Jason R. Horger's Blog

The droning starts overhead, in the dark, in the damp. I feel a chill in my cheek from the concrete floor I’m lying upon, and open my eyes. I see nothing but shadows in front of me. The droning rises in volume, as if a great swarm of insects is gathering, invisible and mighty. Sitting up, I steel myself for their descent.

When the light bulb switches on, I can see the steel I-beams in the floor above, a set of rickety wooden stairs rising out of my sight. Also I am surrounded by towers of cardboard cartons and crates with what I believe to be Hindi written on the sides. I cannot read Hindi, but judging from the sharp smells of spice poking up through the damp—cardamom, saffron—I understand them to be foodstuffs.

The drone opens into a louder keen, then blossoms into a melody. It is the notes from a sitar, I realize. Then the music briefly sounds as if it’s right beside me, then quiets with the shutting of the door, and a man descends the stairs. He’s dark-skinned, wearing a nondescript white shirt and jeans, and I intuit from the sitar and the Hindi writing that he is Indian. His dark eyes are wide and intense as he regards me.

He stands, I sit; no one says a word. Until…

“You must tell them what you know.”

I blink; my visitor does not. “Could you…be more specific, please?”

“I mean this.” He takes the book from behind his back: a curved and creased copy of Whom Must I Kill to Get Published?, and I think to myself, I sure hope you already paid for that, pal. “They must know how you knew,” my visitor—or is it host?—insists.

I rub the back of my neck, which like most of the rest of me is dully sore. “How I knew what?”

The book disappears from sight, and smirking he waggles a finger down at me. “Oh, you are good. Very, very good. But, my friend, they are better.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

My new Indian ‘friend’ squats down beside me, shakes his head. Offers me a stick of cinnamon gum, which I accept. (Never refuse gum or a mint the first time it’s offered, or you may be offered said gum or mint a second time.) “What you ought to worry about, Mr. Horger, is what to tell them. What you can remember about that Saturday in La Grange.”

“La Grange? Oldham County Days? Karen’s Book Barn?”

My gum-giver stands up, dusts off his hands. “So you do remember.”

I try to stand, but make it only partway up before a woozy head forces me to crash to the floor. It’s been a long time since I felt this dizzy, and the previous occasion involved Tanqueray and my indoctrination to chewing tobacco. “Of course I remember…the Book Barn…the parade…my family…Lori’s pink cardigan sweater…pimped-up tractors…”

“Aha! The tractors!” Now he points my own book, rolled up in a tube, back at me. That’s no way to treat a book, I know. “It is all coming back to you, yes?”

Still no idea what he’s on about. “I remember the day just fine, clearly…like it was yesterday.” I raise my head in a moment of clarity. “Wait. Was it yesterday?”

He says nothing, just smiles triumphantly like an oyster with a pearl under its tongue, and the sitar music builds one step, one harmony at a time. “Think first on the books you sold,” he suggests, backing up. “Remember, Mr. Horger. Remember to remember.” And he backs up the steps, grinning, holding Whom in front of him like a cannoli of doom, and he disappears with a sitar trill and a door slam. Perhaps even a puff of smoke.

And I’m left with a fuzzbox of a headache, a basement full of perishable items from the subcontinent, and a mystery. Several mysteries. Like the second copy of Whom? I’m, apparently, seated upon.

I open the book to the title page. In addition to my signature in blue, there’s a dedication in black, in my printed letters. Addressed to me. It says: “Take the train. To help you remember.” With a quick flip-through, there appear to be no further clues.

Sighing, I shut the book and watch the stairs for their arrival.

Well, as it turns out, the two suspicious-looking guys are just elm-tree fanciers. So anyway...

Hi, folks. So Jason asked me to step in on his blog to discuss the writing process. That's all the guidance he gives me, right? The writing process. Could he have been any vaguer? Then he runs off to La Grange—not inviting me and Alex—and leaves me alone to it. To come up with the topic as well as the verbiage. But that's published authors for you.

So tonight I'm sitting at home, staring at an empty page, knowing there are at least five different writing projects I could be working on in...

In just five minutes, it's gotten warmer, steamier. That, or the air conditioning took just that long to spoil me. Angela, Kate, and the Beattys still haven't made it downtown yet. But Lori's chatting with a brown-haired woman about the plastic carry-all she's gotten from the mysterious stand across the way. Next to it is a chiropractor. The model of the human spine they have on display looks like a dinosaur, lying on its back as it does. There are also balloon animals (Lori correctly a...

WHOM MUST I KILL TO GET PUBLISHED?
"A far-fetched romantic murder mystery/spy adventure!"

(Am I stalling for time until I finish Installment 2 of Oldham County Days? Indubitably I am. But until I do, writers should feel free to use the comments below to pimp their own books in 5-7 words. Make your own pitch here on this blog!)

It has rained the night before. At three or four that morning, lightning flashed and thunder rolled, and my family was wide awake. This always happens as a matter of habit when an early start is called for the next morning.

At 9 AM I'm due at Karen's shop, which is just ten minutes away from our friends' house. I have twenty-five copies of my book, Whom Must I Kill to Get Published?, twelve of which are still bubble-wrapped from their overseas journey from England—and one copy each of the o...

I'll use this blog to promote my American mysteries...so be prepared to be fascinated by tales of Memphis, Austin, and the Traveling Penningtons. My British adventures (even the Manchester ones) can be found on It's A Fair Kop.

(Sigh.) I've just watched a stupid draw at home to Man City, but as a Liverpool supporter I'm still chuffed (that's 'pleased' for my American audience). Why? Not because I'm stinking drunk on Carlsberg, Stoly and muscle relaxers--oh, no siree. I'm chuffed because I AM A WRITER. I love to write not least because I happen to be pretty damn good at it; so happily I take up most of my free time doing it.

I've been writing mysteries for five years now, and though nothing has seen hard copy outside ...