It doesn’t have to be pretty, Precious, if it sings

I know it’s April, not October, Herbert, but if I want to give jagged lipstick vibes on my own damn blog, I will! (What — it’s May? Damn.)

The last years we lived in the Nashville area, we lived in Willamson County. There’s this cool town there called Leiper’s Fork. We DID NOT have Leiper’s Fork money, but we went there occasionally for a meal at Puckett’s or to go to a cool architectural salvage place there.

I wasn’t building a cathedral then, but I loved stopping in. I’ve always enjoyed repurposing things with a history. People discard the most mind boggling stuff – an oak altar rail from a defunct church with a murderous backstory, stained glass windows burned into a baked Crayola state, (half off), mismatched drawer pulls nevertheless trying to succeed in the same rectangular space.

It’s only when you’ve done without that you see it, I think. Some of the items were too special to ignore. Some were fighting too hard. It’s difficult to know if you’re not in situ.

This is the area where Michael McDonald and his family lived – we’d have the occasional sighting. (I read a biography on him earlier this year that he wrote with – wait for it – of all people, Paul Reiser! Apparently Reiser is a fanboy, and he convinced McDonald to let him help tell his story. Definitely worth a read if you don’t mind deep dives.)

The timer went off just now and when I went to the kitchen I discovered I had not put the chicken IN THE OVEN! I have to get my head out of my…cold medicine.

The chicken was rescued but it got a good scolding of spices for not reminding me it needed to be put in! (Does Reiser make chicken? I could use some help in the kitchen while I’m writing. Really he could just play keyboard and collaborate with me on a song.)

Which reminds me, I wrote a poem this morning while listening to Queen (Freddie’s ma boy!). I want to share it but she’s looking for her other shoe under the bed.

I also wrote a poem today called “Karen Russell Did It Best,” full of alligators and freak shows and tenderness. And witness. (Don’t even try to argue with me about better or best. Life is so much more than comparatives and superlatives, okay?) “Microwaving Sadness” (eh, it’s not that serious), “Scrap Wood,” “Straight from Central Casting,” “Cohabitating with Your Past,” a few others, and, oh yes, see below.

I’m just a word raccoon attempting to keep this post the littlest bit quieter so as not to scare America’s sweetheart, Sue Heck, offstage. I’ll be back tomorrow with too much jewelry and unforgivably chipped nail polish. I promise. I think I just heard you gasp.

Cinema of the Unseen

On the back of your
Leiper’s Fork barn
You project
Movies
Of the too-seen

Move slowly
And unbreak things,
St. Sebastian, She

At least Sue Heck
Had that flanneled guy show up
For her
Pumpkin patch
Showing

It doesn’t have to be pretty, Precious,

If it sings

For maximum haunting vibes, pair this post with the lyrical To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra. Or not. Nobody’s making you, know you. Once it’s out on the curb, it’s abandoned property. Hope you enjoyed the show.

Authorial Consent (Well, Someone Hit Send)

Caption: (I didn’t say how many centuries ago I built it.)

I think I’m almost over this inconvenient little cold that hijacked my week. I always get the crankiest right before I get better, and right now? I’m irritable. So here I am—me and Billy Joel again—trying to outwrite it.

Unexpected upside of this quarantine-of-one? Writing time. I can’t stop writing poems. Apparently, I’ve written enough to call it a collection. Which is both hilarious and humbling because I didn’t plan this. I just kept writing and suddenly, a pile of poems.

Tentative title: Look, I Built a Cathedral. That’s where I’m putting all these strange, overly sincere fragments I’ve been calling poems and hoping they aren’t just the remnants of fever dreams pretending to have meaning. (Pretentious and perhaps premature to give it a title, maybe, but I need something to organize me when I write. And I was shocked to see there were common threads in most of them after all, maybe even in one called “Stephen King at Midnight.” I kinda wanna try to get that one to him. Is that silly?)

Looks like I’m on a bit of a streak writing about famous men. Another poem’s called “No, Rob Lowe Is Definitely Funny”—and yes, it is exactly what it sounds like. So yeah. Something’s going on. Maybe this whole cathedral is just a fan letter in disguise.

When you get to the feminist BS calling out in some of the poems, you’ll know better. (Not that any of that is aimed at Rob. I’m not a monster and I love his podcast. And spoiler, but he has a great sense of humor.)

