It’s easier, but it’s also less fulfilling. Tonight I ditched my music, donned my new Vibrams, and began running.

The quiet felt eerie at first, until, step by step, I decided it was an empty page of sheet music waiting to be scored.

My path took me across a decrepit corner market. Bags of chips and bottles of hairspray competed for space on the cluttered shelves. I saw them for only a second before I was running back through time, and stepping into the market around the corner from my childhood home.

I handed the clerk a dollar bill for a bottle of Dr. Pepper and waited for change. Instead of returning my change to me, the clerk said, “What your mom does, it’s not right. She should take better care of you.”

“You have no idea what my mom does. Just give me my change.” I glared at the clerk before thrusting my hand her direction, silently demanding my change.

“I’m not saying this right,” she said, looking genuinely flustered. “I was like you growing up. It was hard. I’m just trying to help–”

“Wow, yeah, I can tell. You’re helping so much, making life so much easier for my mom, my siblings and me. We don’t need your kind of ‘help.’” I turned and stalked out of the market without my change, only seldom to return again. I had to be fierce to survive, both inside and outside of my home.

Fierce enough to run barefoot, in my mom’s memory, circa 2010

Back in May 2013, I saw I’d run a couple of blocks through the past. Returned to the present, I smiled at the teen texting while skating so slow I kept passing him. I listened to Korean karaoke and wondered if my neighborhood might not be the home karaoke capital of the world.  I shook my head at the lady who kept pounding a crosswalk button, opting to do something instead of nothing, because although the end result is the same, it feels more productive.

I’d cruised dozens of steps past her before I realized she was me. I spent six months in an unhealthy situation, telling myself that I could end it if I could just find the right words to make someone else understand my pain. “I just haven’t found the right words yet,” I told myself, pounding the button. “Maybe these are the right ones?” Pound. “Or these ones?” Poundpoundpound.

It took someone else’s flippant comment for me to realize there were literally no words I could say to them to make them understand. I’d tried dozens if not hundreds of combinations, but none of them sank in, because–here’s the kicker–no one in this world can make another person understand.

I decided it was time to chart a new course. I stopped idly pounding someone else’s buttons and stepped away.

I was frustrated with myself as I ran and remembered.

‘”Six whole months, Deb. Six months. You couldn’t figure it out sooner?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, though, picturing the lady pounding away at the crosswalk button in hopes of a green light come earlier by her actions.

Yes, I was slow on the uptake. No, I can’t change the past by beating up my past self for her actions. Somehow it’s easier to see this as I pound the pavement, step after step after glorious step.

I once plowed through the heartaches of my youth. They hurt, but they made me stronger. I pushed my way through irrepressible loneliness in South Korea, law school and Japan, in that order. I did many things right and others very, very wrong, straight up through this very evening run.

I would never have heard these tunes converge with my ears turned toward someone else’s stories in song. I would never have seen with such clarity how I have run through heartache, hardship and loss, somehow managing to gather speed instead of slowing.

Step after step after step, I run. I will never be an Olympian in the outside world, but in my inner world, as I run through past, present and future, there are no medals equal to the sheer beauty of striding through strife and into ever-increasing strength.

L.A. Marathon ’04: What is run can never be unrun

“Were you talking to me?” she asks as she shoots of a text message to someone more interesting to her than you.

You’re suddenly wondering if the reviews you read were a little overstated. But there were so many of them, you’ve got to give it a shot. You must have this magical pizza for yourself. “One extra large barbecue chicken, please,” you repeat.

“Oh, sure,” she mumbles before turning and yelling back toward the kitchen, “Rob, that’s one barbecue pizza, extra large!“

You shell out your cash as you ponder taking an Advil for your instant-onset headache. You’re still nervous but hopeful, until your pizza arrives 49 minutes later. “Miss?” you ask, patiently waiting for the cashier to notice you. “Miss?”

She glares at you, but takes out an earbud. “Yeah?”

You hold up your BBQ sauce lathered tostada with a teensy slice of undercooked chicken and say, “There must be some mistake. I ordered a pizza, but I got . . . this?” You gesture at the mishap in your hand.

“That is pizza,” she says, shaking her head. “Sauce and chicken on a flat round thing: pizza.”

You briefly consider sharing your “pizza” directly with her face, because at least then you’d get some gratification from your $23 tostada. Instead, you take a deep breath, set the tostada on the counter, and walk away. There’s a fast food joint across the street, and when they offer burgers, at least you know you’ll get a burger.

–

“Real people, real reviews,” Yelp proclaims of its site.

Taking its proclamation at face value, I signed up. I promptly wrote a five-star review of my favorite spa, and then followed it up with an even more glowing review of my son’s preschool:

After visiting the preschool and observing a few classes, I decided to see how my son felt about it. What was supposed to be a two-hour test drive turned into full enrollment that day. My son was nurtured and happy, and has remained that way since.

