Hollywood movie star Goldie Saint Helen comes out of a coma after a car accident with an altered identity. She now believes she is a hippie detective living in the Sixties, hired to find a missing teenage girl who is about to end up a guinea pig in a CIA drug experiment.
Goldie also thinks screenwriter Blake Deco, her husband, is an intern at her detective agency. For the time being, Blake plays along as advised by the hospital until she recovers her memory.
However, sinister plotters think it is better that Goldie does not wake up from her fantasy-and they have their reasons.
The couple finds themselves embroiled in a dangerous situation. Blake must use his past military skills as he races against the clock to save his wife before she loses her mind forever.
Praise for Far Out:
“Here is Hollywood in all its glam, seductive sleaze as a cast of greed-enabled sharks angle to glom on to a famous movie star’s megamillions. Lots of action plus insider gossip in a witty, entertaining thriller with a groovy 1960’s vibe.” ~ Ruth Harris, NYTimes & Amazon bestselling author
Far Out Trailer:
Book Details:
Genre: Thriller Published by: Running Wild Press Publication Date: January 2024 Number of Pages: 325 ISBN: 978-1955062923
As she lay on the verge along the Pacific Coast Highway under a starless April sky, a faint bleat caught Goldie’s lips. Her heart pounded irregularly as her breath whizzed in and out of her mouth. Blurry faces swam in her vision, and obfuscated voices floated through and lingered in her distorted senses. She heard maybe six; maybe more, maybe less. Her fading bleariness made it hard to tell.
Out of the corner of her eye, Goldie noticed the coils of steam spewing from the hood of an overturned Lexus underneath the mountain incline on the other side of the road. The red car had smashed into a barrier.
How did it happen?
She sucked in the salty breeze, struggling to refocus despite her discombobulation. As she writhed in pain, she felt her eyelids flicker, pulled down by her mortality.
Is it time to go?
Too soon to die.
At least let me say goodbye to…who?
Why can’t I remember anyone?
A hand repeatedly patted Goldie’s cheek, pulling her out of her stupor.
“Stay with me, okay? Don’t sleep. Help is on the way.” The soothing feminine voice kept Goldie in a state of equanimity. Her gaze strayed toward its owner, a young woman with long, dark hair bracketing a set of angelic eyes within a pale, long face etched with concern and worry.
Angel Eyes leered down at Goldie. “Do you feel pain anywhere? Blink once for yes, and twice for no.”
Goldie blinked once.
“Don’t move.” Angel Eyes gleamed with emotion. “An ambulance will be here shortly.”
“She sure looks like Goldie Saint Helen, the movie star,” came from another, astonished voice, this one belonging to a plump curly-haired girl with ringlets across her forehead. “Hey, wait a minute―it is her!”
Movie star? Who? Me?
“You sure?” Goldie heard another voice ask, this one from a man. Moments later, he inched forward, revealing himself: A blond with a surfer haircut.
“Remember Gun Kiss? We watched the movie last year,” said the curly-haired girl. “Goldie Saint Helen. She was kidnapped by a Mexican drug lord. Her husband saved her, and he wrote the original screenplay inspired by the incident.”>Mexican drug lord? Husband? What’s my husband’s name?
A chilly breeze carrying the salty air swept over Goldie’s warm body, and she shivered involuntarily.
“Someone get her a blanket from the van,” Angel Eyes demanded.
The curly-haired girl stood up and scampered away. She returned momentarily with a blanket.
Goldie felt the thick blanket spread over her right up to her neck, rendering immediate warmth.
A smile blossomed across Angel Eyes’s face. “We’ll stay here with you until the ambulance arrives. You’ll be okay.”
A sting suppressed Goldie’s attempt to raise her lips into a smile. So, she blinked once to acknowledge Angel Eyes’s statement.
Car doors banged shut, and Goldie looked up as she heard someone approach.
“What happened here?” asked a woman wearing a jumper.