I’m used to interrogating sentences for logic and structure, not for assonance and consonance. But I did have an Arts Appreciation professor in college who wouldn’t let us leave class until we could clap a certain meter. I forget which one—it wasn’t iambic, that’s too easy. I was among the first rhythm-captives to be released.

His class was brutal. One night I stayed up cramming, parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant in a panic, and somehow pulled off the only A on the midterm. Color me shocked. I was homeschooling my son, taking a full class load, working part-time. I thought I’d failed.

When he handed the exam back, he just said, “Very good.” I needed that. And I’ve been able to spot a Jacques-Louis David from across the room ever since. That red, am I right?

Anyway.

One of the poems in this accidental collection is called Paging Father John Misty. I thought I was just asking him to bless my weird little cathedral—he is a “Father,” after all. One (very early) reader thought I was propositioning the good man. Which—no.

To clarify: I am not bat-signaling Josh Tillman for a booty call in that poem. Did see him live once. It was 2018, on a September lawn in Indianapolis. Weather: perfect. Setlist: divine. I ran up front periodically to take photos. And now, obviously, I have no idea where they are.

And I claim all rights to Bat-Signaled Booty Call™

Still. That little misreading got me thinking.

What happens when someone misreads a poem? Or at least not the way I meant? Am I allowed to say, “Hey, that’s not what I was trying to say”? Because, let’s be honest—how do I know my subconscious wasn’t off doing something sneaky behind my back?

You may or may not know about Barthes’ famous essay, The Death of the Author (don’t panic, we’re not going full academia here). The gist: once a text exists, it’s out of the author’s hands. Readers can interpret it however they want. I usually use it as an excuse to say: “Sure. Whatever you think. I said what I said – take it away.”

But when it actually happened to me? Authorial intent may be considered dead by some. But at this point, I’d argue for a little authorial consent before you go deciding what I mean. Or don’t, I don’t know. I’m still figuring this out. I just have to take a deep breath and remind myself to trust the reader. Or?
Oof. Authorial Consent. That might need to be a poem.

(Is there a switch for this impulse, by the way? Poet friends, don’t leave me hanging. I don’t want it to go away—but I would like to do other things occasionally. It’s like I bought a new KitchenAid attachment and lost the manual, and now the meat grinder is making mince of the bones and it just won’t stop.)

All this to say, I’m all about a good double entendre (girl, please), but what about when I’m not trying to slide into Josh Tillman’s DMs, and a reader decides my subconscious is?

First of all: how dare you?
Second: how did my subconscious get my passwords again? Hey. We’ve talked about this. No personal devices after two drinks.

Here’s a little poem for those of you ever tempted to get thumbsy at 2 am:

Well, Someone Hit Send

I regret the drunk text

less than the thing

it kept me from doing.

No reply.

It was still

a kind

of rescue.

So if the author is “dead” (poor authors; did you mean to off us?), does that mean the reader is next?
👿 All’s fair, you know. (Kidding. Unless you’re not?)

P.S. I also wrote a poem called Authorial Intent Brown Ale. It’s for the writing residency crowd—and only for those who don’t take their work too seriously. Or do. For now, it’s going into my cathedral, as strange and drunk as both it and the cathedral are.

Trying Survival Food: in a bunker with a pen and a beat-up radio

When you happen upon a fortune cookie slip in your pants pocket that says “On Thursday, your creativity will soar to new heights” and it’s Wednesday evening, you sprint to your computer to be sure you have something to gnaw on tomorrow.

A few good words, you know, an idea, maybe a story you’re stuck on. What comes to mind to share is this.

So admittedly, I watch some odd things on YouTube. I mean, off kilter is kinda my brand. Have you seen Mrs. Fallout’s videos of her opening survival food? It’s a niche channel where a woman lovingly unwraps decades-old survival food like it’s precious jewelry. Some of the videos are manky, visually disturbing, actually. In one video she opens a can of 70-year-old peaches that are BLACK. I’m like, hon, gloves please.

But here’s a pretty innocuous one featuring cookies and candy. Enjoy!

I came for the food, stayed for the music.

