was coming from the stables when this god awful racket echoed on my dirt lane. A man rode a vintage Harley with a sidecar, of all things. The dude wore a black leather vest a few shades darker than him and a black brain bucket for a helmet. And who was sitting in the sidecar, strapped in and wearing a matching black brain bucket with “War Vet” and a Trident decal on the front? Ol’ Nance. Pretty as you please.”

Ice cubes rattled in a glass, and the sound of his sipping and swallowing filtered over the phone. ZQ was probably into his treasured double-malt Scotch. He hacked a laugh. “Soon as our pup saw me, she damn near went berserk. JJ stopped the bike and unhooked her. She cleared the side and ran like hell for my outstretched arms. I ain’t ashamed to admit I was already on my knees, crying like a damn fool baby. There was always something extra special about our Nance.”

There was a deeply inhaled breath and then a slow exhale. “I’ve got plenty of rooms here and I offered one to JJ and Nance, but both are happier sleeping outside on the ground. Some nights they sleep near the house and others they walk off to Lord knows where with a sleeping bag under JJ’s one arm and a jug of water and dog kibble under his other. Kid seems to need his space and I give it to him as long as he helps with a few chores around here. A man has to stay busy. Far as I’m concerned, he can stay as long as he wants. He doesn’t say much.” ZQ sipped at his Scotch again. "Got room for you, too, if you want it."

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Past stars who made me what I am....

By Vonnie Davis

We got our first TV in 1954, and I grew up with comedians who, with a look, a scream, a prat-fall or an over-the-edge comedy routine, could have you in stitches. And they did this with no foul language, no defaming minorities and no obscene gestures.

Each of them were classic comedic acts--memorable, unique gems. An expert in their field of vaudeville, movies or television. With their talent, they influenced a nation of young starry-eyed kids.

I can't begin to name them all. My favorites were two red heads--Lucille Ball and Red Skelton. If they were on, I was watching and smiling and wiping tears of mirth. They had a way of poking fun at themselves in such a way we could see ourselves in similar situations. That takes a special talent. And they had it by the barrels-full. Yet they were humble.

I wonder if they knew how many children they were infusing with the love of comedy? Their influence still tends to flow over into my writing. Take a writing prompt our writers' group had one week. "Write about someone taking their driver's license test." Here's what I wrote...

Ethel Feaster wore her best wig and her lucky bingo sweatshirt to take her driver’s test. She even wore her dentures—uppers and lowers—just in case the tester was a man. After all, it never hurt for a woman to make a good impression, even if she was a young sixty-six.          

        

She arrived early at the DMV testing center to wait at the double glass entrance doors. As soon as the attendant unlocked the doors, Ethel barreled in, grabbed him by the arm and yelled, “Quick! Where’s the bathroom? Taking this driver’s test has me off schedule.”

    

Ten minutes later, Ethel, barely five feet tall and marching with military bearing, exited the men’s restroom, grumbling to the startled, blushing man she’d found in there. “I’m glad we women get to sit down,” she stated. “Standing up to do…well, what you were doing back there… is animalistic.” She shook her head in disgust and took a number to wait her turn.

        

Within minutes, her number was called. Ethel walked to the eye testing station only to find it was manned by the same gentleman with whom she’d shared the bathroom experience. He rolled his eyes at her approach and then grumbled an oath under his breath. “Place your face against the viewer, please. A little closer. That’s it. Now, you’ll see four road signs. Tell me what each one means, starting with the one at the top and working down.”

        

“OK. No U-turns. Left lane ends ahead. School crossing. And…ah…road slippery when wet. Kinda like the bathroom floor after you got done.”

        

“Next screen,” the man growled through clenched teeth. “Read the bottom two lines.”

        

Squinting, the myopic woman, wearing glasses thick as Coke bottles, slowly read the bottom two lines, “M, Z, O, P, L, D and Made in China.”

