Saturday, July 4, 2020

Raymond Benson’s "Blues In The Dark" is #173 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION


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****Raymond Benson’s Blues In The Dark is #173 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.  All INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links are at the end of this piece

What are the dates you began writing Blues in the Dark and when you completely finished Blues in the Dark? Blues in the Dark was written in 2017, between March and September. The publisher (Arcade Crimewise an imprint of Skyhorse Publishing) did the editorial work in early 2019, so perhaps one could say it truly wasn’t finished until then… but the work I turned in to the publisher was finished in September 2017.

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? I work in my home office. Location research was performed in the summer of 2017 in Los Angeles for a little over a week.

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I work directly on the computer in Word. I always outline my books. This is 15-20 pages, a single-spaced prose treatment broken out with block paragraphs (each representing a chapter in the book) that describes the plot points necessary per chapter. 
         
          Once the outline is done, then I write a scene per day and never revise until I’m finished with the full first draft. This helps me to establish pace. Sometimes I play music, that doesn’t bother me. I usually write during the hours 10am – 5pm, but there are days when I’m still working at 10pm at night!

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as references.  This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.

Karissa arrived at the house on Harvard Boulevard at dusk and pulled into the garage. It had been a productive day, but still a frustrating one. She and Marcello still didn’t seem any closer to resolving what direction they should take. Part of her wanted to drop the idea of doing a film about Blair Kendrick because it seemed so fraught with problems, not to mention the threats to her career and personal life. On the other hand, she was deter­mined to forge ahead and stand up to the bullies who thought they could dictate what her company could make or not. Some intangible force was pushing her toward uncovering Blair’s story and the truth about what had happened to her and Hank Marley.
She entered her home, put her purse on the kitchen counter, and walked through to the foyer. The mail had already been dropped on the floor through the slot. Still, she had gotten into the habit of peering out the door to check the front of the house. Opening the front door, she stepped onto the porch, and her eyes caught a splash of color over by the swing.
A vase containing a bouquet of flowers sat on the seat.
“What in the world?” she said aloud.
She walked to the swing and saw a little white envelope addressed to “Blair” attached to the vase with tape. The flowers were peonies, carnations, and roses. Very pretty.
If this is from Willy, trying to get in good graces with me again . . .
Karissa took the envelope in hand and opened it. She removed the card and discovered that nothing was written on it. The front and inside were blank.
“What the—?”
The bullet struck the front of the house before she heard the retort of the gunshot in the street. It took a full second or two to realize what had just occurred. By then, another round thud­ded into the front door as she instinctively jumped backward and leaped to the floor of the stucco porch. The scream came next as she rolled.
Panicking, Karissa started to crawl to the door, but stopped when she saw that would break what cover she had. Instead, she slithered closer to the protection of the short wall that ran along the edge of the porch. Could a bullet go through the stucco? It wasn’t very thick.
She reached for her phone—but gasped when she remem­bered that she’d left her purse in the house. She was helpless.
The sound of a car revving its engine broke through her thoughts. Wheels screeched on the road and the automobile took off. Karissa raised her head above the wall and saw a black sedan speeding away. It had happened too quickly for her to get a good look at it.
Breathing heavily, she got back on her feet, gazed into the yard and street, and figured she was safe. Her heart was pound­ing in her chest like a drum. Her legs shook as she struggled to keep from collapsing.
Was it Barry Doon’s car? The BMW?
She couldn’t swear to it.
Karissa bolted for the front door and went inside, leaving the flowers on the porch. She ran back to the kitchen, found the phone in her purse, and dialed 911.

