writing – Page 3 – Ned's Blog

Exercising ye olde inspirational muscle

**Barbed wire always catches my eye… (see what I did there?)**

As I mentioned a few posts ago, each morning I find a photo I’ve taken — sometimes for the sole purpose of creating these daily memes, other times to the chagrin of my kids — and turn them into a meme offering advice or an inspirational thought to share with other writers. After 25 years, I have acquired a lot of ~~baggage~~ wisdom on the subject of writing. I share these daily affirmations to my editing service’s Facebook and Instagram pages for multiple reasons.

Aside from the opportunity to offer a thought or insight that a fellow writer might be needing that particular day (it happens), it’s also a great way to jumpstart my creative day, whether working on someone’s else’s manuscript or my own. Though some celebrated writers like Hemingway had a different approach to finding their creative muse, I have found it beneficial — and this is just me — to not be passed out drunk by 11 a.m.

So, I make memes, blending images with a kernel of inspiration, knowledge, insight or occasionally popcorn. But generally it’s the first three.

No Safe Harbor — Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Detective Bill Parnelle’s black leather shoes and white tube socks mounted the stairs as he entered the squad room. During lunch, he’d accessorized his tie with ketchup and was personalizing it with a napkin when he saw Det. James Kazad from the missing persons division waiting for him. “I figured you’d get the Bettington case,” said Parnelle. “When did they call you?”

“About an hour ago. Apparently, they had to calm the father down before they could be sure about the boy and get more info,” Kazad said. He moved around to what appeared to be the front of Parnelle’s desk. Except for the chair, Kazad couldn’t be sure; piles of paperwork, candy wrappers and condiment-stained napkins made it a toss-up. “You got anything for me?”

Parnelle licked his fingers and then tossed yet another stained napkin onto his desk. “A little, but not much,” he said while shuffling through papers and wrappers. “My part of the investigation is over.”

“Already?” said Kazad. “It just happened last night.”

“I know, I know,” said Parnelle, still rummaging. “But I.A. was all over it and both the crime scene and medical examiner’s reports were like Windex — not a streak.” He suddenly stumbled onto the file. “Ah, here. Take a look. It was a clean shoot.”

“Still. Just one day?” said Kazad, flipping the file open.

“Jim, it’s not like 10 years ago. Nowadays, guys like Hollins can smell a bad shoot in a couple of hours. This one was wearing perfume.”

[Read Chapter Three HERE]

[Did you miss a Chapter? Click HERE]

No peeking at my stuff until tomorrow

**It’s Chapter Three, not porn! Sheesh!**

In the highly competitive world of unpublished mystery novel manuscripts (it’s a thing), one can never be too careful. Which is why I keep each chapter of my new book, No Safe Harbor, under wraps, cellophane and occasionally my bed until… well…

Saturday mornings at 9 a.m., when I post it for the whole world to see (apparently it really IS a small world.) So, sure, maybe I am overreacting. And maybe the teddy bear I gutted and stuffed with a Go-Pro aimed at my desk 24-7 is a bit much. But hey! It’s a M-Y-S-T-E-R-Y novel! Doesn’t this add an element of M-Y-S-T-E-R-Y by making it a secret until it’s posted? It’s so secret, in fact, that I make our dog leave the room while I’m writing each chapter in this final draft.

Sure, drafts one through three — who cares? I even let a stray cat into the room for that.

But the final draft? No way.

No Safe Harbor — Chapter 2

**A novel in the making, join the mystery — and feedback — each Saturday at 9 a.m. as I release a new chapter in the final draft of my latest book**

Chapter Two

Seven hours had passed since an officer-involved shooting dragged Roy Hollins from his bed a little after midnight. He had driven up the mid-section of Seattle to the seedy West Industrial District along Highway 99, where “Circus of the Stars” was well underway when he’d arrived. Acting as ringmaster had been Capt. Bill Whitmore, shining the spotlight on the appropriate stages while amazing feats of speculation drew gasps from the crowd. Two clowns — one from homicide and the other from Internal Affairs — separately questioned the two patrolmen involved in the incident.

In all the hoopla, the main event was practically forgotten.

Lynda Bettington was still lying under a damp canvas blanket when Hollins began his initial walkthrough of the crime scene. As lead crime scene technician, he’d been with the department for sixteen years, the last ten of which he’d spent picking through crime scenes. He still attended every seminar he could and lectured at a few of his own. Police shootings always required his presence. He was thorough, unblinking and unbiased in his investigations.

Except for Chief Hammond and Internal Affairs, he answered to very few.

[Read Chapter Two HERE]

[Did you miss Chapter One? Click HERE ]

A photographic mind… sort of

**Even if this train will never leave the station, it doesn’t mean it can’t take us somewhere**

Photography has always been a big part of my life, stemming from my early love of cinema and continuing through photography classes in high school, my many years in journalism and, now, as a way to tap back into my creative roots.

Part of the journey in this new chapter of returning to creative fiction, conjoined with helping writers through my editing services, has been a daily effort to blend the two into inspirational opportunities. The result has been a routine of beginning each day by taking one of my photos and utilizing it to illustrate an important point, tip or simple encouragement for my fellow writers. What started out as a promotional tool has developed into something I hadn’t anticipated: a morning meditation of dovetailing two of the things I love most.

It’s kind of a version of haiku, challenging myself to find the just the right words, within a limited space, that embellish a photo in a very specific way.