Goldie looked up at the woman, but the throbbing headache behind her eyes, which had spread across her cheek and down her ears, restrained her from prolonging her focusing. She dropped her eyes, subsiding the tension.
The woman doubled over, hands on her knees, her eyes fixed on Goldie; the look in them was somewhat curious, somewhat empathetic.
“We’re not sure,” the blond man replied. “ We pulled her out of her car,” he said, pointing to the burning car. Flames unfurled from the hood, but were being fought by men with handheld extinguishers containing the fire from spreading in the interior and trunk.
“Did you kids hit her?” a beefy man asked, to which he received a volley of antagonistic replies.
The blond man stood and cocked his head towards a white van parked up ahead, along the verge. “That’s our van over there. Go see if there’s any damage, then come and apologize to us.”
The beefy man raised both hands, palms up. “Take it easy, man. Just making sure.”
“Why don’t we let the police handle it?” said the curly-haired girl.
The beefy man balked, pulling along the woman in the jumper.
Goldie saw more cars blur by, some stopping. Onlookers approached and jostled for a good spot.
“Hey, isn’t she Goldie Saint Helen?” asked a man in a yellow polo T-shirt. He took his phone out of his pocket and took a few pictures of Goldie. The camera flashed repeatedly, briefly blinding her.
“Have you no shame, Mister? She’s a human being,” snapped the curly-haired girl, glowering at the opportunist.
The man in the yellow T-shirt retreated to his car.
“Asshole.” The curly-haired girl stood up and snapped at the other bystanders. “Well, what are you people waiting for? Go ahead and take some more pictures!”
“Take it easy, I can help,” said a bob-haired woman in a gray sweater and white athletic pants.
“Nothing much to be done here, unless you’re a doctor,” Angel Eyes replied to her.
“I’m a nurse,” the bob-haired woman said. “I just thought―”
***
Excerpt from Far Out by Khaled Talib. Copyright 2024 by Khaled Talib. Reproduced with permission from Khaled Talib. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Born and raised in Singapore, Khaled Talib’s books have received reviews in Publishers Weekly and international newspapers.
The author is also a member of the International Thriller Writers.
His books have received praise from New York Times bestselling thriller authors, Gayle Lynds, Ruth Harris, and USA Today bestselling authors, Jon Land, Jean Rabe and Fiona Quinn.
Before he started writing thrillers, Khaled was a magazine journalist and public relations consultant.
When he is not writing, Khaled spends most of his time reading, baking, traveling the world.
Annalisse Drury and Alec Zavos are on opposite sides when an ex-lover from Alec’s past introduces him to his alleged son. With Alec’s marriage proposal in limbo, Annalisse accepts a key to her dream cottage—an invitation to a sheep station on South Island, New Zealand—only this time, she travels alone.
Unbeknownst to her, a mutual friend follows on the flight, and together they are confronted by two peculiar deaths—either accidental, or the deliberate acts of a psychopath.
Temuka police investigators are closing these cases too quickly. They want Annalisse to exit their country before she reveals the town’s darkest secrets. Will she return to Alec, or sacrifice their future together to expose it all?
Praise for Copper Waters:
“Marlene M. Bell’s COPPER WATERS is a well-written murder mystery with descriptive scenes, an intriguing setting, and enough push and pull between the characters and within the plot to keep readers engaged.” ~ IndieReader
“Marlene M. Bell is a master storyteller when it comes to the cozy mystery genre.” ~ Book Review Directory
“Copper Waters is an entertaining and fast-paced mystery, where small-town intrigue, family drama, and a high-stakes whodunit will deepen readers’ affection for the tenacious Annalisse.” ~ Self-Publishing Review
“Copper Waters is emotional and thrilling, surprising and life-changing.” ~ Review by Book Excellence
Review by Coffee&Ink
This novel is part of a series but you can also read it as a standalone.
When Anna and her friend Bill go to New Zealand at the invitation of a relative, Anna leaves behind her fiancé Alec and unresolved conflicts needing resolution soon. But first, to New Zealand on a much-needed getaway. Of course, things are not going to be relaxing in anyway and two people are dead within the short time they’ve been there. Anna almost accidently makes a third.