I did have some concerns with his teacher’s sometimes sharp insistence on “academic” achievement by her students. The way she used “academic,” it was clear she meant “obedience,” which was perplexing and troubling in light of my son’s young age. I expressed my concerns to the school’s owner, who detailed the many steps she had taken to remedy the teacher’s insistence on age-inappropriate behaviors and said she would be departing the school shortly. The tone and content of that lengthy discussion redoubled my gladness to have found this preschool.

My son’s new teacher is calm, firm and kind, as are the other teachers I witness day in and day out. And let’s be clear: the school is laid out so that every room is open and observable in its entirety from the outside. Being able to peek in on my son occasionally is sweet, but sweeter still is seeing the good lessons he’s learning here extend in his actions and words outside of class.

Noticing my spa review had disappeared, I looked into Yelp’s filter system, which makes certain reviews available only after review-seekers manually type in codes. Filtered reviews are not counted toward a company’s overall star rating.

I added a picture to my profile and wrote a couple of not-five-star reviews to increase the likelihood of my reviews showing up unfiltered on the relevant business pages. Regardless, my five-star review of my son’s preschool disappeared into the oblivion of filtered reviews. It shares this distinction with seven other five-star reviews including statements like this:

I am an educator with a Masters in childhood education and have two children.  Both kids have attended [school] for three years and I could not be happier!  The staff is ALL very professional and attentive to ALL the children.  They have great programming that keeps the kids entertained and engaged in the learning process!

And this:

My son has been attending [school] since he was 2 years old. He’s been at the school for two years and he’s doing outstanding!

I find the other reviewer funny. Hello! Infants sleep most of the day. Of course they are most often in a crib. You want them to sleep on the floor?! LOL! You expect them to learn algebra or gymnastics?!

In the meantime, the single unfiltered review (from a two-time reviewer) is a one-star review that is now the entire basis for the preschool’s Yelp rating. If a stranger were to trust Yelp, they would write off my son’s remarkable preschool as a one-star failure apt to single-handedly convert today’s children into tomorrow’s mass murders–or perhaps, terrifyingly, politicians–while simultaneously ravaging any educational progress they might have made elsewhere.

But there must be some way to get my review unfiltered, right? Of course there is! Explains extremely chipper Yelp evangelist Christine:

What we recommend is for our users to become a more active community, complete their user profiles and ultimately become more familiar with Yelp. There isn’t a guidebook to get filtered reviews unfiltered – and for good reason. It’s so people can’t take advantage of it (read: some pesky biz owners or competitors, or malicious reviewers.)

Ah, it all makes perfect sense! In order to make the experience suck less, I just need to spend more time on Yelp! Fantastic!

Or not.

Like the unwitting tostada purchaser who opened this post, I walked into one shop expecting one thing (real reviews by real people) only to find another all together (real filters working to do real damage to small businesses).

When I got that steaming pile of fetostada, you know what I didn’t want to do? Order another tostada. I was even more disinclined to buy another twenty on the off chance one would end up being everything I ever dreamed.

For now, I’m going back to word of mouth. I get much better, much less filtered results that way. Some bias is inevitable in friend-to-friend reviews, of course, but in the end, I trust my friends and my instincts far better than I trust some behemoth tostada titan’s filters, no matter how cheerfully–and Washington, D.C.-style–those filters are spun.

In sum:
Yelp: 1/5 stars

Kicking Yelp to the curb.

Do you use Yelp? If not, why not? If so, how frequently do you check filtered reviews?
Can you recommend any Yelp alternatives?

She’s always with me, as I’ve shared here before. It was only her representation, so beautifully crafted by Sina Grace some months ago, that was missing from my home.

Yesterday I drove home with that representation in the passenger seat beside me, and thought about Thunder Thighs. Love. Laughter. How blessed I am to have an abundance of these things, even when my introversion sometimes–as now–make me yearn for more quiet time to recharge.

Although Thunder Thighs is my mom, and today is Mother’s Day in the U.S., mother’s love is only a small part of what’s in my heart today. The larger part belongs not to the love provided by any one person, but to any love provided by anyone who loves–not passively or from a distance, but actively with outreached hand, heart and time offered up to others.

Whether or not you hope to be a mother, once were a mother, are a mother, a grandmother, a sister, an aunt, a daughter, or none of these things, I celebrate you today. I celebrate your acts of love and compassion. I celebrate your phone call to a friend, your donation to a shelter, your vigil with a friend whose father is dying, your care to a friend’s house when she is in the hospital, your watching a neighbor’s children so she can shop for groceries. I celebrate the light that you shine upon those within your vicinity, and thank goodness you are out there shining that light.

Upon my bedroom door there now hangs a reminder to cherish these things. My mom is no longer a phone call away, but there is love aplenty evidenced in each minute every day regardless.

Today I will look for loves’ signs, and I will celebrate each of them, no matter who originates any one of them.

No matter who or where you are,
may your day be full of love,
both received and given.

She didn’t tell me what he did for a living, or where he came from.

