Sherry M. Siska's Blog

Help!  I’ve got a bad case of spring fever! Old Man Winter just won’t leave!

The calendar says today is the first “full” day of spring, but this is the view from my front porch.

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Interview with an Author: Sherry Siska

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I love the Olympics.  I get weepy when the athletes are standing on the medal stand, listening to their national anthems being played.  I love watching their faces as the flag ascends and the music starts.

It’s so beautiful to witness someone realizing a life-long dream come true.

I also love the competition. I love that a few years back there was a seventy-year-old Japanese man on their equestrian team.

I love that seventeen-year-old Red Gerard won our first gold medal at the winter games, becoming the first gold medalist born in this century.

I love watching the biathlon and luge, badminton and water polo, curling and archery.  I love, love, love the artistry of gymnastics and figure skating, but I also adore the physicality of wrestling and ice hockey.  In fact, I don’t think there’s a sport I won’t give at least fifteen minutes of my time.

I don’t think our television has been off for more than ten hours total since the games began.

I even fell asleep on the sofa the other night, woke up in the wee hours, and watched a bit of the replay.

The good thing is that it’s not over just yet. We still have a lot of great competition left.

And, the summer games in Tokyo start July 24, 2020.

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By Sherry Siska  Plotting a Murder

From Nothing to Novel

For me, writing and running are intertwined. In fact, the quickest way from nothing to novel is through running.

I used to run with a mp3 player and a playlist heavy on songs about running. Then there came a blistering hot September and I was back at school. The best way to get my runs in was to go early in the morning, before daylight. I had to stop wearing earbuds for safety reasons.

Eventually, I got so used to not having a playlist to distract me, that I completely gave up my mp3 player as a running companion. What I found out is that without the music to distract me, running gave me the space I needed to get out of my own head, a necessary component to writing.

Oh, it doesn’t always happen — today was a case in point — but most of the time, after about a mile of mental whining, imaginary arguments, and negative self-talk, I settle into a rhythm and, once that happens, I find myself thinking about a story or characters or what I want to say in a blog post. In other words, I write.

The Trail and the Note

We live quite close to a nice greenway and I spend a lot of time running or walking on it. It’s nice, soft gravel and just the right length for a good walk or run.

At every intersection, there are two short posts and a taller middle post. The posts all have a good size divot drilled out near the bottom. I’m not sure why; I suspect it has to do with expansion or something.

Hot Stuff and Cat

A couple of years ago I was running, and about 1/2 way along the trail, stuck in one of the divots, was a folded up piece of paper. I, being the curious — okay, nosy — person I am, pulled it out, unfolded it, and read it.

At first, I thought it was a love note written by a middle school girl to her middle school boyfriend. It had a little drawing of a cat at the bottom and a heart around the cat. The writing was big and flowery, just like most middle school girls write.

It only took me a couple of lines to realize that the writer was decidedly not a middle school girl. And the person to whom she was writing was certainly not a middle school boy. I had stumbled upon a covert letter from a married woman to her secret lover, who, evidently, was also married. Oh, and she signed it “All my love, Cat”.

I’m assuming that was the genesis of the drawing. Lover Boy’s name, I did not find out because she referred to him as “Hot Stuff”. His wife, however, was “that Bitch Vicky”.

I blushed to my toes when I read what Cat wanted to do to Hot Stuff. (But you notice, it didn’t stop me from reading the whole thing.) As soon as I finished reading it, I glanced around to make sure no one was looking, quickly refolded the love letter, and stuck it back in the hole in the post.

What If?

Then, I hightailed it on down the trail. I went about a quarter of a mile before I started the “what ifs…”. What if he saw me read the letter, thought I was a threat, and came after me? What if she saw me read the letter, recognized me, and sent him to kill me so that their secret remained safe? What if her husband saw me, grew curious, read the letter, and killed her. Or her lover. Or both of them. What if someone else found the letter, didn’t put it back, and he never got. Then, decided she was dumping him and went into a rage and shot her? Or her husband? Or both?

(Yes. I realize these are all gruesome and unlikely. I write murder mysteries. It’s where my mind starts.)

The point is, plot and story ideas can come from anywhere. You just have to keep your eyes open and then ask, “What if…”. For me, it just happens that a lot of the time, they come when I’m running.

Every single one of my posts, as a matter of fact, originated during a run. All four of my Doom Diva Mystery novels were pretty much plotted out during a run.

When I find myself facing a particularly difficult chapter or a tangled up storyline, I know that the best thing I can do is lace up my trusty Asics and hit the road. Often I find that the problem has worked itself out right about the time I pass under the interstate bridge at mile three.

Without running, I’m not sure I would ever get anything down on the page.

Running is not something I always love. I love having already ran and I love being fit and I love the stress release and the fact that I get most of my writing figured out while doing it, but the actual running, not always.

People sometimes ask why I do it, then, if I don’t love it. Why they ask, don’t I just walk. Walking is fine, but, well, it takes longer and I don’t get the same feelings from it as I get from running.