The clues pile up as Anna and Bill try to take in the lovely scenery in the South Island, eat a lot of fried food, and worry about Alec. But they only make sense of the deaths after a heartbreaking confession.
This cozy mystery is a bit different than many of the punny titles out there. I liked this novel, the ending surprised me, and I loved the setting. I really loved learning about New Zealand—I haven’t read anything in this setting in a long time, so it was refreshing. Also, there’s sheep!
Anna is an interesting character—she appears to be mature enough to trust herself and her intuitions, yet human enough to doubt them. Fortunately, it’s her good instincts that lead to the solving of the mystery of the Copper Waters.
Copper Waters Trailer:
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery (cozy type) Published by: Ewephoric Publishing Publication Date: December 2022 Number of Pages: 342 ISBN: 978-0999539491 Series: The Annalisse series, Book 4 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
Chapter Five
Homicides R Us
“Bill, get left!” I yell while checking for oncoming traffic. That’s when I notice a group standing in a semicircle near a driveway—around limbs. From here, it looks like a person’s body.
“Oh no.” I stare through the windshield.
We slow to a stop and park near the curb of a strip shopping area, leaving our engine running.
“We should help.” I jump out to investigate. Women wearing rompers and a guy in greasy mechanic’s overalls are standing over someone on the pavement.
“What happened?” I ask Bill, jogging to the scene and scanning the narrow two-lane road where no other vehicle has pulled over other than us. A familiar beige fishing hat lies a few feet from the victim.
“A mad driver went on a strop!” a female screams from the gawking crowd.
“It’s Alastair,” Bill mutters, his words loud enough for me to catch them. “Did he have a heart attack or did someone hit him?”
Bill reaches the bystanders on Main Street before I do and throws his arm out, blocking me with his body and a stern glare.
“Annalisse, would you please wait in the car?”
“Can’t someone help him?”
“It’s too late for that.”
I change my mind about approaching Alastair. He’s in a bad way if Bill wants to shield me from viewing him. Travelers like us from the US who allow a local to drive their rental car will shoot us to the top of the authority’s suspect list—even if Ethan sent Alastair to pick us up at the airport. Our first day in Temuka and a nice old man is sprawled out dead on the road less than an hour after he stepped out of our vehicle. We’re so naive when it comes to learning the customs of another country before making the trip. Why didn’t I research this?
I can’t help but think of the police encounters we’ve participated in and the hours of interrogation that happened not too long ago. This time we aren’t witnesses to the crime and weren’t in close proximity of Alastair when he was hit.
Who is Alastair McGregor, really? A chilliness penetrates my hands. Why did he insist on walking along the roadside? Did he want to throw himself in front of a moving car, or is this just an accident?
I wave Bill over at the same time one of the women throws up what appears to be her luncheon salad near Alastair’s prone body. I’ve seen no movement and try not to think about what’s staring me right in the face.
Bill speaks to the male witness and returns to the car. “I hope you didn’t see him like that. According to one of the witnesses, Alastair was strolling his usual path. He takes this walk each day, rain or shine, and his reputation precedes him. They all know him well―a businessman and an environmental activist from their community.”
“Was he hit by a car, or did he collapse in front of traffic?”
“He was struck from behind, then the car came back around to finish the job.” Bill shudders.
“Not an accident?” I’m in utter disbelief. “Activists make enemies. Alastair mentioned a protest next week at Bluebasin Lake. I hope someone didn’t do this on purpose to keep him from the protest.”
“His cranium was crushed. Brain matter everywhere. The crime appears to be more deliberate, according to the ladies who saw the whole thing.”
My fish and chips crawl up my throat where I can taste them again. I close my eyes to Bill’s description of the crime scene and try not to relive it in my mind.
“There’s no chance he could survive?” I ask.