She tried not to talk about him much at all, which evoked mild curiosity but didn’t alarm me, even though I’d always known her prior boyfriends by no less than name, occupation, hobbies and demeanor.

It was only when my dear friend fell silent for weeks after dating the new guy that I started to feel a niggling sense of worry.

A gregarious, affable extrovert, she’d always been one to text dozens of times a day, and reply instantly to virtually any text message. I often felt guilty for replying so slowly to her texts; it can take me days or even weeks to reply to a single message.

When she failed to reply to several text messages over a few-week period, I started to worry. I texted her: I get nervous when you fall silent.

She wrote back that she’d moved several hours north of our hometown. When I read him her text message, my fiancee, Anthony, said, “She’s moving the wrong direction! She should be moving down here with us.” I said she’d probably moved with her boyfriend, versus moving just for fun, but relayed his message to her. She confirmed that she’d moved with her boyfriend, whose name I still didn’t know.

I thought, abusers try to isolate their partners. I promptly squashed the thought as the byproduct of an overactive imagination. She hadn’t said anything was wrong, apart from a mild case of moving blues.

Most my mom’s cuts and bruises weren’t from accidents, which impacts my relationship assessments

A few weeks later, my friend called and told me her boyfriend had assaulted her. She was shocked and shaken, but had quickly arranged alternative lodging for herself.

“You should leave,” I told her. “I think it’s dangerous for you to stay. You can come stay with us for a little.” I coordinated parts of her departure with her, but worried she wouldn’t leave. It’s often much easier to continue enduring known hardship than embrace the idea of enduring unknown, unquantifiable hardships. Indeed, the human imagination for possible woes is endless, so that the unknown can end up seeming much more threatening than painful situations we’ve already shown ourselves we can survive.

When my friend called me a couple of days later and said she’d probably overreacted, I stressed that I didn’t feel she had. Still, she was determined to stay and prove she was strong enough to make a home in her new locale, with or without her boyfriend.

I sighed. I prayed. And I hoped to God she’d call me if anything else happened.

–

A week and a half ago, I felt a rare hankering to read non fiction. “What was that book El recommended me? And another guy called a life changer?” I loaded Goodreads to scan my to-be-read shelf for the book. “The Gift of Fear. Right,” I murmured to myself. “I’ll give that a shot.”

I downloaded it expecting to read it a chapter at a time as time permitted. I was instead instantly captivated by the author’s clear, articulate description of indicators violence may be imminent. Gavin de Becker‘s career is violence avoidance, which involves finding commonalities in violent incidents and, understanding their clear and almost universally repeated warning signals, helping clients avoid falling prey to violence.

He quickly identified and described predatorial behaviors that have unnerved me for some time, but which nervousness I’ve long suppressed as irrational, unreasonable or silly. (More on that in my Goodreads review.)

Most importantly, he dedicated a huge section of the book to identifying warnings of partner abuse. He stressed that partner abuse related homicide is the most easily averted, if people are willing to read and respond to its indicators.

I was chilled to read the signs, but glad to have the benefit of an expert’s insight.

It’s by understanding a possibility of a threat we can work to prevent it.

I read the book in a day and a half.

Then I bought de Becker’s other books.

–

The day after I finished reading The Gift of Fear, my dear friend called me. She’d been attacked again. She’d fought back, but she was nervous.

“You should be,” I said. Unlike when we first spoke weeks earlier, my sense of warning signs wasn’t muddy or ambiguous. I didn’t feel like I was potentially making false accusations about her boyfriend by suggesting she was unsafe. “Listen, I just finished reading an amazing book that talks about warning signs of violence.” I told her about the author, and how he immediately puts the kibosh on the idea that most violence is unpredictable or without warning. I explained he’d devoted a huge portion of his book specifically to partner abuse to help reduce horrifying domestic abuse homicide rates. I asked if I could read her a list of risk signals the author had compiled just for situations like this. “If several of these apply to your situation, you’re likely at risk.”

She agreed, and I read through the whole list (paperback pp. 183-184), beginning:

1. The woman has intuitive feelings that she is at risk.
2. At the inception of the relationship, the man accelerated the pace, prematurely placing on the agenda such things as commitment, living together, and marriage.
3. He resolves conflict with intimidation, bullying, and violence.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed after a several-second pause after I’d finished reading the list. “He’s done at least 25 of those things. At least.” She mentioned he’d even come at her with a gun. She said it almost as if an afterthought, but I was terrified on her behalf. I responded with an emotional entreaty.

“Leave. Please leave.” Since I don’t know much about the specifics of doing so safely, I looked up the local domestic violence hotline and urged her to contact them. She spoke briefly to a volunteer there, then arranged a meeting for the next morning.

As we said our good nights to each other via text message, I prayed she would be safe overnight . . . and then, that she would leave.

–

Uncertain what the future would hold, she cleaned out her apartment, quickly got her affairs in order, and left.

Four days later, she reached Southern California. She spent a night with a friend before showing up at my house. My son, Li’l D, was beyond excited to see his auntie. She read him some stories and assured him she’d be there when he awakened. In the morning, he wanted nothing to do with me. He wanted only his auntie.

