I did a good deed today.

The Eight Sentences

His smile brought her a sense of calm and a reassurance of safety as it always had.

She leaned forward to push her chair back and stand to greet him.

He waved it off, “Keep your seat. You look so comfortable, Claudia, the epitome of self confidence and bliss. Your smile is radiant.”

“Am I smiling? It must be because I did a good deed today.”

Debert nodded understanding, and returned the smile.

The Back Story

When in Manhattan, visit this great pub. It's right across the
street from Penn Station. 

Mr. Debert (DAY'-bear) is Claudia's muse and confidant. They often meet at her favorite Irish pub when she's in NYC, the tir na nOg. This conversation occurs about a half hour after her altercation with the mugger (from last week's excerpt.)

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A Year Without Killing

The Eight Sentences 

An African-American woman who appeared to be in her late sixties stepped onto the sidewalk and walked towards Claudia. That woman’s about my age, Claudia thought.

Then it happened.

Penn Station - across the street from where this scene
 occurs. Image Source: hereandnow.wbur.org

A tall skinny male Goth stepped into the black woman’s path. He grabbed the strap on her purse and jerked it from her grasp. His next decision was one of the worst of his life. He ran right into the path of a semi-retired assassin with a sense of justice.

As he passed, Claudia Barry stepped into his path and delivered a forearm to make Anthony Munoz proud.

The Back Story 

       A Year Without Killing is a work in progress and will be the third in my series of novels known as the "Barry-Hixon Conspiracy."  This is the sequel to my first book, The Tourist Killer, which ends with professional assassin Claudia Barry beginning a twelve month leave. She had planned to retire, but was convinced by her assigner to take some time off before making the final decision.

       Today's excerpt shows how difficult it will be to take off from work. It's from Chapter One.

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Paying It Forward

Recently another author invited me to participate in a “blog tour” by posting an article in which I answer several questions. Here goes.

My writing time in addition to blog articles is focused on my third novel, A Year Without Killing. This will be volume three in the “Barry-Hixon Conspiracy” series. It is also the sequel to my first book, The Tourist Killer. Writing is not my full time occupation, so it make take a while. If it all works out, maybe AYWK will be available in time for Christmas shopping.

While some books neatly fit into a particular genre, I’m not a big fan of the genre-labeling game. My first book prompted this comment from reviewer, Blaine Coleman, “The Tourist Killer is a complex story that’s difficult to pigeonhole into a single category: is it a novel about crime, international intrigue, a psychological thriller, a look into the mind of a paid assassin, or, is it a romance?” You could say that my books are “crossover” in terms of genre and that’s what makes them different.

Dale Carnegie said to speak about something that you have: 1. earned the right to speak about (personal experience) or 2. done extensive research and can speak about with knowledge. Applying his advice to writing, I write about what I know. My wife says I talk too much and she’s probably correct. My editor prefers me to use dialog to drive the story so I put my experience to work. The combination has earned kudos from reviewers for the conversations in my books. From a review of The Presidents Club, “Also intriguing are the elderly men themselves, their histories, and their opinions. Although they are, at times, catty, insulting, and sly, they seem like people we'd want to know (Hey, Louie, bring me a beer.) Etier has captured real conversations as the characters' comments overlap, entertain, and yes zing each other.”

I write for the same reason many readers open a book -- escape.

The time spent with my characters is wonderful and meaningful.

If I can escape and become totally absorbed with my characters in the story, then, perhaps my readers can also.

When I write dialog, it helps to (as they say in the theater), "get into character."

When a few weeks pass without writing, and then I return to it, I'm always surprised at how much I missed being with my literary friends.

When I begin a project, I think about characters and make notes on them. An overall story arc helps and then I write the first and last chapters. At that point, I turn the characters loose and hang on for dear life. It is often surprising what the characters do.

It is never disappointing and that’s why I love writing.

At least three of my writer friends will receive an e-mail from me soon with an invitation to answer the same questions and invite three of their fellow authors.

Guest Blog: How Do I Love Thee...Let Me Recount the Ways

Today's guest blogger is Art Hoffman, who brings us a touching story of friendship and love.

It was with a feeling of numbness, more than grief, as I read the email in the Georgia motel room on the way back from Florida. True there was some sadness. But I had anticipated news like this one day. After all, when your "high school girlfriend" is 100, the relationship stretches for weeks and months, not years.

But to hear that my precious Jeanne had died on my birthday? My life's start and her life's end all ironically packaged in one 24 hour period? 

Too much to bear, I thought, as I reclined against the pillow and sighed. My wife asked what was wrong. I told her about the email. She understood and

gave me space to simply stare at the wall.