“No way. His head was mashed under the tires. Once struck, he didn’t have a chance to get out of the way. Per the eyewitnesses, the driver sped through like a crazy person in a rage.” He verifies the navigation while we’re stopped and makes his U-turn in the road.
“Shouldn’t we wait around for the police?” If we take off, won’t that look like we showed up to make sure—”
“This country has a constitutional monarchy where England runs the show here. I’m not familiar with how a monarchy works, not yet anyway―homework for later. Let the police interview witnesses who saw the incident as it happened. We’ll go down to the precinct and tell them how we met Alastair and when we saw him last.” Bill glances into his rearview mirror. “I should also bone up on the local government in Temuka. We’re tourists in their country and should understand our rights before going to the police.”
“The cottage is that way.” I point over the seat.
“We’re taking the scenic route. I don’t want to drive past that crowd with police on the way and remind them we could’ve staged this. It’s not like they know us.”
Poor Alastair. If he didn’t meet us, he might still be alive. “I wish he wasn’t sent to the airport to pick us up.” I say what Bill could be thinking.
“We didn’t do this to him. A person in a dark Land Rover did,” Bill announces without warning.
“They saw the car? I hope the driver gets what’s coming for murder. Knowing the make of the car will narrow down the suspects. How many Rover models can there be in a town of a few thousand people?”
“Land Rover has an entire line. Remember, we’re in a British Commonwealth, and Land Rover is a UK company. You might not have noticed how many Brit vehicles we passed leaving Christchurch. Tons. They aren’t all the boxy type we think about,” Bill says. “The police will have their work cut out finding the hit-and-run driver if witnesses didn’t get a license.”
My heart sinks for Alastair’s daughter. “Whoever gets the nasty job of notifying Alastair’s daughter, I pity that person. Before you returned with the rental car at the airport, I spoke to a woman named Jenny at the sweet shop. She may hear about it first.”
“Immediate family notification isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Why?”
“The women had strange expressions when I brought up his family in a general way. It seems that Sidney and her son died two years ago, with Alastair at the wheel of their car.”
My hand flies to my mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“According to them, Alastair’s alone and has no living relatives.”
The ache in my heart increases, as does the sadness.
“The family were in a car accident together, and he was the sole survivor? That’s painful just thinking about it. Why did he tell us that his daughter owns, present tense, the shop on Whaler’s Street? I thought Jenny was an employee.”
“Jenny could’ve stepped in to take over the shop for Sidney, and Alastair might’ve been so lonely after her death that he took on the taxi service to give himself purpose.”
“Whoa. It takes a story like Alastair’s to remind us not to squander our time with friends and family.”
“So true.”
“I’m glad we ate when we did because there’s no way I could handle food after all this mess. Who ran Alastair down in broad daylight—without fear of being seen and then drove away?”
Bill’s detour takes us to the cottage cutoff from the opposite direction. It’ll add a few extra miles, but I don’t mind when we have so much breathtaking countryside to absorb. I power the window down as we pass gigantic, smooth-barked, native trees filled with noisy birds that include hooked beaks and fat little bellies. Purple wildflowers that look like asters dot the meadows, and plants shaped like Scheffleras grow from the bases of those big trees.
A faded green sign marks the dirt road to Woolcombe Station’s cottage on an idyllic triangular property marked by old fence posts. Pristine hedges and more flowering shrubs in pinks and yellows line the wooden porch to the main entrance. Shed dormers break up the A-frame roof, a dead giveaway for their heavy snows during winter. As per Ethan’s description, weatherworn gray planks in vertical lengths give the home a rustic, country feel. Crisscross windows in washed-out white casings add to the ambiance, but the most glorious part of this little house is the pond and stepping stones that wind to the rear. Water spilling over rocks nearby from a stream to our left pulls me in to its sound. The trickle and movement of water is so calming.
We park next to clumps of small pampas-like grass finely maintained by a groundskeeper, I suspect. Not a blade of ground cover is out of place. Mowed volunteer grass on the outer yard matches what’s near the porch—a landscape that looks utterly natural and not at all commercially grown.