After Li’l D was off to preschool, she updated her resume. She sent out more than a dozen resumes and had arranged her first interview within an hour.

Two days later, she rocked that interview; her job offer came only a couple of hours later.

Walking to the store a few minutes later, we shared our elation at how quickly tides can turn when we flow with them. “Just eight days ago,” we mused, “all seemed hopeless. And now, barely more than a week later, it’s sunshine, friends and a new job.”

Sunshine & strength

–

There’s no telling for sure what might have happened if she’d stayed up north. Was bloodshed inevitable? There is no telling. Thanks to the clear, compelling guidance in The Gift of Fear, a whole set of terrifying could-have-beens became much-less-likely-to-bes.

Will everyone who considers leaving know they have a safe place to go, or find a job immediately? No. But the truth is, it’s only by leaving an abusive, violent situation that a person–usually a woman–will be better able to take her life to the natural end of its years, and to explore all the good that might yet be, if she can even haltingly accept that the certainty of abuse is not better than uncertainty that includes limitless hopeful possibilities.

–

If you or someone you know is experiencing partner abuse, or you even suspect it, please, please make use of these resources:

* National Domestic Violence Hotline: http://www.thehotline.org/or 800-799-SAFE
* Gavin de Becker’s risk assessment page: https://www.mosaicmethod.com/

You could save a life, or even–if children are involved–many lives.

There were no epiphanies. No sudden, startling events that illuminated just how important the day would prove in the scheme of my life.

There was only a party–a movie party, to be precise. My sister took me to watch (or should I say, ignore?) terrible movies with her large group of nerdtastic, boisterous, crass guy friends. I was shocked and delighted by the guys’ shenanigans, but more so, how completely and immediately they accepted me. I’d never experienced that before, nor anything like it.

–

By the time I prepared to leave for South Korea a couple years later, I knew the guys. They knew me. They teased me incessantly but lovingly. I was at home with them, so much that I had mostly forgotten what it was like to be an island unto myself.

Piete Ponyking

The evening of my farewell party, I was presented with a gift: a notebook in which all of my friends, some movie party and some not, had written out their recollections of and wishes for me. On the cover was a dragonfly drawn by my friend Piete, and inside were words that have inspired and sustained me for more than a decade since. Best of all were pages of sweet memories shared by my usually writing-averse friend Sarah, who taught me–and teaches me–better than anyone else I have ever known that friendship is in loving (if sometimes firm!) actions more than in any number of pretty words.

Sarah and me: Our very first picture as friends

–

On my most recent trip to Oregon, Sarah, Piete and their twins joined my siblings and me for a romp to the park.

Happy times

The kids were silly with tiredness as we walked home afterward. “Rock out!” my son shouted as he ran toward Uncle Piete.

With an impish smile, Uncle Piete replied, “Rock out with your chalk out!” I busted up laughing as my son, Li’l D, ran circles shouting, “Rock out with your chalk out! Rock out with your chalk out!”

The movie party felt alive in that moment. Those of us whose ages numbered in the double digits were still the kids we were back then, I saw, just with more experience, more love, and even a few kids of our own.

And now, our kids have each other.

Movie Party: The Next Generation

–

I’ve missed Oregon more than usual recently, becoming downright melancholic at the thought of my family there–my siblings, my niece, my nephews, my godmom, Sarah, Piete and their kids. As if Li’l D can read my mind, it’s in these moments of missing that he grins and shouts, “Rock out with your chalk out!”

I can’t help but chuckle, a chuckle that bursts forth from deep within me. In that silly statement, past and present converge, as do my Oregon and California lives. My Oregon family is my California family, and I can hear all of its members so loudly with my heart that I don’t need to hear them with my ears.

I’ll be back in Oregon before long. I’ll be back with my movie party crew, exulting in the sight of the next generation playing and laughing together.

In the meantime, Oregon remains within me, shining out brightest of all when my son reminds me to rock out with my chalk out.

Not remotely satisfied by the general oft-spoken assertion “you’re safer in a plane than a car,” I did my own research about the safety of flight. What remains with me three years later is not any specific statistic but the four words in this post’s title.

This page documents the last words recorded on crashed airplanes’ black boxes. Most are as you would expect–expletives, queries, statements about unexpected obstacles–but there was this one that diverged.

“Amy, I love you.”

First Officer Warmerdam, who spoke those words, survived both the crash and the resulting fire.

When I am feeling overwhelmed, I often think of those words. I wonder what, if I got a chance not only to choose them but have them relayed, would be my last four or five words. Boiling the hubbub of life down to this single question takes away any confusion or ambiguity.

Those words would be for me son. “Li’l D, I love you.” If I only got to leave a single enduring thing in this world after I pass away, hopefully many decades from now, it would be the truth imparted by those words.

My life is full of many truths, many loves and much bustle. Beneath all that is one singular truth: bustle is bustle, which comes and goes.