I’ve been thinking about that the last couple of mornings as I ran and I decided it has to do with the cadence of running. There’s just something about that steady rhythm of my footfalls that soothes me and lulls me and finally propels me out of my shoulda, woulda, couldas and lets my mind free to engage in the “what ifs” and to sort out the problems. It’s sort of like being part of a drum circle, which, if you’ve never done, you should; it’s loads of fun!

Sometimes, I break up with running. Just like I occasionally break up with writing. But, I always manage to find my way back to both. When I’m running more regularly, writing more regularly, I feel calmer and happier. I feel like I’m being true to who I really am.

And, sometimes, when I’m at the intersection of writing and running, I plot out a murder and I end up with a book.

 

Interested in writing and publishing?  Check out The Creative Penn

 

What happens when Runner Chick Meets Pavement? Find out HERE

Photograph:Mahir Uysal StockSnap.io

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By Sherry Siska (aka Running Chick)

So, the other day, someone we’ll call, uh, Running Chick, went for a run. It went something like this:

Running Chick: Wow! I feel great today! I’ll bet I’m running faster today than I ever have. I’ll bet I can beat all of my goals for the summer today. I’ll be having to set some new goals! I am on fire!

Sees car poking along toward intersection.

Car. Is she going to turn or go straight? No signal, so must be going to go straight. Guess I’d better stop. She’ll be quick and….crap! What the…? Shi….er, shoot, shoot, shoot. Why am I on the ground?

Driver of SUV who didn’t have on signal, didn’t go straight, but instead stopped at STOP SIGN at the intersection: (in a sweet, motherly voice) “Are you all right? Are you okay? Do you need some help?”

Running Chick: Owwwwwww!! Is my leg broken? I think my leg is broken.What the heck happened? Freaking stupid curb. Why did they put such a massive ledge on that curb? Are they trying to kill me? (In overly upbeat voice) “I’m fine! I’m okay! I’m just fine!”

Driver of SUV (in even sweeter, more caring voice): “Are you sure? Do you need a ride? I can take you home.”

Running Chick: Why is she torturing me? Can’t she see I’m dying here? Doesn’t she know I’d crawl up that freaking hill before I’d get in her car? (In even more overly upbeat voice, if possible) “No, no. I’m really fine. Just rolled my ankle a bit.”

(Hopping to feet to prove point, even though every damn muscle in fifty-something year old body is hurting like the car had actually hit her.) “See, I’m fine. No harm done. Thanks anyway!”

Driver of SUV: (in extremely concerned voice) “Well, if you’re sure….”

Running Chick: Please, for the love of God, please, please, please, please why won’t she leave me alone… (most upbeat voice ever to come out of mouth) “Oh, I’m great! Thanks!”

(Takes off down hill toward trail, desperate to save what’s left of pride and dignity.) Hey! It doesn’t hurt. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m okay. Thank you, thank you, thank you! It actually feels pretty good. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll just keep going until it starts hurting again.

Running Chick: (Picks up pace, starts running, if you call slower-than-molasses pace “running”. Running Chick, of course, does.) I can’t believe that just happened. How long was I on the ground? Probably three or four minutes. I should have stopped my Garmin. Dang it! Why didn’t I think to stop it? No way I’ll make my goal now.   Oh well.  Maybe I’ll find a story. 

 

Are you achieving your running goals?  If not, Sara Robinson of runsmartonline.com has seven helpful tips.  Check them out HERE!

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What happens at the intersection of running and writing? Find out HERE:

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Recently, I’ve had some really strange dreams.  One was so strange and unsettling, in fact, that I woke up in a bit of a panic. As soon as I realized it had all been “just a dream”, I felt such relief.

Then I started pondering the dream, wondering if there was some meaning behind it, or if it was just my brain’s way of entertaining itself.

Dreams have always fascinated me. Although I have recurring dreams, there doesn’t seem to be a pattern to when they pop up. I used to have one silly dream about my husband so often that, at one point, I couldn’t remember if it had actually happened in real life. I also have had dreams during which he did things that upset me and have woken up mad at him.  Once, I woke up and smacked him on the arm for his bad dream behavior.

I have noticed that the more stressed I am, the crazier the dreams seem to get. So, maybe that explains that one dream’s wildness.

I am stressed over some school things, the book writing I’ve been neglecting, and trying to learn a particularly challenging new skill. Or, maybe it was because I had a really late, fatty dinner.

Whatever the cause, I’m still a bit perplexed about the meaning. Could the dream have been some message from my ID, telling me I need to get my act together before anarchy and chaos ensue?

When I was in college, I wrote a paper about dream interpretation for a psych class. Unfortunately, that was about 35 years ago, and I don’t remember anything I learned. I’ve looked up supposed meanings of dream images a time or two since then, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea to spend too much energy on what could just be the result of watching too many episodes of Through the Wormhole. 