I swear, the main song she uses is “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire” and it charmed me so much I listened to it over and over the first time I paid attention to it. (The InkSpots, 1941) TBH, I could do without the recitation in the middle. That’s a little affected for me. Okay, it’s downright embarrassing. Kinda like when someone sings to you in public. Just. Don’t. Unless I’m a drink or two in.

My dad took a test to be a fallout shelter manager back in the day, he liked to tell us kids.

What else, what else?

Oh, right.

I woke up before 3 am again (cold medicine brain) and wrote poetry for five hours. FIVE! I didn’t know you could say so much more in so much less space with poetry. It’s like, what, condensed milk? (That’s a place holder, obviously. Please find me something more apt and email it to me. I’m begging you.)

After lunch, more poetry.  I had no idea I had so much to say. The poems ranged all over the place – some brittle, some feminist, existential angst wriggled in, as ever, and some yearning pieces, and oh yes, one schmaltzy sentimental poem that brought me to tears. Barf.

The title of one is “Shredded Journals for Breakfast.”

Another couplet: (Does this qualify as a couplet? Kinda sounds reductive – they’re not a couple, they’re a couplet. IDK, maybe they haven’t been dating very long?)

You’re not lost.

You’re just in a bunker with a pen and a beat-up radio,

Isn’t the line ‘Tell all the truth but tell it slant’?

There’s no other way to tell it, Aunty Em.

Now I’m onto Joel’s song “For the Longest Time,” which has modern day “Barkis is willin’” vibes if I’ve ever heard them.

Just so.

Fight me in the Waffle House Parking Lot At Dawn

Fight me in the Waffle House Parking Lot
At Dawn

Take out your onion rings
And hand them to your bestie

Except
no onion rings here

You can’t handle
The Roof
Wrapped in paper napkins

Shadow box
Four rounds
Or line dance your way
Back to town

Go inside,
Pick a spot
At the counter
And perform
Americana

Norman Rockwell
Will see you now

Psst…I kinda like this little freak.

(author’s note, filed under “uncertain transmissions from 3:12 a.m.”)

That, that poem(?), my friends, is what happens when you’ve taken cold medicine and are up at 3 am thinking you want to do anything but be inside your own mind. You take a line and twist it like desire and shove it into a poem. You think “Waffle House, but make it Hopper.”

If I had to name an influence on it, it’d be somewhere between Father John Misty’s Mr. Tillman and a half-remembered poem about the DQ that I read years ago.

This is what passes for clarity when you’re alone, buzzing, and full of unnamed things too G-D early.

Control: The Language

I’ve had Billy Joel’s “A Matter of Trust” on repeat this morning—
not quietly, I might add.

The music kept the blaze alive while I finished the poem that jolted me awake—
which, naturally, sparked another poem.
How do you poets hold hot coals to your chests? Holy guava dip!
I’ve no idea what to do with one except toss it from left hand to right until it cools enough to shape.
That’s exactly what I did with that first flame today.

To smother the doubt, I cranked the song even louder.
Yes, Mr. William Joel’s tune that doesn’t mean only what the title claims.
I won’t dissect it here—this isn’t about the song—but psst… that not-so-little ditty is not just about trust.

So anyway, the first poem is called “Renewal,” and it’s been rattling around in me in one form or another since I first saw the movie Logan’s Run as a kid. I just never thought I would be able to tame that particular fear with words.

I’m not ready to share it, because it’s fresh. And, to use a terribly tired and tortured word, raw.
This was meant to be the simple post—the little hand-wave,
“Hey, I wrote a poem today. Maybe take a look?”


Some days controlling language isn’t as easy as I’d like: here, have another poem. Maybe it’s foolish to share something on the same day it’s written, but I’ll either come away Joel’s fool or his king (queen, obv.). I’ll take the chance, every time, for art.

Side note: I’d pay to have a constant supply of that fire in my chest. It’s cardio by poetry. Makes me wish I smoked – I’d pace back and forth, a cigarette (minus the nicotine and, you know, real smoke) between my fingers, mumbling, laughing when I found a word, pulling at my hair when I couldn’t quite land on what I was looking for.

I remember sitting with someone once, puzzling over a title for a piece of my work. The right one came not from me: someone else had found le mot juste.

Paradoxically, the word we landed on was paradox. (Collaboration is a beautiful thing. Not essential, but fun. It was kinda like having another brain on tap for a hot moment.)