Love, on the other hand, comes and grows.

I liked what I saw–not the surface stuff, but the truer things beneath that. No matter what anyone else did or did not see, I looked into my own face and saw a me I wanted to be.

It was powerful. It was liberating, even apart from its inspiration, which was hope for an end to childhood cancer.

This weekend, a woman I’ve never met but admire tremendously will be shaving her head for St. Baldrick’s Team Robot Boy. Her son, almost exactly my own son’s age, has battled cancer for much of his life so far. She’s written about that here, and she’s written about his spirit on this very blog.

If you are able, please donate $5 for Robot Boy–or in honor of someone you love, in memory of someone you love, in hope for a future free from childhood cancer.

Why today? I wondered, before it hit me: I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten March 4 was the day my mom breathed her last breath. The day she was, as a text message I received March 4, 2010 stated, finally at peace.

I felt terrible. How could I have forgotten? How could I have failed to mark such a hugely important day?

A message from my friend Emily helped me see things a little clearer. At Joshua Tree the weekend before, she’d made a point to have our friend Briel take tons of oops-I’m-falling-off-a-cliff pictures meant to make her mom–who had helped deliver my son into this world–break into a sweat. Every time Emily posed, I giggled, remembering how I used to (mostly) lovingly push my mom’s buttons just because I could. And I remembered my mom, too.

My mom, whose mischievous ways meant she sometimes couldn’t understand how she’d raised such straight-laced children. Who took my brother out for ice cream the only time he got detention. “One of my kids has it in him!” she rejoiced.

Who once pierced her belly button, exclaiming mirthfully, “This way I’m rebellious and no one at church has to know!”

Who always made me giggle when she busted out her superhero antics, and made me want to be a superhero, too.

On Monday, Emily delivered the photoshopped cherry on her panic-picture pie:

“it worked lolol” — emily, whose mom asked, “are you crazy playing with a snake?!?”

I laughed from my belly when I saw it. As I laughed, I felt like my mom was chuckling with me. “I like this girl!” I could hear her saying.

Later in the evening, I got choked up when my sisters sent me pictures of my niece and nephew standing on Mom’s grave. I cried while walking the dog later still, feeling guilty anew to have forgotten. After a few minutes of sniffling self flagellation, I revisited something I’d written earlier in the day:

Feel terrible that I forgot it’s been three years today since Mom died. Feel glad, too; better to remember life & birthdays than a death day.

Seeing those words, I wiped off my tears, loaded Emily’s picture again, and giggled. Again.

Just like that, my mom felt near . . . nearer by far in the laughter than the tears.

Abandoning one slow read in the summer of 2012, I scanned through my downloads for something more suited my macabre mood. I didn’t expect to find anything; after all, I’d only downloaded a dozen books and I’d read most of them.

But I found Graveyard Blues, and I was captivated from its very first word straight through its final ones. My June 2012 review was glowing:

As a lifelong reader of horror, I’ve come to expect that most horror will neither actually scare me nor stick with me after I’ve finished reading it. It’s exhilarating to find a horror novel that engages me from its first pages and only gets better as it goes. Graveyard Blues is such a novel.

Hettie and Henry, the book’s protagonists, are some of the most memorable characters I’ve encountered not just in horror but in fiction. They’re very real, very funny characters with whom I’d be happy to travel even if the story itself weren’t so engaging. But let’s be clear: the story is compelling.

When its protagonists came up against obstacles at every turn, I found myself holding my breath and hoping all would turn out well for them . . . even if, as the story progressed, that seemed an increasingly unlikely outcome.

The end more than satisfied. Best of all, it’s not so much an end as a resting point. I normally prefer standalone books, but THIS is a series to which I’ll happily return.

It’s both my pleasure and honor to be interviewing Graveyard Blues author Reina Salt today.

Have you always felt compelled to write? If not, what inspired you to pick up the proverbial pen?

Well, as I child, I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. Actually, that’s not entirely true — I wanted to be Indiana Jones and Elvira, but failing that, I wanted to make art. For years, I painted, but I didn’t have much by way of success. When the economy crashed, I was left unemployed at my day job, battling depression on a daily basis, and trying to find more ways to channel my creative energy to make some money. I taught myself to sew, and sold things I made to people around the world for a few years. I dabbled in writing in the past, but for a long time, it was just another tool for me to make art with; an unused paintbrush, if you will. That is, until my character Henry came to me in a very intense monologue which I use in his first scene. I tried to put it out of my head several times, but he remained, persistent, and getting louder. Writing wasn’t a conscience decision for me, so much as it was a compulsion. I was driven to write after being haunted by my own creations, as it were.

Speaking of inspiration, what was your inspiration for Graveyard Blues?

There are a lot of things that inspired me in the process. I’m a huge fan of the show Twin Peaks, and there are references to it throughout the story if you look for them. Blues music has been a passion of mine for years, and in it, you can find recurring themes of pain and redemption.

