The Exile

July 30, 2015 – Blog post

The Exile

In the last post, Kathi and I had moved to Tulsa to either etch out a new life, or salvage the old one. I’m still not sure which on prevailed, but when the idea for this blog series came to me, I resolved to keep it upbeat. I’m finding it difficult to adhere to that promise. However, in concentrating on the writing instead of the life behind it, I would find it easier. But how boring is that?

In the spirit of Family Vacation, the movie, we rolled into Broken Arrow, Oklahoma in a mini caravan, which consisted of a rental truck and the family car. We rented a small, but clean little house, and there began the journey.

Kathi, as she’s mysteriously prone to do, immediately snagged a new job as an accounts payable clerk. Her ability to land on her feet and hit the ground running is nothing short of amazing. The love, inspiration, and help she’s given me through the years is unfathomable. She is a Godsend.

For me, it didn’t go so smoothly. Preparing a professional-looking resume, I sent them out in droves, only to be replied to, for the most part, that I was overqualified. How can one over qualify themselves into perpetual unemployment?

Looking back, the opportunity I’d always dreamed of, that of being a fulltime writer, was staring me in the face. At the time, though, an innate fear of ending up homeless and eating from dumpsters blinded me to the potential bliss. I didn’t give up on writing. The process of immersing myself in characters and situations, helped pull me through. However, as one might imagine, the writing I produced during that period had a rather dark slant to it, resembling, I suspect, the stuff possibly found in Rod Serling’s secret closet, where he kept that which was too intense for television.

The stories were pretty bad, technically, but they served their purpose in allowing me to stretch my imagination and explore where my writing might lead. And it isn’t surprising that I would choose dark fantasy as an outlet. My love for reading began with fantasy, and my desire to write was born from reading books like, A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine Le Engle. There are times when I wish I’d stuck with the genre. In fact, the discerning reader might pick up on slight influences infused within my first two novels; Twisted Perception, and Beneath a Buried House. With Footprints of a Dancer, I attempted to open the gates a bit too much. With the fourth novel in the series, which I hope to have out within the year, I believe I’ve struck a proper balance between the worlds of mystery and fantasy. It’s my best work yet. I know we writers always think that of our work in progress, but it goes beyond that. I feel it with each chapter: This is the one.

Why did I backpedal into straight mystery?

More to come…

http://www.amazon.com/Bob-Avey/e/B002BM2VJ8

I Couldn't Ask for Anything More

My publisher and I are gearing up for some exciting contests and giveaways. Be on the lookout for further information.

There’s something to be said for organization. Whatever it is escapes me at the moment.

People often comment on my haphazard way of publishing the newsletter, releasing an issue whenever the mood strikes. Contrary to how it might seem, the publication is set up on a quarterly basis, and I try to adhere to that; sort of.

So, you might ask, what’s happened since the last breathtaking issue?

We – Kathi, David, and I – had a garage sale. This was no ordinary shindig. According to our neighborhood covenants, we’re only allowed to hold such an event once a year, and even then it’s to be scheduled on a date predetermined by the neighborhood association garage-sale wizards. The sale is a highly anticipated happening. We’ve been in the neighborhood going on four years now, and it was the first time we finally got around to participating, if you want to call it that. We’d had at least four weeks warning, and we put the time to good use, deciding in the wee hours of the night before to gather a few items and scatter them strategically across the driveway. 

What a waste of time that turned out to be, sitting in a lawn chair in a hot garage, waiting for the horde of people who couldn’t wait to buy our stuff to show up.  It might have been tolerable, had that happened. Well a few cars did trickle by, and a couple of them actually stopped. One such family had a little girl, who strolled around our pretty pathetic offering, searching for something that might interest her. 

Afterward, the defeated look on the girl’s face was just too much. Kathi ran into the house, and when she returned, she held a Barbie-themed kite in her hand, which she presented to the little girl, free of charge. The smile that came across that child’s face made it all worthwhile. You would have thought we’d given her a sack full of money.