The police had come and taken her statement. A forensics team arrived a little later and pulled the two rounds out of the front of the house, bagging them as evidence. Now there were two ugly holes, one in the exterior wall and another in the door. The cops had also taken the vase of flowers and the card. Karissa assumed they’d check for fingerprints.
Curious neighbors had come out of their houses to investigate why police cars were congregated in front of the mansion. Nothing to see here, folks, move along . . . ! She was embarrassed and mortified that she would be the subject of gossip and mis­trust in the neighborhood. Whatever goodwill she had hoped to establish with her neighbors after moving in was now dashed.
A plainclothes officer who introduced himself as Detective Madison interviewed her after he arrived on the scene a couple of hours after the incident. He seemed weary and disinterested, as if a drive-by shooting was nothing new. Karissa told him her suspicions.
“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You think this was done by an executive at Ultimate Pictures in an attempt at stopping you from making a movie?”
“I know it sounds incredible, but, yeah, that’s what I think.”
He looked at his notes. “And you think the shooter’s name is . . . Barry Doon?”
“That’s right.”
“You sure about that?”
“No, I’m not sure at all. I didn’t see him. I just know that he’s verbally threatened me and my business partner, and we’ve caught him stalking us.”
“He said he was going to kill you?”
She shook her head. “No, he didn’t say that exactly. He just—”
“How did he threaten you?”
Karissa was tired and annoyed with the man’s line of question­ing. “It was more like intimidation. He told me not to continue my research.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else . . . he didn’t say. It was an implied threat.”
The man looked skeptical. “Uh huh.” He wrote something down and reread his notes. “These flowers that were delivered, you don’t know who sent them?”
“No.”
“Ex-boyfriend? Ex-husband?”
“Like I told the other officers, I’m in the process of a divorce. My ex-husband is an actor, Willy Puma.”
“Willy Puma? The guy from Meat Grinder?”
“That’s him.”
“Huh. I like those movies.” He wrote it down. “You think he might have done this?”
“Honestly? No.”
“Well, we’ll see if he has an alibi. You have his contact information?”
She gave him Willy’s address and phone number. “Look, Detective, those flowers were placed on the swing so I would be forced to walk over and stand in a spot that made me a target. Whoever had the gun was waiting for me to do that.”
“Good thing he missed,” the man said.
Duh. Karissa wanted to shake him.
The detective eyed the distance between the bullet holes and where she had been standing. “If you ask me, whoever it was is a lousy shot. Or he intentionally missed you.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock when Detective Madison finally gave her his card, gathered his things, and departed, saying, “If you have any more trouble, don’t hesitate to call.”
Oh, thanks, that’s very helpful.
When she was alone in the house, Karissa texted Marcello and asked him to call her if he was still up. It seemed he wasn’t.
She was starving but was too exhausted and wired to do any­thing elaborate for a late dinner. Instead, she had a bowl of cereal and four glasses of wine.
It was pathetic.
When she was finished, Karissa sat in Blair Kendrick’s easy chair near the grand piano in the parlor. Photos of the movie star were all around. The actress in them stared at her, all smiles and bright eyes.
Halfway drunk, she asked aloud, “Is it worth my life to make a movie about you? Why should I? What happened to you and Hank Marley? What happened in that studio office when Eldon Hirsch was killed? Did you really have a baby? Who the fuck were you?”
Karissa wondered if the now-familiar ghosts lingering in the expansive ballroom of the old house would answer her questions, but the room around her remained silent.

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? Not sure how to answer that except that it’s a scene that hopefully increases the threat to the protagonist (Karissa) in the context of her goals in the story. Balancing the physical action with her own inner thoughts, as well as what’s realistic for the story, is always a tightrope act.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked-up rough drafts of this excerpt. Hmm, no, I really don’t want to dig out drafts and supply that. I feel that working drafts, especially with an editor’s markups, is personal to an author and just between the author and the editor. Thanks for asking, though!



Anything you would like to add? A new novella will be published in September or October 2020 entitled Hotel Destiny—A Ghost Noir.

Raymond Benson is the author of approximately 40 published books, the most recent being BLUES IN THE DARK (Oct. 2019), IN THE HUSH OF THE NIGHT (May 2018), and THE SECRETS ON CHICORY LANE (October 2017).
     Among his several original suspense novels, he is the author of the acclaimed “Black Stiletto” saga that began with THE BLACK STILETTO in 2011 and continued with THE BLACK STILETTO: BLACK & WHITE (2012), THE BLACK STILETTO: STARS & STRIPES (2013), THE BLACK STILETTO: SECRETS & LIES (2014), and THE BLACK STILETTO: ENDINGS & BEGINNINGS (also 2014).
He is mostly known for being the third–and first American–writer to be commissioned by the James Bond literary copyright holders between 1996-2002 to take over writing the 007 novels. 