And how about its characters? I don’t think I’ve ever encountered characters who felt so much like real people to me. I’d love to know how they were conceived, and perhaps (if it applies!) a little about how they changed as you wrote them.

Henry came from two places: a part from myself, and the other, from the blues. With blues music, there is the anti-hero that acknowledges their failure and tries to be better even if it literally damns them. They are a figure of toughness and a kind of grotesque honesty that resonates in all of us, and Henry was born from it. In fact, I often hear from readers that Henry is their absolute favorite, and that they really connect with him. He is the first character I imagined, and he is the reason the story was written, really. That is how strong his voice is.

Hettie was originally going to be a smaller character in the story, but as the story grew, I got to know her better, and she evolved from there. With Hettie, I wanted to write a strong character that would communicate that when trauma happens in our lives, it scars us, but we are not just the product of our suffering. You still belong to yourself, no matter what anyone has done to you. Hettie is victimized and murdered, then discarded by a monster that sees her as an object to manipulate, murder, and erase. Because that’s what serial killers do — they don’t just grab someone and hurt them, they bury them in unmarked graves or mar their faces or pose them — erasure. They control the fact that one person will die, and then they dehumanize them. For Hettie, she is literally changed by what has happened to her, but she still finds value in life.

The Hide-Behind is a monster without a name. I first read about Hide-Behinds in an encyclopedia of monsters and mythology book that my son had, and I was hooked. In the original myths, they were just creatures with long claws that looked like bears and could disappear behind any tree to prey upon lumberjacks in Appalachia and the surrounding area. They eat intestines, and have an aversion to alcohol. I took the basics of that myth, and expanded upon it to make it creepier. My Hide-Behind monster is a skinwalker whose bones can morph to fill in the blanks of his victim’s skin so that he looks just like them. It wasn’t enough to make him just a bogeyman, however — I wanted to make him the biggest and baddest of modern-day bogeymen: the serial killer. I’ve read many books about serial killers and profiling, but the inspiration behind some of the particularly repugnant beliefs and thought processes of the Hide-Behind came after I read the interview transcripts of Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer. I grew up in western Washington, and I remember the panic in the media every time one of his victims washed up along the river. The Pacific Northwest has had no shortage of serial killers, but Ridgway speaks about his victims as if they’re garbage and that law enforcement should have been thankful. He’s a nasty piece of work.

You incorporate some fascinating mythological elements into Graveyard Blues. Do you have a background in mythology that helped inspire these elements, or did they come to you as you wrote?

I have a minor obsession with mythology and folklore, which goes back to my childhood. I tried to incorporate actual myths into my story, because to me it lends a sense of realness that is absent in a story which excludes established creature lore. We tell stories to frighten, to educate, and to warn of hidden dangers. You can compare different parts of my story to different fairy tales and myths, too. I also studied the works of Zora Neale Hurston; in particular, Mules and Men, her classic collection of African-American folk tales, and hoodoo. In several scenes in my book, you can find instances of magic and ritual, all of which owe a great deal of thanks to Hurston’s remarkable efforts.

Have you ever studied writing, formally or informally? How have you developed your voice as a writer? I ask because, frankly, I’m a little* envious of your knack for plotting, pacing, character development, description, and, well, pretty much everything else applicable to any novel, ever, and most especially to yours.

For a very brief period of time, I wrote feature “fluff piece” articles for a local newspaper. It started, as many things do, with my sense of curiosity getting the better of me. On a forum for the newspaper, I’d asked if anyone knew where the local Native American (Sk-tah-le-jum) burial ground was located, and no one knew. As I dug up information, the owner of the paper was interested in me writing about my findings, which I did. I was so nervous. I must have re-written that first article something like twenty times. If I look back on it now (yes, I still have a hard copy of it, and my other articles), I wince at how amateur the writing is on a technical level, but my “voice” even then was engaging, at least. Character development is something I found the easiest, but pacing can sometimes be as excruciating to me as slamming your toes into a solid object. Thank goodness for my editor, or I would have gotten side-tracked more than once by some shiny object in the peripheral of my imagination.

I left “dialogue” out of the last question because my sister, who is also eagerly anticipating the next installment in your Night Blues series, would love to know how you craft such amazing dialogue. Care to spill the beans, or are we talking trade secret stuff here?

I am very careful when I write my dialogue to make sure to voice it out in my head as if I’m eavesdropping on someone at a cafe. If it doesn’t make sense or the natural flow of conversation would be stilted, it goes. When that fails, my editor helps point out if something doesn’t sound right coming from a character, which is really important when you’re writing from multiple points of view like I am.

What is your approach to writing novels? Do you set daily or weekly goals, or take a different tack?

Before moving to England when I was working on Graveyard Blues, I set a two-thousand word count goal for myself each time I sat down to write. Lately, I have a whole different culture, a teenager, a husband, and a puppy to adjust to, so I’m not writing as much as I’d like. That said, if you put immense pressure on yourself to write x amount in y time, what inevitably happens is that you miss a goal. And if you deal with certain handicaps, like I do with depression, then that can be a problem! The secret is that you just keep going, even when you are convinced that you are awful, or that you’d rather shoot yourself into Earth’s yellow sun than finish your book. Keep writing, and don’t be a jerk to yourself about how long it takes you.