Throat clearing over now. Please accept this humble offering from my Busted Poetry Vending Machine.

Control: The Language

Before coffee,
before my overnight oats,
before I wrestled everything into the day:

the brain fire
that has burned in me for days,
subterranean Pennsylvanian coal fire,
shouldered its declaration front and center,
an overheated lover
smoldering syntax all over my
kitchen counters.

Mighty early,
mighty cheeky,
but it knows I am here for it.

The word plasma
that jumped onto my steering wheel
on Thursday
also asked for water.

I gave it a glass
before refilling my own bottle.

How many words
to an ounce?

My lips, dry,
but my soul?
quenched.

Not extinguished.

I pull up my digital day planner.
Under writing,
I put a check.

The language must be controlled,
except when it can’t
be.

Yup, Billy. Now it’s a matter of trust.

Writer Fuel

Dirty Diet Coke

This isn’t even my recipe. It was offered at the local café, and I, being the genius I am, said, “Sure,” while some small, reasonable voice inside me whispered, Hey… what are you doing?

One of the dangers of a Dirty Diet Coke—besides people mistaking it for something stronger and possibly scandalous if you tell them what it’s called —is the way it clings to your nervous system like that last leaf on a tree in winter.

Ingredients: two shots espresso, one bottle Diet Coke.

Pour over ice.

Exhibits notes of sage, somehow, after sitting for a few minutes.

This may not be my year of yes, but I’ll be damned if I let it be my year of less, I thought, when offered it. So I drank — deeply. Turns out, it’s basically an anti-sleeping potion. I wrote poetry until 3 a.m.
Did I learn my lesson?
Hell no. I repeated it the next day.

Because the poetry wasn’t all that bad—even if I was part zombie the morning after. Not that I’m sharing it yet—don’t go getting addicted to my Busted Poetry Vending Machine™. It’s still missing a few screws.

Yesterday Morning, Pre-Breakfast:

Backing out of the driveway, one last poem hurled itself onto my steering wheel—just as determinedly as the squirrel that once launched itself onto my back while I sat waiting for the gym to open. Thump.

Yesterday, I stopped the car, grabbed my phone, wrote a note.

Coffee with a friend after that—heady discussions about heady writers: Murdoch, Woolf (briefly), Jackson (Shirley, that is). We swapped notes on the books we’re reading. My friend dropped a brilliant theory about why a recent novel’s editor is prominently credited on the cover—something I hadn’t even considered. I loved that so much I think I clapped.

I wore my cute-ass bibs instead of a hat. Sat adjacent to the sun, “warming up” to my old friend El Sol. Waved at the walking crew who sprawled at nearby tables in post strolling bliss. Caught video of a squirrel nibbling at a crumb tucked into a crack at the top of the café’s stairs. (No relation to the gym squirrel, as far as I know.)

Oh, and my back hates me right now, so if anyone knows what I did to piss it off so badly, please advise. In the meantime: send ice and ibuprofen.

Meanwhile, in the Department of Sustaining This Creative Cloud:

(This recipe is brought to you by Yesterday, because sometimes blog posts are written on multiple days, especially when after cooking you end up splayed on the sofa with an ice pack pressed against your lower back.)

Every creative should have a fallback meal for those nights when you really ought to eat but don’t want to stop, oh, I don’t know… writing poetry past dinner time. And when your back says, “You can cook, but make it quick.” (Hubby would totally have agreed to takeout yesterday, but our town has so few choices.)

Enter: Write Night Chicken Bacon BBQ Pizza.

(Inspired by a pizza Hubby and I ate loooonnnggg ago at Planet Hollywood in Chicago, back when we unironically visited theme restaurants.)

Recipe:

Premade pizza crust (the kind you don’t have to refrigerate—whatever kind you want, I’m not the boss of you).

The bacon that’s about to go bad in your fridge. Fry it. Or bake it. Or leave it off. Your call.

Rotisserie chicken. White meat, dark meat, both. Choose your own adventure. Amount? To taste. Obviously.

Preheat the oven to whatever temperature your crust package recommends.

Brush the crust lightly with olive oil. (What’s that? You need an exact measurement? Who hurt you? I promise you won’t lose any points if you freehand.)