A (very) late but worthwhile plug

Much like my reading a book about transitioning jerkily into someone’s mid- to extremely-late 40s (perhaps even early 50s), I now, at the age of 57, offer proof that I am habitually late to every cultural phenomenon (not counting the release of Star Wars in 1977, thanks to my mom). This often leads to awkward moments with family, friends, acquaintances and the occasional stranger thumping cantaloups next to me at the supermarket as I share my excitement over a newly discovered movie, TV series or musical talent.

“Have you heard that song The Year 3000 by this group of kids called The Jonas Brothers?!? They’re really great!”

“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

“Yes! Have you heard of them? They’ve got another song called…”

“Lovebug? Hello Beautiful? Mandy? Yeah. They’re like in their 30s now. And married. Were you in a coma or something?”

*thump… thump… thump…*

No Safe Harbor — Chapter One

As flashing red and blue erupted across Lynda Bettington’s rear window, her panic turned to desperation. Dampness just short of rainfall blanketed thin layers of oil, creating a slick skin over the asphalt. Hands trembling, she fought to hold the road as the balding tires on her rusted Dodge squealed through fishtails over the slick streets. She pressed the accelerator closer to the mat anyway, racing onto Highway 99 toward Lake Washington. She knew she’d never outrun them — but if she could make it there, the roads were dark with streets spurring off every few blocks.

Losing them was her only real chance.

In the back seat, suitcases bounced and shifted, slamming against the rear doors as the car careened onto another pitted avenue along one of Seattle’s many industrial districts. The strobing police lights reflected in the rearview mirror grew wider across her face as the cruiser steadily closed the gap. Bettington spun the wheel into a hard turn, causing the car to pinball off of a concrete barrier before she righted it and accelerated through pale lamplight into a maze of narrow back alleyways. Glancing quickly into the rearview, she saw only darkness sliced by yellowy streams of alley lights. A shallow breath of relief escaped her as she turned her eyes back to the alleyway.

“Shit!”

[Read more by clicking on the book icon or HERE…]

My, um… not-very-subtle invitation

I’d like to preface this post by reminding you I was the guy who, a few posts back, was talking about how he’d realized the merits of not filling every moment of his day with projects and tasks — and the value in giving yourself permission to just “be” in the moment from time to time. So, naturally, it was during one of those reflective moments of just “being” that I calmly (and even a bit serenely) concluded: I need to finish my book.

And because I am still a recovering task-oriented work-a-holic, I decided to motivate myself by establishing self-imposed deadlines, played out publicly week after week, until it’s finished. So, starting March 4, I’ll be posting a new chapter in the final draft of my new book, No Safe Harbor, every Saturday at 9 a.m.

This is a passion project I’ve been working on since 1997. So, when you look at it that way, I HAVE been living “in the moment” and just “being” with this project for *gulp* 26 years! Now it’s time I roll up my sleeves, get back to the keyboard, turn off my Google alerts, delete Candy Crush Saga from my phone, stop being distracted by that weird discoloration on the ceiling, refrain from ordering DoorDash four times a day just because I can, not be compelled to spray Windex on any potential fungus after watching The Last of Us, and get this book done!

(Can I get an Amen?)

Survival tips for parents of teen bowlers

Today, in anticipation of the upcoming junior bowling leagues next month, I’m passing along a few tips to parents who may attempt to suffocate themselves with an empty bowling bag after listening to 24 lanes of crashing pins for five hours. Especially if, for personal reasons, you aren’t comfortable spending those hours drinking in front of teen bowlers.

My first suggestion is to invest in a tall folding chair. The taller the better. In fact, consider purchasing a portable lifeguard stand if possible. That’s because getting a prime seat to watch your son or daughter bowl depends on how willing you are to take the life of a complete stranger. Getting a good spot at the bowling alley during a tournament is like the Oklahoma Land Rush; once the doors open, parents stampede (some on actual horseback) to the most valuable territory, i.e., the mid-point between 1) the center of the bowling lanes, 2) the bar and 3) the restrooms.

Parents then frantically stakes their claim by jamming giant folding chairs together until the result is something similar to how homes are wedged together in poor sections of Hong Kong. Should something unexpected cause a panic — such as an earthquake or 300-game — it’s doubtful anyone will survive the inevitable catastrophic folding-chair collapse.

Life lesson learned from a train car

First, let me put your fears to rest; I’m not living in an abandoned train car. I’ve been passing this graffitied relic for quite some time on my travels between our home in Florence (Oregon) and Cottage Grove (still in Oregon), shuffling between newspapers for which I was once editor. As I mentioned a few posts — and yikes, months — ago, I left journalism after 23 years back in 2021. For the next year-and-a-half, I worked as a mail carrier with the U.S. Postal Service (Motto: Bringing your Amazon packages… Oh, and the mail!). But this past October, I left the USPS after a year of 6-day, 70-hour-plus workweeks with no end in sight. Time with my family had been nearly non-existent and, after coming home one day and finding our dog had been given my spot on the couch, I knew it was time to make a change.

The dog had to go.

Just kidding.

We got a cat and now no one can sit on the couch.

Ok, not really. My end game had always been a simple one: Eventually retire and spend my days helping other writers with their manuscripts, short stories, memoirs, etc., IN BETWEEN time spent smooching my wife, making key lime pies, traveling in a fifth-wheel together and making sure the dog doesn’t get my spot on the couch again.

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