It’s 3:00 A.M., the hour of the wolf, that time when I usually finish writing and go for a walk. I can hear a pack of coyotes yipping down the road as they run through the vacant lot where Mr. Sims, the German Shepherd who owns me, has not been for two weeks. Coyotes usually make a detour around areas that he’s marked. Sims becomes a wolf when the moon rises. It’s uncanny how a pack of rabid wild things can read a piss message that probably says, “Don’t mess with me!”
I guess the message was washed out in the rain last week while he’s been housebound. Mr. Sims has not been up to snuff. He’s getting medication in lean ground beef twice a day. A few more days and we’ll be running down the road again; me feeling small, but tremendously alive under our big Southern sky, and Sims on his search and destroy mission to eradicate coyotes. He hasn’t killed one yet. They seem to have sixth sense that tells them exactly when we go out and they disappear.
Weird things happen in the Nevada desert in the early morning hours. If you’re the least bit sensitive, intuitive or even flat-out psychic, you can feel the energy of past Indian warriors riding bare-back around the place. I’ve had nights when I’ve heard drums in the breeze and seen vanishing horses gallop through the mist. But then, what do you expect from a gal who writes stories as told to her by a ghost?
The UFO set camps out in the desert to watch for spaceships on clear nights. Maybe they see things. The rare crunchy granola type tries to get past the almighty security at the Nevada Test Site, where Area 51 is located, in hopes of finding aliens. An acquaintance told me last week that there’s a growing number of paranormal experiences being had in the area. God knows how they tabulate weird and wonderful over delusional; I didn’t ask.
However, I do know a woman who has some kind of vortex on her land. There’s a strange force coming up through the floor in one of her buildings. I felt it coursing through me like an energy hose. No “Eureka,” moment or healing miracle occurred when I stood there, just a strong force that threatened to lift me off the ground. Perhaps I’m beyond help.
While I’m sure a scientist could explain the phenomenon, I wrote it up and put it in one of my Psychic Research files. Some day I’ll dig it out as a wonderful premise for a scene in a novel.
Until recently, I’d been spending my nights sipping a good French Bordeaux and nibbling dark chocolate, with Mr. Sims at my feet, and a cat beside the keyboard, while fleshing out a brand new character for a detective series. And then, my old friend, Charles Sutton, ghost, appeared.
After writing THE SORCERER’S CONFESSION and THE SORCERER’S PROMISE, wherein Sutton is the marvelously talented, and sexy ghost of the sorcerer we love to forgive, I felt that I needed a break. Writing from the viewpoint of a ghost can be a mind-bending experience; not to mention the amount of research involved.
At the risk of having you discover that I’m more than a little crazy, I heard his cultured English voice speaking right into my mind. It seems that Sutton has decided to be my psychic detective. The idea’s still rattling around in my head while I learn police procedure from the head of detectives at the Sheriff’s Office. My real life detective loves the idea of a ghost like Sutton assisting him. He’s reading the novels now.
There are many writers who develop characters and find themselves unable to let go. When one writes in the first person, as I do, you can’t help becoming the character. Actors have similar difficulties. Getting out of a character that you love is challenging, to say the least. Doesn’t look like I’m going to make it out for at least one more novel.
Currently, there a couple of Hollywood people looking to make a film of my 2 novels. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it…