Add a generous brush of barbecue sauce. Enough, but remember, we’re not filling a swimming pool with it.

Toss on the chicken and bacon. If you’re me, add more sauce, because we both know we don’t do subtlety. *Raises eyebrows several times*

Top with shredded cheese—your favorite kind. Enough to cover but not smother. If your cheese isn’t shredded, shred it. Or tear it into chunks with your bare hands. Who cares?

Chop some green onions. Sprinkle them on top—unless you want to skip your one chance at a green veg tonight. (At least it’s not kale. I’m done pretending to like kale. Kale chips are fine. Regular kale can see itself out.)

Bake according to crust directions—assuming you didn’t throw away the package like I did. If so, wing it. Trust your instincts. You’re a grown-up. Probably.

Timer? Set one. I use Echo so I can shout at her while my hands are dripping with mango juice. (Did you just taste mango when you read that? Same. It’s a glorious fruit.)

Once baked, slice the pizza. Pair it with fruit salad (cut up fruit, add a squeeze of lemon, sweetener if you want, maybe walnuts, maybe coconut flakes—depends on the fruit, right?) and (as a separate side) whatever veggies you can scavenge from the fridge. Serve the veg with hummus or bean dip. Fiber. Your mom called and said you need it. Eat it.

Voila. Dinner is served. Total time? Fifteen minutes, maybe, assuming you cut the fruit and vegetables while the pizza baked. (Pro tip: Slice extra strawberries. Someone will definitely want them.)

Perfect for the nights you’ve been writing and cannot be arsed to make something more complicated. Or, you know… on days when your back hates you.

(And we’ll just have to wait and see if the poetry becomes anything viable. The lab promises to have the results back within a week.)

Busted Poetry Vending Machine: First Drop, No Refunds

Outdoor writing season has officially begun!
To celebrate, I wore a fun hat.
When did I stop wearing hats regularly? I don’t know—but I’m bringing them back with a vengeance.

I’m doing other things I’ve been meaning to do as well. Like write poetry. In fact, I’m finally starting an occasional series called Busted Poetry Vending Machine, right here, right now.

I’ve been both fascinated and terrified of poetry for a long time, and I’ve decided: why not? I’m always telling people that writing isn’t brain surgery, that no one gets hurt if it’s not perfect—so it’s time to take my own advice.

So there. 😛

Actually, that’s why I wore my hat today, too.

Down with others’ expectations.
Away with perfectionism and fear.

Consider this an invitation to join me in doing what scares you most—or maybe what scares you just a little. Or maybe something you’ve just been putting off.

Say the thing. Do the thing. Make the thing.
If not now, when?

Novel News

Novel number three is well under way. With three timelines and all the characters that come with them, you’d think it would get complicated—but not really.

Today, though, I spent a lot of time threading a character into a section backwards. See, I thought she wouldn’t be in what was kind of a prologue (but is now not, because—well—she’s in it).

She has been one of the more difficult characters to get inside of. Her name is Rebecca (which gives absolutely nothing away—I’m not ready for that yet), and though one of the things I do pretty strongly is give my female characters agency, I really wasn’t giving her that. I had her tamed, quieted—but today I gave her back her voice.

She thought she had to just “go along to get along.” Gross.

Today, I let her feel. I let her snark. I let her love. I let her discover.
She both protected and confronted.
She saw the greatness and the clay feet (is that a cliche?) of those around her—as well as her own.


She is now thoroughly human, at least in this chapter. I have some work ahead of me.

I’m not sure why I thought I had to smooth down her hair and soften her voice. Someone once told me she shouldn’t have ringlets because they made her seem too young. Go to hell—ringlets are fire.
(And I’m not just saying that because I have unruly, curly hair. And, occasionally, ringlets.)

It’s difficult not to villainize your characters, and yet it’s so important that you not. Our dear Rebecca was “done wrong” by another character in the novel, and yet I feel strongly that he must be a rounded character.

Was he a total douche canoe part of the time? Sure. But reasons.

Busted Poetry Vending Machine: First Sip

Dang it, I promised you a poem, and I only have a couple of lines prepared that came to me last night. Let me fiddle with them a bit before I set them down here.

Don’t judge. Judge me. Love it. Hate it.
What you think of my words isn’t any of my business.