“The cottage is larger, and the outside is cleaner than I expected. Quaint and pretty. Ready to check out the inside, or would you rather get some exercise?” I ask Bill.
“Inside first.”
Bill’s standing behind me as I dig into my tote compartment that holds Ethan’s box with the key. I slip the key into the slot and the door opens to a spacious world of twenty-by-twenty neutral tile and monochromatic sage-green area rugs. Two leather armchairs side by side and an exquisite nubby sofa crowd a large, calf-height, wooden coffee table similar in color to the gray exterior of the home. A vaulted ceiling adds size to the space, an illusion of a much larger dwelling than it is.
“Chic. Someone has a knack for decorating.” I glance into the ugly mustard-tiled kitchen. “Ugh. Spoke too soon. We have early seventies over there.”
“Not a guy’s pad, that’s for sure.” Bill wanders past me, leaving the vast room for a short hallway. “Looks like two bedrooms and a main bath,” he remarks loud enough for me to catch his remark from the end of the hall.
The kitchenette is cubbyhole small, as if it’s been left that way from a modern renovation of the living room. One bright window has a view to the pond from booth seating made from the same nubby fabric as the couch. The stove and oven are a single-unit throwback from the Nixon administration, with electric elements and a tea-stained, harvest gold range top.
“Not exactly gourmet cooking appliances.” My fingernail scrapes off some of the old grease. “I see a lot of takeout in our future. Are the bedrooms nice?” I stroll to the hall and smell the pungent odor of fresh paint.
“Rooms are clean. Dresser, mirror, and a queen-size bed in each.”
“I believe we’ve solved our travel problems, having only one car between us. Since the cottage is in the boonies, if you’d care to use the other bedroom, I’d like you to stay here. Having someone in the house will distract me from noticing paranormal activity at night.” I’m holding a straight face but about to burst from his expression. It’s priceless.
“Is that right? Alec didn’t mention that you see ghosts.” Bill settles himself against the wall, with wide eyes and hands hidden behind him.
“Drake, lighten up already. I’m kidding. We have enough to worry about without people in the hereafter joining our vacation.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind?” Bill’s lips flatline. “I don’t want to impose.” He hesitates as something stirs behind his eyes.
“I’ll let Alec know the arrangements, don’t worry. Unless he plans on showing up unannounced? I don’t know what the two of you talked about.”
“He knows he’s being slightly overprotective, but it’s well-founded. Trouble seems to like you… a lot.” Bill shoves a hand in his pants pocket and twists his mouth into a pucker.
Alec does the same pocket thing when he’s frustrated with me.
“Come on.” I bump him on the elbow. “I want you to camp here. Alec trusts you, as I do.”
Bill’s serious nature is absorbing everything I say as truth. I’ll have to be careful teasing him. He hasn’t crossed any line since we met last year, so I feel protected in his presence, as if Alec were here. “I hereby promise not to make a nuisance of myself. Cross my heart.” I cross myself and hold up the Boy Scout salute. “Scout’s honor.”
He looks at the sofa and touches it as if soothing the fabric. “Considering the incident with Alastair, it’s a good idea not to hang around town for lodging until we talk with police and explain how he showed up at the airport.”
“I agree. The last time you spoke to Alec, what was his general mood?”
“Crazy worried,” Bill says. “In his shoes, I’d be the same way.”
I drop my gaze to the floor and consider how I left Alec with Noah. “He put you on the flight because you’d keep me from harm. You can’t do that from a motel in town. I’ll call Alec and give him the details about Alastair and tell him you’re staying at the cottage. I considered keeping the hit-and-run from Alec, but he should be told everything.”
“I’ll bring in our things. Thank you for taking pity on a detective out of his element.” He’s outside before I can thank him for his mediation.
Homicides R Us is back in business.