Later we loaded up the car and went to the grocery store. Sometimes I don’t know how we stand all of the excitement.  However, I’d thought my luck had changed when I stepped out of the car and caught a fleeting glimpse of legal tender. That’s right, floating gracefully across the parking lot was a Federal Reserve note. I’m glad no one had their cameras ready. I must have looked pretty silly chasing down the ill-fated loot, which turned out to be only a piece of a ten-dollar bill.

The following Monday, I strolled happily into the bank, expecting to trade my partial bill for a new one. The lady behind the counter moved so fast that it took me back to my childhood.

 During the interlude, I recalled my stepfather bringing home a little black box, which he grinningly sat on the table. He showed me the slot on top where one was supposed to insert a quarter. Without explaining, he left the box there and went into the other room. A quarter was a lot of money to a kid back then. But how could I not put one into that slot? When I did, the box began to shake and quiver then a hand shot out and grabbed the coin. Both the hand and the coin disappeared into the little black box, never to be seen again, at least by me. 

It was a lot like that at the bank. The lady snatched the mutilated money from my hand.

“There’s not enough of the bill remaining for me to give you a replacement,” she said, “but we’ll happily dispose of it for you.”

 Wow, left without so much as a conversation piece. 

I have what I believe to be some great news. Twisted Perception, the 1^st Elliot novel in the now (I wish) infamous series, is now available in Audiobook format. Yea!!! I can practically hear the squeals of delight, coming from my adoring fans as the momentousness of this epic event dawns on them. And now, here is the link:

http://www.audible.com/pd/Mysteries-Thrillers/Twisted-Perception-Audiobook/B00XWQFALI

Please follow the link and check it out. Once you’re at the site, there’s a button you can click to hear a free sample. Charles Bice, the reader we chose, did an excellent job of portraying the characters as he tells the story. I believe you can even get the audiobook of Twisted Perception for free, if you join Audible.com. And who wouldn’t want to do that?

 I want to thank everyone who has signed up for my newsletter. I hope you enjoy reading it. If you know of someone who might enjoy it, too, please email it to them.

I also give programs for writing groups, reading groups, or any group that’s interested. If you belong to a club, which needs program speakers, keep me in mind.

You have permission to reprint, forward, or use the contents of this newsletter in your newsletter or e-zine. The only requirement is the inclusion of the following footer:

This article was written by Bob Avey, author of, Twisted Perception, Beneath a Buried House, and Footprints of a Dancer. http://www.bobavey.com.

Where do those Characters Come From?

Round and Round We Go

Picking up where we left off in the last post, what was it, exactly, that urged me off the sofa and into the writing chair?

As is often the case, the answer to the question is a bit complicated or perhaps multifaceted might be more descriptive. I’ll try to explain. Some of you might remember the cartoon character, Droopy. Those who don’t can easily look it up. Anyway, the animated pooch was famous for his droopy face, which intentionally defied and hid the emotion going on inside the character. I used to be a lot like that. However, most of us reach a point in our lives, typically around the middle-age mark, where we become disillusioned with the way things have turned out. Never being one to under emphasize things, I rode the disappointment wave with a zeal that would have made old Droopy crack a smile. Stephen King summed it up quite well when he wrote: Creative people tend to have creative breakdowns. I believe the phrase showed up in his novel, Duma Key, but I could be wrong about that.

But that’s enough of that. Long story short, Kathi and I lost everything we had and moved back to Tulsa to start over. It’s turned out all right. Rather than give in to self-pity, I directed my frustration and poured my anger into my characters, especially the villains, cathartically cleansing my soul in the process. I know, but I have to get expressive now and then.  The writing has been good for me. Through my characters and the stories they populate I’ve learned a lot about them, and about myself.

I hope my emotionally charged characters and unusual stories have, and will continue to entertain you.

 http://www.amazon.com/Bob-Avey/e/B002BM2VJ8

You Have to Start Somewhere

The need to create stories, characters in situations, seems to be a part of my makeup. However, had I not taken a certain class during my 9^th year in school, – I won’t mention how long ago that was – my novels might have existed only in my imagination.