What factors contributed to your decision to publish independently?

I read a lot on the issue of the current pricing model, pushed through by the big five publishers and Steve Jobs in an effort to squeeze companies like Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble out of the publishing industry. In a nutshell, the e-books were being priced at ridiculously high prices for the consumer, while the writers got peanuts. As of April, the Justice Department formally charged Apple and the big five publishing houses for price-fixing, so that’s a step in the right direction.

Another reason that I choose to remain indie at this point in time is that I desire more creative control. One of the scariest, most amazing authors I’ve read, Jack Ketchum, had his early books edited to the point where the whole story was no longer true to his vision, while being told it would be financially lucrative to make these changes. He had to argue for every single death scene, and was told it was necessary, but in the end, the book wasn’t rendered down into some bestselling super-book, and he had to watch his creation be effectively neutered for the sake of a squeamish publicist. No, thanks. I’ve had a few complaints about how gruesome my book is at times, but there’s always a reason for it. For instance, the black cat scene is a genuine article of blues folklore and legend that is mentioned repeatedly in many songs. It’s as much a part of the blues mythos as Robert Johnson’s soul is. Why would I make a blues-themed horror series without mentioning it?

What advice would you give to aspiring authors, whether about writing, publishing or otherwise?

I would give them the best advice I’ve ever received, from my editor. That your goal the whole time should be to write something “better than ‘Sharktopus.’” For those unfamiliar with Sharktopus, it is a made-for-television film about a half-shark, half-octopus made by the military as a “super-weapon.” I highly recommend that your readers check out the sad, hilarious trailer for it on youtube, and then let the slow realization that someone got paid actual money to write that just…sink in. If you can write something better than what you saw on that trailer, then someone, somewhere, will love it and pay for it. Forgive yourself for not being the next F. Scott Fitzgerald, and just create.

As a lifelong horror reader, I’m curious about your relationship with horror. Are you a lifelong fan, or did you come to it later, if indeed you count yourself a fan? Do you consider yourself a horror writer, or a writer who’s writing horror right now?

I have been a horror fan for as long as I can remember. My favorite films growing up were the Nightmare on Elm Street series, and a local video store — remember those? — used to do a weekly deal on their catalog titles where you could rent three for three dollars. The problem with such a great deal is that after the first month or so, you start to run out of things you haven’t seen that actually look good. So, my mom would take us to the video store and we’d have a weekly challenge to see who could pick out the shittiest films. This is how I saw every single Leprechaun title, as well as cinematic masterpieces like Three On A Meat Hook, Stuff Stephanie in the Incinerator, and Lair of the White Worm. Horror is my first love, and I have no qualms with labeling myself as a horror writer.

When will the next novel in the Night Blues series be published? (Please say tomorrow!)

Hopefully soon! I’m still working on the first draft of the sequel, Mojo Hand Blues, but I’m very close to the end. There are a ton of new characters, both monstrous and wonderful. Sometimes they’re both at the same time. I hope to have it out by mid-summer, and I’m really excited about it.

Are you working on any other writing projects? If so, count me in for reading any and all of them!

I wrote a short story for Christmas called Winter about a village that is terrorized by Santa, who is basically a Wendigo. I wanted to share that feeling when the snow is on the ground, and the nights are cold, and add a little horror, and an aching hunger. That’s more of a horror that relies on tension than Graveyard Blues, but anyone that’s interested can find it on my Facebook page where I discuss writing and my books. (https://www.facebook.com/Graveyard.Blues.book)

Other than that, tentative plans have begun for an “in-between-the-books” collection of short stories that would tell you what’s happened with different characters between Graveyard Blues and Mojo Hand Blues, as well as potentially have some back-story. The good thing about my characters is that they have a wealth of stories to tell; the only problem is picking which one.

–

Do you have any questions for Reina? If so, please leave them in comment–
and don’t forget to check out Graveyard Blues, available at Amazon for your immediate enjoyment!

Find our more about Reina on her blog and Twitter

* OK, so “a little” is possibly a blatant lie.

“Good timing,” I told her, stifling sniffles. “I was just about to get to a really sad part of this book, The End of Your Life Book Club.” I gave her a brief synopsis of the non-fiction book, in which a son writes about the informal book club he and his mom shared during the last two years of her life.

“Hmm,” she replied, before asking how I was doing.

Twenty minutes later, I thanked her profusely. “I just can’t tell you how thankful I am for you. I mean, where would I start?”

She smiled. “I’m in this line of work because I want to help heal people.”

I thought of our meeting as I trekked out to my car, but I was too ravenous to think very clearly. I downed some much needed protein and iron in a Del Taco parking lot before beginning my forty-minute drive back home. I flipped on the radio and was immediately catapulted back in time by the opening notes of a beloved song.