     In total, he penned and published worldwide six original 007 novels, three film novelizations, and three short stories. An anthology of his 007 work, THE UNION TRILOGY, was published in the fall of 2008, and a second anthology, CHOICE OF WEAPONS, appeared summer 2010. His book THE JAMES BOND BEDSIDE COMPANION, an encyclopedic work on the 007 phenomenon, was first published in 1984 and was nominated for an Edgar Allan Poe Award by Mystery Writers of America for Best Biographical/Critical Work.
     Using the pseudonym “David Michaels,” Raymond is also the author of the NY Times best-selling books TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL and its sequel TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL—OPERATION BARRACUDA.
Raymond’s original suspense novels include EVIL HOURS, FACE BLIND, SWEETIE’S DIAMONDS (which won the Readers’ Choice Award for Best Thriller of 2006 at the Love is Murder Conference for Authors, Readers and Publishers), TORMENT, and ARTIFACT OF EVIL.
A HARD DAY’S DEATH, a “rock ‘n’ roll thrillers,” was published in 2008, and its sequel, DARK SIDE OF THE MORGUE, published in March 2009 and nominated for a Shamus Award for Best Paperback Original P.I. Novel.
Also published in 2008 was the novelization of the popular videogame, METAL GEAR SOLID; its sequel, METAL GEAR SOLID 2—SONS OF LIBERTY, was published in the fall of 2009.
With John Milius, Raymond penned HOMEFRONT: THE VOICE OF FREEDOM (2011). HITMAN: DAMNATION was published in 2012. DYING LIGHT–NIGHTMARE ROW, the tie-in prequel to Techland’s videogame “Dying Light,” was published in Polish in 2015 and in English in 2016.
In the late 1980s and first half of the 90s, Raymond worked as a computer game designer for various companies. For his work in this field he is the recipient of the Newsweek Editors’ Choice Award, the Parents Choice Award for Excellence, and two Digital Hollywood Awards.
Raymond also spent over a decade in New York City, directing numerous stage productions off-off-Broadway and composing music for many other shows. Raymond has taught courses in film genres and history at New York’s New School for Social Research, Harper College in Palatine, Illinois, College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, and currently presents Film Studies lectures with Daily Herald movie critic Dann Gire. Raymond was honored in Naoshima, Japan, with the erection of a museum dedicated to one of his novels, and he was also an Ambassador for Japan’s Kagawa Prefecture between 2006-2018.
An accomplished pianist, Raymond regularly performs solo at various local venues. Based in the Chicago area, Raymond is an active member of International Thriller Writers Inc., Mystery Writers of America, the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers, a full member of ASCAP, and served on the Board of Directors of The Ian Fleming Foundation for sixteen years.



https://www.facebook.com/raymondbenson1


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SNAPSHOT “Old Lady”
by Eliot Parker

#166 06 04 2020
Noir Crime Novel
SKIN OF TATTOOS
by Christina Hoag

#167 06 06 2020
Coming of Age/Historical
THE ORPHAN COLLECTOR
by Ellen Marie Wiseman
#168 06 08 2020
World War Two Historical Fiction
THE PRISONER’S WIFE
by Maggie Brookes

#169 06 09 2020
Novella
(about the 1960s,
Rolling Stones in their exile,
genocide, it’s survivors, and
people from places that no longer exist.)
BLUE COAST MYSTERY:  ALMOST SOLVED
by Nick Sweeney

#170 06 11 2020
Family Life/Coming of Age Novel
THE EXTRAORDINARY LIFE OF SAME HELL
by Robert Dugoni

#171 06 26 2020
Women’s Divorce Fiction
QUEEN OF THE OWLS
by Barbara Linn Probst
#172 07 01 2020
Short Story “The Belindas” from the Short Story Collection LOVE WAR STORIES
By Ivelisse Rodriguez

#173 07 04 2020
Organized Crime Thriller
BLUES IN THE DARK
by Raymond Benson

Friday, July 3, 2020

Guest Blog Post by Writer Stephanie Menendez "Black American Girl"


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Guest Blog Post by Writer Stephanie Menendez
“Black American Girl”

Until I was old enough to understand, I hated my naturally red tinted hair that casted off ember ringlets in the sun. I hated it as much as my fair black skin because others hated it. I hated my hair until age thirteen when my aunt put chemicals in my hair to straighten it and it fell out. When it grew back, it was darker and coarser. Only then did I appreciate having hair regardless of color and texture. 
     My coffee skin had too much cream to be considered to be black enough by some black people but not light enough to pass for white. The tight curl pattern of my hair did not pass the white test. Children of interracial relationships were frowned upon and treated worse in the 70’s. Though my parents are black, uneducated people did not fathom the genetic possibilities that I was and will always be black not mixed, biracial or albino just simply light-skinned.
 When I was seven-year-old, I had two friends named Maria and Angela. Maria was a white girl who lived in the trailer park. Her hair always looked like it never got washed. Her skin was so dirty at times that she compared her skin to mine. Maria and her family were outcasts. Black and white people often hissed and said negative things about them. They were often called trailer trash and pissed-poor. I shared my lunch with Maria when she didn’t bring lunch and we played together whenever I chose not to jump double-dutch. Maria missed two to three days of school every week so my time was easily split between her and Angela. Angela had the perfect brown skin. Her hair was long and straight without chemicals. Her ponytails bounced and fell as she jumped between the two ropes. Angela and I were always double-dutch partners and we were good. 
     One day, we were challenged to a double-dutch tournament to prove that we were the best. Maria had been absent from school all week but returned on the day of the challenge. I told her that I could not play with her. She ran away crying and told her older sister. Her tall lanky sister from the sixth grade came and grabbed my arm while I was waiting for my turn to jump in the ropes. She spat words in my face but “nigger” was the word that turned my face red and stopped the ropes from turning. Angela’s sister was there in a flash and pushed the other older girl. I watched as the pushing escalated until Maria was accidentally knocked to the ground and screamed. I ran to her as blood dripped from her elbow.      