As it turned out, typing was a required subject in those days. Otherwise, I would never have enrolled in such a class. And had it not been for Mr. Brown, who was in the habit of giving his budding typists a qualified free-time during the last ten to fifteen minutes, it still might not have clicked. I say qualified because we couldn’t leave the classroom, talk amongst ourselves, or cause any disturbances, but other than that it was ours. We could use the time to practice the day’s assignment, do our homework, or sit quietly. I did none of these things. I began typing short stories.

I truthfully don’t know where this came from. I grew up in a blue-collar family in every sense of the word.  I was taught a very no-nonsense style of life. And, quite frankly, reading, much less writing, was never discussed. I was never told it was a waste of time, but it was pretty much inferred.

Nevertheless, there I was, alone with my typewriter, and short stories, featuring a bungling superhero began spilling out. I didn’t take the stories home and I didn’t dare tell anyone I was writing them. I just left them on my desk, hoping someone would read them. As it turned out, I developed quite a following, as it didn’t take the students long to figure out who was creating the comical series.

Unfortunately, or not, depending on how you look at it, after the class was over I went back to being who I was before; a shy boy who avoided attention. Many years later, the dormant but never extinguished desire fought its way out again.  

Click the link below to read a sample of Beneath a Buried House:

http://www.amazon.com/Beneath-Buried-Detective-Elliot-Mystery-ebook/dp/B003SE7J6I/ref=la_B002BM2VJ8_1_2_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1434671286&sr=1-2

Too Much Time on My Hands

Kathi and I often have lunch in a park that’s located in an area, which is not far from where we work. One day during the May monsoon of 2015, a curious break in the precipitation occurred during one of these luncheon interludes, which offered a short opportunity that the birds and squirrels quickly took advantage of.

Feeling sorry for the critters, Kathi threw out a few scraps of bread. Typically, the birds battle it out for precedence over the handout. However, on this occasion, in the midst of the ornithological onslaught, a squirrel fought its way in and grabbed a tidbit of the soggy bread. The squirrel immediately jumped onto a wooden pole just in front of the car, where he began to eat his procured morsel, as if, in order to honor his benefactors, he chose to dine with us within the bird battlefield, rather than retreating to higher ground. 

Afterward, the weekend, now seemingly cemented in routine, came and went rather quickly. Sunday afternoon, after church, and after staring through the window at the steady rain, I step into the office to get a bit of writing done. However, as often is the case, my mind refuses to cooperate, and my hopes of diving into the world of Detective Elliot are dashed. I begin to go bonkers. I’m the type of person, who has to have something to do; all the time. This can be a good thing, but it hardly ever seems that way. I should envy those people who enjoy sitting on the couch for hours completely submersed in some television program, but I don’t. I cannot even begin to understand it. Even the thought of it drives me up the wall. But nothing else comes to mind, so I decide to give it a try.

Have you noticed that most reality programs concentrate more on personal problems between the participants than they do on what the show is supposed to be about? I love cars. I always have. When I decide to watch a program that’s supposed to be about cars, I want to see the cars, and not worry over Joe Blow getting the wrong part and missing some trumped up, artificial deadline.

And what is it with all the prescription medicine commercials? Aren’t commercials designed to convince us to buy stuff? And shouldn’t doctors be making those decisions?

I switch off the television and begin to make laps around the kitchen and dining room. The rain continues. It’s commonly believed that the amount of water on earth never changes, but gets recycled, moved around in some way. The water you drink today could have been swallowed by dinosaurs millions of years ago. I do not find this thought pleasing. However, if that is the case, it stands to reason that if one area is experiencing too much water, then other places are dealing with too little. I pray for balance, not for the rain to end, but for it to move on to areas where it is needed.

I think back to the squirrel, and how his attention seemed to be completely trained on eating his lunch. Of course I cannot know what was going on inside his furry, little head, but I imagine it all revolved around the bread. That would make a good line in a poem. I don’t think the squirrel was concerned about what had happened yesterday, and I doubt he was worried about what might happen tomorrow.

God does work in mysterious ways. Through the squirrel, he reminded me that life does not have to be complicated. Throughout the New Testament of the Bible, Jesus often makes this point, for those who have eyes to see, and ears to listen.