***
Excerpt from Copper Waters by Marlene M. Bell. Copyright 2022 by Marlene M. Bell. Reproduced with permission from Marlene M. Bell. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Marlene M. Bell is an eclectic mystery writer, artist, photographer, and she raises sheep on a ranch in wooded East Texas with her husband, Gregg.
Marlene’s Annalisse series boasts numerous honors including the Independent Press Award for Best Mystery (Spent Identity,) and FAPA— Florida Author’s President’s Gold Award for two other installments, (Stolen Obsession and Scattered Legacy.) Her mysteries with a touch of romantic suspense are found at her websites or at online retail outlets.
She also offers the first of her children’s picture books, Mia and Nattie: One Great Team! Based on true events from the Bell’s ranch. The simple text and illustrations are a touching tribute of compassion and love between a little girl and her lamb.
Are you still struggling with your book? Feeling overwhelmed or creatively blocked with self-doubt, fear, and general anxiety about what it means to write a book? Are you still wondering if you have what it takes to even write a book?
Not all fears are created equal.
Write Out Loud is a step-by-step guide to help you identify the fears that are keeping you from sharing your story so you can beat them back and finally write your book with confidence. In Write Out Loud, you’ll learn how to:
• identify the source of your self-doubts and fears
• validate your book idea
• gain self-belief (in your story and in your ability to write your story)
• start writing your first draft with confidence
• feel comfortable talking about your book idea
• And, yes, much more!
Amazon bestselling author and ghostwriter Naomi D. Nakashima brings her experience of helping authors to write and publish their books along with her training as a psychotherapist to walk you through the sometimes painful process of facing your fears and sharing your story. If you’re ready to finally sit down and start writing your book without the fear and anxiety, read Write Out Loud: How to Get Over your Fears and Build the Confidence to Finally Write Your Book.
I really like this book, a primer for the writer taking you from the first glimmer of wanting to tell a story all the way through to the first book’s launch. A very relatable voice, positive and upbeat with the author’s personal experiences underlining the important lessons. It’s a broad and basic guide that leads the potential author through the many steps to publication and beyond.
There are a lot of writing books out there. I’ve got more than a couple of shelves’ worth in my office and even more in my kindle. I found this book a refreshing update on writing and publishing now. It’s not about technique—no snowflake methods, no zigzags here. It does lay everything else out step by step in a very comprehensive, un-scary way. I highly recommend this book for beginning and struggling writers who want to write and publish but are afraid or bogged down for one reason or another. The writing, the story comes first before everything else. Once that’s done, she’s got excellent tips and tactics for author platforms, social media, and finding an agent.
About the Author
Naomi D. Nakashima is a bestselling author of nonfiction, a ghostwriter with 20 years experience, a trained psychotherapist, and a TikTok writing coach with thousands of followers who attend her coaching events and regular Q&As. Everything I Need to Know About Parenting I Learned from Watching Star Trek, her first book published under her name, became an international Amazon bestseller and stayed on the bestseller list for step-parenting and blended families for three years.
As a single mother of two, Naomi daydreams about spending her free time reading books, diamond painting, and traveling the world.
Mort’s first goal on returning home to Brisbane after retiring from the armed forces is to investigate his wife’s death…
With a post-mortem trail that presents him with scandalous industrial espionage and both police and political corruption within Queensland, Mort finds his colleague Pig is the only one he can trust as he delves into the depths of putrid filth in his home state. Together, they must combat this insidious situation, battle not only rife politics and procedures but also outlaw bikie gangs out to protect their own interests.
With a skillset learned from the front-line military, Mort and Pig’s journey is filled with intrigue and danger and ultimately comes to a climax that will see them at the brink of their own existence with only the air in their lungs to keep them alive…
One answer has many questions…
Praise for You Killed My Wife:
“A great read… Suspenseful and exciting with every turn of the page and well researched and captivating characters… Excellent…” ~ Daniel, Indie Book reviewer
Book Details:
Genre: Australian Thriller Published by: Shawline Publishing House Publication Date: June 2023 Number of Pages: 320 ISBN: 9781922993045 (ISBN10: 1922993042) Series: You Killed My Wife, Book 1 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Shawline Publishing House
Read an excerpt:
1.