Young me sat in the local library, reading about Ryan White, a teen who died of AIDS in 1990. I read about a singer named Elton John, who sang the song “Candle in the Wind” in Ryan’s honor the day before Ryan died. And, no matter how stoic I usually was by default, I had to struggle to hold back tears when I read the song’s lyrics.

Some months later, I was playing Monopoly with my siblings around our dining room table. As usual, I was winning, because I was the eldest child and I chose–and strictly enforced–the rules most favorable to me. A song came on the radio, and I smiled.

I like this song, I thought. But the lyrics reminded me of something. Why did they sound so familiar?

It hit me: I’d read them as I learned about Ryan White, there in the library. I didn’t bother with feigning stoicism, because there was no way I could have feigned it. I pressed my face to the table, shielding my head with my arms lest my siblings laugh at me, and sobbed.

And I would have liked to have known you
But I was just a kid
Your candle burned out long before
Your legend ever did

Candle

My heart ached for Ryan, who would never play Monopoly with his family again, nor hear another song on the radio. But, though I ached, I found there was something good in my sadness. Feeling for someone else took me out of feeling miserable about my own circumstances. When I felt empathy, I had no room left over in my heart to feel angry, or irritable, or anything other than whatever it was I felt for someone else.

It took me another decade to understand that empathy would be essential to my escaping depression. It would be still another decade and change before I’d hear the song on the radio and find my heart overflowing with thanks to hear the song through adult ears, and to do so at that exact moment.

My heart was already full, thanks to Mary Anne Schwalbe, the woman about whom I’d been reading when my doctor interrupted me. Even as Mary Anne prepared to leave this world, she remained concerned for those who would remain in it after her. She made her son Will, whose tender rendition of her last months and readings allowed me the grace of knowing of her, revise a blog he’d written to let family and friends know she didn’t have much time left.

She made him add the following, which was the last thing I read before talking with my doctor:

Mom watched Obama’s speech and was encouraged by it. She thinks he did an excellent job on the speech, and that it will help get us some kind of health reform this fall, which the country desperately needs.

Even at the end of her life, Mary Anne was busy advocating for others. She listened more than she talked, and encouraged those around her to listen more. It was hard for me not to think of her as I talked with my new doctor, who listens much more than she speaks.

“I’ve never had a doctor who really listened, you know? I just–it’s amazing,” I told her before we dived into discussing lab results. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Actually, that reminds me,” she replied. “Do you know, they did a study. You know how long, on average, it takes before a doctor interrupts her patient?”

I shook my head. “How long?”

“Eighteen seconds. Eighteen.”

My jaw dropped, but then, I wasn’t really surprised. Never before this doctor have I found a doctor who listened so keenly. During our first visit, she listened to me for fifteen minutes straight before she interjected with a question. Fifteen minutes. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with anyone–medical professional or otherwise–who let me talk for fifteen minutes without interruption. I certainly haven’t afforded anyone that care.

I smiled through tears as I listened and drove. I thought of my preteen self, crying for someone she’d never meet and wishing he could have had more time. I thought of my new doctor, and how safe I feel when sitting with her. When we sit face to face, she is fully with me. It doesn’t matter that she has another patient to see after me, or another dozen after that, or that she’s working a long shift at the hospital this weekend. While she is with me, she is with me.

Attuned

I thought of Mary Anne, and how safe other people must have felt in her presence, knowing they were with someone who tirelessly listened and heard. Even when she knew she had but days left, she listened.

My heart remained full throughout the day, straight through the moment when I picked up the book to read its last chapters. One passage in particular drove straight through my heart:

Why didn’t I say this thing or that thing? I’d had the perfect opportunity when discussing this book or that. Eventually I came to realize that the greatest gift of our book club was that it gave me time and opportunity to ask her things, not to tell her things.

A blog was brewing from the moment I heard “Candle in the Wind” in the car hours earlier, but those words cinched it. Those were the words I needed to read to tie it all together. To understand the call I felt.

On Friday, three things converged to bring me closer to understanding: a song, a doctor, and an avid reader I only met in the pages of her son’s book about their end of life book club.

I can write till my fingers fall off, and talk until I’m blue in the face. I can get it out as much as I want, but I will never be content if I’m not also letting it in. As much as I talk, I must also stop to listen. It is in listening–to a song, to the silence in someone else’s listening, to words of others’ joy or sorrow–that I will remember I am but a fragment of this beautiful world.

Observing

I want the people around me to feel as I do in my new doctor’s presence, and as Mary Anne’s friends must have felt in hers. I want to listen, and to hear. I want to remember what it was like the first time I understood, thanks to “Candle in the Wind,” that the world is much, much grander than my small part in it. More than that, I want to feel that. Constantly. Endlessly.

When I am gone, I want to be remembered not only for the words I spoke, but for the words those around me know I heard.

It will be challenging to change. It will take time–probably a lot of time.

I’m game. But enough about me.

Tell me about you.