Jeanne and Art

Instantly, my mind raced back to the day when I met Jeanne. It was October 2010 at Roosevelt High School's "all years" reunion in Chicago. What I had no way of knowing then was how fate had something special in store for both of us. My expectations were fairly simple - to reconnect with classmates from the 1960s. It wasn't until I read an article about 97 year old Jeanne Goodman in the Chicago Tribune the day before that I changed my plans. I was immediately captivated by her story as related in that article: a shy, retiring teenager, slowly blossoming into a more confident woman and then meeting the love of her life, Morris, with whom a solid fulfilling marriage endured for many decades. I am a sucker for schmaltzy love stories. There were enough such tidbits about the romantic side of that relationship featured in the article that I vowed to meet her at the reunion. 

She arrived, accompanied by one of her daughters and son-in-law. I politely asked if she would mind if my wife took a photo of the two of us. She agreed and we made small talk for a couple of minutes. I recall she asked if I played basketball on the school team. Guess when you are a petite 5 foot tall (if that) and standing next to 6'1", you will come to that conclusion. I said no and she followed with some self-effacing charm: "That's OK, people sometimes ask if I play miniature golf." She moved on to the cafeteria with her family and I thought to myself, great, I got to meet her and now have this anecdote to relate and a souvenir photo.

In hindsight, taking that photo and then sending it to her set the stage for what followed. Not flowers or candy (though I did brighten her day with these over the next couple of years). A simple 4x6 print - that was the seed. Why? Because as soon as she received it, she called to thank me and relive some of the memories from the reunion. It didn't take long though for our conversation to get around to our respective backgrounds and history. As a 97 year old, I knew she was born the same year as my own mother, Rose, who had died 25 years earlier. I began to pick up on some of the many ways Jeanne reminded me of my mother and thought again about the serendipity that brought us together that evening. But, more importantly, I sensed that our relationship was expanding.

When I learned that Morris was also born in 1913, I casually inquired where he had attended high school and she replied Tuley High School, my mom's high school. We had already established that Jeanne and I shared a classmate connection (albeit 34 years apart). I was now wondering if her Morris and my Rose had a more direct link 80 years ago and, fortunately, for both of us, I had the ability to research this further, namely Rose's high school yearbook. Without telling Jeanne I had it, we talked further and agreed to stay in touch.

Once I located it in the basement "archives", I eagerly (but carefully) leafed through the time worn pages. And there I found them, two fresh-faced 18-year-olds - she was smiling, he was more serious, staring at me
from the bottom two corners of the page (here outlined in red). Because of another welcome happenstance, the alphabet, Rose GORDON was closely linked to Morris GOODMAN.

Wow, I wondered, they likely knew of each other, perhaps Mom even sat behind Morris. Did he carry her books home? Did she help him with his homework? Did he watch her tennis matches? Was she rooting him on at his track meets? No way of knowing of course. Just as there was no way of predicting that nearly a century later this man's future wife and this woman's son would be embarking on their own high school saga. I emailed Jeanne the next day, letting her know of this discovery and promising to send a copy of that page. She didn't take long to respond, informing me that although she once had a copy of the yearbook, she no longer did and offered her reaction at seeing his photo once again. "It's unbelievable that you found my Morry...I now believe that anything and everything is possible, all of this is so emotional for me."

Her and Morry's story enchanted me. Here was a marriage begun two weeks before Pearl Harbor and suddenly ended six weeks before 9/11 when, during their nightly ritual of toasting each other with a glass of wine, Morry died of a brain aneurysm. National tragedies bookending a tale of love and absolute devotion to each other. I was charmed by the way that Jeanne praised Morry: "He opened a whole new world for me and I loved it." She met him at a dance in May 1941. "He was the cutest boy I ever saw" she recalled, "he asked me to dance, what a great dancer." And it was mutual. Morry proclaimed to fellow drivers in the streets of Flagstaff, many years later, rolling down the window and waving and smiling proudly, "You see her? She's mine. I'm the luckiest man alive."

But Jeanne became mine as well, as part of this "love affair" borne out of a chance encounter at our high school. Over the next many months, we bonded during long phone conversations, discussing current events, politics, classical music, the arts, computers and technology (and I am the one born well after World War I), health issues and, not surprisingly, the afterlife. One of her emails requested that we would "keep in touch as long as possible, after all, it's later than we think as far as I'm concerned." The occasional visits to see her in Chicago were always cherished. 

It did not take long before I became an adopted member of her family, and forged a friendship with both her daughters. All of this culminated at her memorable 100th birthday party in September where I was privileged to attend and video the festivities.

Her reaching that milestone was never assured though. Just months before, she had received the cancer diagnosis. I was not the only one who was questioning how much fighting spirit she could muster at that stage of her life. After all, she was 99. But not to worry, especially with her unwavering commitment to dance at her grandson's wedding. With pluck and grace she soldiered on through biopsies, tests and surgeries. The promised dance materialized. And four months later, the eagerly anticipated birthday party would be held on a crisp September afternoon. The "proverbial good time" was had by scores of family members and friends from all over the country.