        

Ethel watched with great satisfaction as the eye tester did a double take to check if “Made in China” was truly at the bottom of the screen. She had no clue, but she figured that since most everything was made in China these days, she just might get away with it. As for the letters she’d correctly recited, she’d memorized them from her previous nine attempts at taking the test.

        

The tester stamped her testing card with more gusto than was needed and jotted his initials in the appropriate box. He pointed to another set of chairs and barked, “Wait there.”

        

Ethel was extremely pleased with herself. One hurtle down, two more to go. Next was the question part of the exam. A pimply-faced young man sat behind the counter. “Ma’am, usually the driving candidate answers the questions on our touch screen, but it’s out of order today.”

        

“My, aren’t you the cutest thing.” She cut her eyes to the tester, noting that a red flush was traveling up his neck.

        

He cleared his throat. “Can you tell me what the different colors in a traffic light mean?”

        

She squared her shoulders. “Well, red means stop. Green, go,” She glanced at his bobbing head indicating her answers were correct. “And yellow means go like hell to beat the red light.” Ethel flashed him her most innocent smile.

        

“How far behind the vehicle in front of you should you be?”

        

Ethel slid her dentures around in her mouth. “Close enough to read the bumper stickers, but far enough away to avoid a lawsuit.” At his shocked expression, she said, “I don’t mean to be impertinent, young man, but I’ve already passed this portion of the test—several times, in fact. When they drug me out of here the last time, kicking and screaming, my lawyer and the Civil Liberties Union said I was being treated unfairly because of my age. That’s why I was so surprised to see that they assigned you to me. Have you been giving management trouble? You know—attitude. You haven’t been coming to work late, have you? Or been texting when you should have been testing?” She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “I hear management around here is kinda sneaky. They might have stuck you with me, so they could fire you when I throw another hellacious senior citizen’s hissy fit.”

        

His eyes widened for a couple beats. Then he stamped her testing card and initialed it. “Next!”

        

Finally, Ethel faced the driving portion of the test. The bored police officer led her through the door leading to the driving course area. “Which vehicle is yours, ma’am.”

        

Ethel pointed. “The red Corvette sitting right over there.”

        

The officer’s jaw dropped. The front fender was dented sixty ways from Sunday. The hood buckled. The passenger-side mirror hung by a cord. And the rear bumper was held on by silver electrical tape.

     

Ethel buckled her seatbelt and rummaged through her purse. “Won’t be but a minute, hon. Just need to find my driving glasses.” Like Fred Sandford in the old sit-com “Sandford and Son”, she pulled out pair after pair and laid them on the dash. Red framed glasses, gold frames, lime frames, purple plaid frames, pink polka-dotted frames.

        

“Ma’am, which pair are you looking for?”

        

“My lucky turquoise pair with the rhinestone dice in the corners.”

        

“You’re wearing them.”

        

“Oh?” She touched the glasses perched on her nose and giggled. “Mercy, I’m just so nervous.” She pulled a .357 magnum out of her bag and laid it across her lap. “It’s just for luck, you understand.” She patted it with affection. “Would you mind if I pray before I turn on the engine?” Before the officer responded, she started, “Oh Lord, please guide my car. You know how it has a mind of its own. Don’t let it jump the curb again. And tamper down the car’s urge to run through shrubbery and hedge. Help me to remember which is the clutch and which is the brake, so I get stopped in time. And be with Horace Jenson, help his broken leg to heal. Why my triple-injected engine car chose to run him down, I’ll never know. And bless my driving instructor, Edna Mae. You know I didn’t mean for her to have a coronary the last time I drove. Now, you know how this demon beast loves to go from zero to eighty in point six seconds. Please, God, control this powerful, speed-crazed engine. Finally, Lord, bless this man beside me.” She opened one eye just a crack to see if he was paying attention.”Please help him to live long enough to collect his retirement…”

Ten minutes later, a smiling Ethel Feaster strode out of the DMV, drivers license in hand.