     I looked up and both older girls stared down at me like I was a common enemy. “It’s time for you to decide if you want to be black or white,” Angela’s sister said. I stared up at the crowd before standing slowly and backing away from Maria. I lost both friends that day as I walked to the swings and sat alone. 
     Every day, for weeks I sat alone on the swing until some boys came over and ask if I knew how to play basketball. They needed another player and they didn’t care about my skin. It didn’t matter that I was a girl as long as I could play ball. For four years, boys were my only friends. My brother and his friends became my friends. My family thought I couldn’t make friends. I never told them what happened with my friends at school and no one asked. For years into my adulthood, I avoided race-relations and tensions. I could feel it coming. I could see a potential race issue before it surfaced and if possible, left the situation or braced for the fallout.
When I was seventeen, I walked to work at a rehab facility for institutionalized teens with severe and profound mental and physical disabilities. The job paid significantly below minimum wage at three dollars an hour. Residents and staff were black, brown and white and everyone got along. I felt comfortable there but walking the three blocks to get there in a predominantly white neighborhood had challenges. I walked with my head down but always alert. There were no sidewalks but people did not want you walking on their lawns. Cars zoomed by with enough wind speed to make me sway. I took chances of running onto lawns to avoid being splashed by puddles.
     On one section of the street, a guardrail blocked cars from driving off the road into a deep ditch. I increased my walking speed to get passed it before the next car would come flying by. Then, the day came when I heard a speeding a car and yelling from the open car windows. My racial radar warned me of upcoming trouble. I ran as fast I could to get pass the guardrail and safely onto a lawn. I just made it when a red Impala sped pass, a confederate flag waving out the window, and white men yelling “pretty nigger girl.” The car stopped and drove in reverse. 
     
     Back in the 80’s people cared very little about women getting raped, even less if you were a black woman. When the car stopped and the three men jumped out of the car, there was not a second to wait. I ran through the forbidden lawns. I cut through yards that could have gotten me shot for trespassing. Just when I thought they were going to catch me at the fence I knew I couldn’t climb fast enough, an older white man yelled at them, “Leave that nigger girl alone.” The men spat tobacco before returning to their car. I was grateful to the old man and told him thank you. He responded by telling me to get off his lawn and go back to where I came from. My teeth chattered as I walked back to the street and thankfully, the men were gone. I went to work and told no one what happened. 
     Black, brown and white people didn’t care what happened to black people who were not black enough. I learned that at age seven and I experienced it throughout my young life. I had been called a half-breed by a white police officer at age twelve who asked me if my momma was a white nigger-lover while I waited at a bus stop with a young white man who thought I was worthy to have a conversation about weather and school. The young man’s face turned red. He avoided talking to me the following week as we waited for the same bus. I had not committed a crime. 
     I was waiting for a bus to take me to school when I had my first encounter with the police. As a young woman, I would never call them for help. I heard stories. Besides, being called a half-breed and your mother a nigger-lover, one would assume that the police only protected and served white people. As a black American girl, I was shaped and molded by the interaction from black and white people, civilians and one police officer. I don’t believe police officers are bad. I believe there are bad people and some bad people have become bad police officers. Not all racists are white. Some racists are black and dislike other black people because they have a different shade of black skin. 
     I don’t identify myself as an African American. I identify as Black American. I am not denouncing my African heritage or the enslavement of my ancestors. I am simply acknowledging that I don’t have any other African connection other than my skin. According to my brother’s ancestry DNA results, I have other nationalities in my breeding as well but I don’t identify as being white, Irish or Scottish. I am black in skin, culturally black and born in America. I am a Black American girl who became a Black American woman.

Stephanie Menendez has published work, Zombie Hand in Splickety Havok Magazine October 2015 edition. She is an active member in writing groups, Scribes for Praise in O’Fallon, IL and Plethora of Pens in Glen Carbon, IL.