But the sunshine and brilliant fall foliage outside the restaurant that day were symbolic for me. I knew their warmth and beauty would fade in mere weeks. The days would soon "dwindle down to a precious few." Natural forces were at work. And as all this transpired, inevitably, how would I feel? Especially because now I realized I had been given a remarkable gift.  A chance to love and be loved by a second mom. My own mom's spirit had returned via Jeanne. And now it would be departing for a second time. I began to grieve for myself, as I also anguished for her immediate family.

As we all monitored her declining health over the winter. I struggled with alternating desires. Selfishly, I wanted her to overcome the illness, ignoring the reality of the situation. But I was 

having trouble with the notion of "letting her go." If hers was a "life well lived", maybe there was still a bit more "living well" ahead. Those were difficult times for me but nothing compared to what family members were experiencing. So ultimately, it is fitting that I found the greatest comfort in what her two daughters related at the service held to celebrate Jeanne the week after her passing. Sharon noted that Jeanne was everyone's role model and a wonderful inspiration. Heidi recalled many years ago that when she asked "Mom, what will I do without you when you're not here?" Jeanne softly replied "I'll always be with you because when it is time for me to leave this earth, my heart will live within your own."

Words with very special meaning. For Jeanne and her family. For my mom and me. All of us together. Acknowledging a love that came full circle.

The Gold Trap

The Eight Sentences:

     In the darkness of her bedroom, Miriam Gold felt a hand over her mouth and then heard a whisper in her ear, “Crawl into the bathroom and call 9-1-1.”

     It was a pre-arranged course of action she and Ron had planned years ago and had never had to use it — until now.

A digital clock showed 2:30 A.M. and the house was pitch black dark — you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Ron had always felt darker was safer. 

     Ron rolled back away from Miriam as she began to slip out of the bed onto the floor. While he still lay on his back, he reached down and felt his .45 caliber pistol in its holster attached to the side of the bed, a bullet already chambered.      It felt as comfortable in his hand now as it had for over thirty years. His thumb found the safety with ease and flicked it down — he was ready to shoot. 

Ron Gold's .45

The Back Story:

     Ron Gold is a member of The Presidents Club. In this scene, he and his wife,Miriam respond to the unwelcomed visit of an intruder.

     Ron is retired from the U.S. Air Force. He was a member of a special forces group (similar to the Navy's SEALS).

     From the book: "The Golds had celebrated their sixtieth wedding anniversary two years before, when Ron was eighty. They were both in good health despite their genes — remarkable for their age. They both had high blood pressure and Ron had battled diabetes for years. With the exception of Ron’s obsession with television documentaries, they enjoyed good mental health as well." 

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Meet Abe Region

The Eight Sentences:

“One of the assistant managers had hired me. I guess it must have been about the second day on the job, I was in the men’s room with a mop and other clean up products. I’d finished the urinals, toilets, and sinks and I was about to mop the floor. Someone came in behind me and it was someone I didn’t know. His name tag told me he was the store manager. The first words out of his mouth was, ‘You’re going to be in management one day.’

“I said, ‘How do you know?’

'Nobody wants to clean the restrooms except a member of management -- I sure cleaned my share of them!’ and we laughed together.'"

Behind the scenes:

     Each Friday, my publisher, Venture Galleries, posts one of my blogs. 

     Twice a month, they feature one of my blogs as a part of their "Author's Collection."  Sunday, Jan. 19, I begin a series of blogs about the members of The Presidents Club.

     This week, we begin with the first member mentioned in either of my books, Abe Region.  He made his debut in The Tourist Killer and it was a comment by him, that sparked the idea for The Presidents Club.

What now?

 Looking for more viewers, readers, and contacts?

Join us here at Weekend Writing Warriors. The same 

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Meet the "Presidents"

The Eight Sentences:

We got 3 of the 4.

“After being around these guys for a few hours, it’s easy to see how Thibaut — or anyone — could fall under their spell.”

“Charming?” Rosemary asked.

“Irresistible!”

“Tell me more, I think I like them already,” as she clasped her wine glass with both hands. She focused on his eyes but also watched every move on his face as he spoke. 

“Only one of them works now, Abe, the first one the boss met, and the others are all retired. Of course, the bartender works. Anyway, there are two doctors, two teachers, a preacher, a former Lowe’s manager, and one ex-military.”

The Back Story:

      Dinner at Rosemary's apartment with Gerald Pointe. He's the head of security for billionaire investor, Julian Thibaut. In this conversation, he begins to tell her about the men he's met in the Louisville Tavern — the men who make up The Presidents Club.

      Today's blog begins a series of blogs, each of which will focus on one of the members of the group. Next week, Abraham Leroy Region, aka: Abe.

News

     The Presidents Club went live on NOOK earlier this week.

Please help me with some exposure by sharing this link in the social media.

What now?

 Looking for more viewers, readers, and contacts?

Join us here at Weekend Writing Warriors. The same 

link will take you to the work of dozens of talented writers.

 Check out their work, too.  Here's the Facebook link for the

 Sunday Snippett group.