‘You killed my wife.’
There, I had said it. Finally, after all these months of wondering how it would sound. It was out there. The reaction was about what I had expected.
Dillion Benson turned his focus to me and was about to tell me to ‘F … off’ no doubt, but seeing me, he stopped. It had certainly stilled the various conversations amongst his group (and some surrounding groups as well).
Benson wasn’t the first to respond. Joe Lancaster, his boss and the detective inspector, responded, ‘And who might you be?’
‘He knows,’ I said, nodding at Benson.
Benson looked at me and asked, ‘Mort?’ He offered his hand, and I nodded and shook hands with who I believed was my wife’s killer. He continued, ‘It was an accident – the coroner has signed off on it. But I must say I am truly sorry for your loss.’
I did not say anything, just stared at him, making him and some of his colleagues uncomfortable. I am a big man and admit I do know how to intimidate.
Another of his colleagues, whose name I wasn’t sure of, piped up. ‘What do you care?
You didn’t even make the funeral.’
I turned the stare onto him, causing an increase in the tension Eventually, I replied, ‘The Army were unable to extract me, didn’t even tell me she had been killed until our mission was complete.’
I continued to stare at him, gradually broadening my look to include the Detective Inspector and Benson, and said, ‘I have read the coroner’s report. I find it intriguing it is not mentioned anywhere that you are a serving policeman, or that a blood test was carried out. So that alone makes the report interesting reading.’
I let that hang, slowly placing my empty glass on their table without breaking eye contact with Benson.
I said As I left, I told him, ‘You will be seeing me again.’
Upon this, I left the bar and the pub. There, I have set the ball rolling – let the dice fall where they will. If I had known then what those four words, ‘You killed my wife,’ would lead to, would I have uttered them?
You betcha!
***
Excerpt from You Killed My Wife by A J Wilton. Copyright 2023 by A J Wilton. Reproduced with permission from A J Wilton. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
A J Wilton is an Australian small businessman with two thriving businesses who turned to writing through the quieter times brought on by Covid. He describes himself as a ‘Hobby Author’ fitting this into his already time-poor days. To date he has written two novels in his series about Mort and Pig in what is planned to be a series of five.
He lives in the Gold Coast hinterland in Queensland. He and his wife, both inveterate travellers, look forward to exploring somewhere new, with A J able to indulge his other hobby of landscape photography. He has three adult children and three grandchildren.
If you ever did stop writing, what would you replace it with?
There might come a day my brain is not able to put words together to make a sentence, the sentence into a paragraph, the paragraphs into a scene. There might. Aging, medication, some type of injury or chronic pain might keep me from writing.
In the days when I worked two jobs and had little time to write, I still made notes and daydreamed scenes and characters, which is what I’ve always done. Off and on I published four novels and a novella, so somehow it gets done despite myself.
During Covid, I did stop writing to make masks when there weren’t any to be had. I found I enjoyed sewing, where it had been the bane of my childhood. I made boxes of masks for local shelters and sent a box to the Navaho Nation. Alopecia made me lose my hair, so there are hats and things to make. (I hate wigs.) I’d like to do more with this. I started knitting, another childhood bane unlocked. I make hats for a local shelter that gives out supplies to the homeless in Portland. I don’t find sewing as relaxing as knitting. I’m glad to have it back in my life. My mother was an artist but advancing dementia finally put a stop to that though she hung onto painting for a long time after the first diagnosis.
So IF I had a reason to stop writing, I would replace it with more knitting and sewing and perhaps try my hand at finding an art technique that satisfies the need to create. It wouldn’t be the same, but I definitely have the maker’s gene and that little critter needs to be satisfied somehow.
I hope if I stop writing or lose the ability to write I won’t notice it’s gone, because it’s devastating.
Coffee And Ink 
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