My business is to pour you a sip of my soul and invite you to drink.
If it’s not for you, no hard feelings—go about your business.
If it is, let’s talk. I’m a pretty good listener, especially when it comes to soul music.

And your soul misses you.

Ok, here goes.

Some Said It Thundered

Some said it thundered
and I agree.
Isn’t that what happens after
the spark blows
blue
inside you
and you
wonder what happened?

1.21 gigawatts
reverberate for years,
maybe centuries.

Fictional units of power—
but tell me they don’t burn.

 

 

Author’s Note Newsletter: An Interview

I am delighted to share with you a recent interview of me over on Author’s Note Newsletter. I was approached by the lovely Lauren Chronister a few months ago with this opportunity, and I was thrilled to have chatted with her. She’s got a deep interest in the story behind the story, why writers write what they write. It’s been fun getting to know Lauren, a writer who has also spent time in Indiana.

We discuss my current novel-in-progress in the interview, so if you’re curious, take a gander. We also talk about how my long-suffering husband agreed to delay the celebration of our anniversary this year because I was deep in the writing zone that day. (And the husband of the year award goes to…To be fair, I suggested we go see A Complete Unknown, the biopic of Bob Dylan, to celebrate, which I knew he would enjoy, so maybe I wasn’t entirely self-serving.)

Lauren has moved her excellent newsletter over to Substack, so if you love conversations about books and writing, please consider subscribing. She’s a warm, talented woman, and I’m grateful she took the time to talk with me.

Psst…I have been writing several blog posts in my head, but just haven’t gotten them onto the page yet. Here’s a sneak peek: my WIP has now officially crossed the 80K mark!

Hooray for Writing Retreats

For the past four years, Barry and I have taken an annual winter writing retreat. It helps us reconnect with our writing projects—and with each other. We’ve come to really look forward to these.

This year, we chose a cute boutique hotel near the Indiana Dunes, one of our favorite places, though we usually visit in the summer. Typically, we rent an Airbnb, but last year I ended up cooking way too much. While I enjoyed that, this time I wanted more writing time.

The retreat came at just the right moment. I’ve been struggling with novel number three, while Barry is revising the novel he wrote during the pandemic. I’m a little jealous of how clean and disciplined his writing process is.

As for my novel—I’m happy with parts of it, but there are other parts that have completely perplexed me. It deals with three timelines, which might explain some of the difficulty I’ve been having.

Barry and I settled into our retreat routine easily: mornings spent writing in companionable silence in the glorious sunroom down the hall from our suite, where squirrels played in the trees, and, out the window, gently sloping hills. Afternoons were for reading or exploring, and evenings meant dining out. One night, we went to the best Italian place, where I had tagliatelle with buttered mushrooms.

I’d felt connected to my story, but there were parts I hadn’t quite managed to make any progress on. There’s one timeline—the most important one—that I had barely touched. I think I just didn’t know how to approach it. I figured this was the time to dive in. So, I set a timer for thirty minutes to focus (I’ve found the Pomodoro Method, which I first read about in Lauren Graham’s Talking as Fast as I Can, really works when it’s hard to get started).

We were into the second half hour of writing on an overcast day when it happened. The sunroom was warmed by light from a nearby lamp, I could’ve just sat there, gazing out the window, laughing at the bad weather while sipping tea and typing, but suddenly, my writing captivated me. Light academia music played in my AirPods. When the timer dinged, I forced myself to stop writing and sit back.

Barry asked how it had gone. My eyes filled. “It’s finally happening,” I said. The scene I’d been working on had finally come into view. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a great start. My novel had begun to bloom.

Since then, I’ve been inseparable from my novel. Even when I’m doing other things, it’s always in my mind. I’m rearranging pieces in my head, adding new scenes, thinking about it constantly. I’m impatient when doing almost anything that’s not writing. It’s the first time I’ve felt this way since I started the book.

I hope it continues.

Hooray for writing retreats.

What’s your favorite place to go for inspiration?

My Favorite Gumshoe, Jim Guthrie, is Back!

Rick Neumayer is no stranger to this blog. He’s a good friend of ours, and his books are delightful. From his heartfelt debut novel, Journeyman (which I was privileged to help workshop) to his first Jim Guthrie mystery, Hotwalker, I am always thrilled to hear that Rick has something new on tap. (And he and my hubby are great musical friends, having made music into the wee hours in Ireland, long after I had returned to our room to pack the night before we left Galway.)

But I digress. Below I tell you more in depth why you should read (and review on Amazon!) dear Rick’s book. First, here’s his back cover copy:

Jim Guthrie is back, and this time, the case is out of this world … literally. Louisville’s favorite private eye finds himself embroiled in a tangled web of mystery at the “Little Green Men Festival” in Hopkinsville, Kentucky. A documentary filmmaker vanishes, a mysterious monolith appears overnight, and whispers of alien involvement fill the air. But beneath the quirky festival facade lies a sinister truth. A fifteen-year-old  murder case resurfaces, tying directly to Guthrie’s current client and the missing filmmaker. As he delves deeper, Guthrie uncovers a web of deceit, greed, and violence that stretches far beyond the reach of little green men. Can Guthrie navigate the bizarre world of UFO enthusiasts, untangle a cold case, and rescue the missing filmmaker before it’s too late?

Now my take.

Richard Neumayer’s “The Little Green Men Murders” takes readers on a captivating journey through the intriguing world of rural Kentucky’s UFO subculture. In this second standalone adventure featuring private investigator Jim Guthrie, Neumayer delivers a fast-paced mystery filled with humor, suspense, and unexpected twists.

Set against the backdrop of a quirky UFO-themed festival, the novel opens with Jim Guthrie receiving a frantic phone call from Jessamine Barrett Tilford, who pleads for his help in finding her kidnapped husband, Travis. As Jim dives into the investigation, he uncovers a world of conspiracy theories, amateurish kidnappers, and bizarre festival attendees dressed as “little green men.” With a ransom demand of $500,000 looming over them, Jim and Jessamine must navigate through a web of danger and deception to rescue Travis before it’s too late.

One of the novel’s standout features is Neumayer’s adept blend of humor and suspense. When someone mentions Guthrie’s skittishness around a particular dog, he quips to his readers, “Small wonder. Next to Cybil’s dog, the hound of the Baskervilles would pale. Her Irish wolfhound stood over seven feet tall on his hind legs, with a wiry gray coat, foot-long snout, and tennis ball-sized eyes.” It’s this combination of humor and vivid, apt descriptions that bring scenes to life in his audience’s imagination.

From clever banter to unexpected plot twists, Neumayer keeps readers enthralled and amused throughout the narrative. Despite the gravity of the situation, the interactions between characters, particularly Jim Guthrie and Jessamine Tilford, are infused with humor and warmth, enriching the depth of the story. There’s a subtle undercurrent of sexual tension, yet Guthrie maintains a respectful distance and understands his boundaries.

Neumayer’s writing style is both sharp and engaging, with a narrative that effortlessly flows from one scene to the next. The pacing is brisk, immersing readers in the heart of the mystery from the very first page and maintaining momentum until the final reveal. Each chapter is brimming with suspenseful moments and unforeseen revelations, ensuring that readers remain eagerly invested in the unfolding story. Neumayer’s literary approach to storytelling elevates this book beyond mere entertainment, showcasing it as a work of literary merit.

Furthermore, Neumayer excels in creating bold and atmospheric settings. The rural landscape of Kentucky serves as more than just a backdrop; it becomes a character in its own right, with its abandoned churches, dense forests, and mysterious religious sects adding depth and intrigue to the plot. Neumayer’s descriptive prose paints a lively picture of the setting, transporting readers to the heart of the action with every turn of the page.

“The Little Green Men Murders” is a finely crafted mystery that is sure to delight fans of the genre. With its compelling characters, clever plot twists, and unique setting, this novel is a must-read for anyone looking for a thrilling and entertaining read.

On a personal note, let me say what a beautiful soul this writer is. He’s one of those people who makes your heart happy when you see an email of his in your inbox. You’re pleased to do anything for him because he’s just as generous. He’s a kind, patient, wise man, and you know the good he’s done in the world and you’re just glad he’s here. He’s endured unimaginable suffering and has only grown stronger and sweeter for it. Barry and I are so honored to call him friend.

But if you read his books, you’ll know all of that about him anyway. (And do read his books! You won’t be sorry.)