I did try to make my brain send me a message a few years back when I lost my wedding band. It was a beautiful, handmade, 18k gold band my husband bought me in Greece. I loved that ring and I looked everywhere for it. For about a month, I told myself every night that I was going to dream about that ring and its present location. I had some interesting, and entertaining, dreams, but they didn’t lead me to the ring. (I finally found it, though, in an extremely weird place! But that’s a story for another post.)

As for the other night’s nocturnal nattering, I’ve decided that too shall remain a mystery. As much fun as it would be to go sliding down an internet rabbit hole in search of a deeper message, I’ve got way too much to do to be wasting that kind of time.

If it turns out that Ms. ID does have something to tell me, she’ll just have to try again tonight.  I do wish, though, that she’d turn her attention to solving that plot problem I’m dealing with instead.

Dreamcatcher image: www.stocksnap.io

Photographer:
Dyaa Eldin

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The Doom Diva Mysteries Books 1-4 are now Available in a box set! Get all four Doom Diva Mysteries in one convenient package and at significant savings!

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07962T7BQ

 

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When it comes to food, Marty and I share a special fondness for German chocolate pie. Here’s a recipe that uses pre-made pie crust. If you’re a purist and have the skills to make your own, I’m sure it would be even more delicious!

 

https://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes/german-chocolate-pie/6de13dec-20bf-4f7f-bee0-97bed36d8916

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Confession: I don’t like soda. Except for root beer, that is. I don’t drink it very often, but, like my main character Marty, I love me some root beer.

Many years ago one of Jim’s co-workers brought us some craft-brewed root beer. It was delicious. After that, the kids and I got some extract and made our own. It was pretty great too.

This article gives a little history of root beer and includes a couple of recipes: one that is quick and easy and uses the extract and another, more complicated one for those of you who might feel a little ambitious.

If you decide to make your own root beer, let me know how it turns out!

https://www.homebrewsupply.com/…/getting-root-homebrewed-ro…

 

 

Photo: Stocksnap.io photographer: Brooke Cagle

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In The Floozies of Fate, my protagonist, Marty, falls for a guy named Heartache Harry. People often ask me where my ideas come from. Here’s one example:

When I was in college my roommate and I hung out at a bar near campus.  We were pals with the guys that worked there and spent a lot of time with them.  Pretty much all one summer the bunch of us played endless games of spades either at the bar or at one of our apartments. The guys, Rick, the two Dougs, the two Tims, and a rotating assortment of their friends were all either bartenders or “bouncers” at the bar.

There was one bartender, though, who hardly ever spent time with our gang: Heartache Harry.

The first time I saw him, I looked at my roommates and said, “That boy is a heartache waiting to happen!”

The nickname stuck and, much to Harry’s dismay, sort of spread among our group. It didn’t help that the Eagle’s song “Heartache Tonight” was pretty popular that year. The other guys, having gained control of the sound system, played it often. And we all sang it loudly and proudly.

Poor Harry.

Harry was WAY out of my league and I knew it.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, Harry was fascinating to me. I spent endless hours parked front and center at the bar, observing him like I was Dian Fossey and he was a wild gorilla.  I particularly enjoyed watching him interact with whichever gorgeous girl he was interested in or in the process of dumping.

Not surprisingly, Harry dumping someone happened a lot. He was quite the player and often juggled more than one girl at a time.  A lot of Harry’s interactions with his women happened while he was working.

He was a master at multitasking, never missing a beat with pulling a beer or taking an order, all the while giving back as good as he got whenever one of his conquests caught on to his doggish ways and decided to confront him at the bar.

He never stopped smiling, either, even when in the midst of one of these epic battles. And let me assure you, Harry’s smile could light up a room. Whatever “it” is – I guess it’s charisma or star power – Harry oozed it from every pore.

One day, I was trudging across campus heading to my next class or to meet up with a friend or something like that and I heard a guy holler at me.  I looked up and there, on a bike across the street was a guy that, well, I really didn’t recognize.  I smiled, waved, and kept going, wondering how he knew me.

He had been pretty cute, and he sort of looked vaguely familiar, but I just couldn’t place him. Later that night, one of the Tims (who I happened to be sort of “dating”) and I decided that, rather than hang out with the rest of the gang, we would spend some time alone. My roommate and the boys spent a couple of hours playing cards at the bar, then decided to move the game to – get this – Harry’s apartment!

It seems that things had been slow and Harry was between girls and had invited them over to his place.  My one shot at observing the subject in his natural habitat, and I was sitting in a movie theater watching some forgettable film with a guy who I just wasn’t that into! (Okay – Tim, if you ever come across this blog and recognize yourself, I hereby apologize for what I just wrote. But, you have to admit you sort of have it coming for what you did later in the summer.)

Later, when I got home, my roommate just couldn’t WAIT to spill the news: the cute boy I had seen earlier in the day had been Harry.

To this day I’m still not sure why I hadn’t recognized him. Maybe the Brave’s hat he had on over his sandy blonde hair and the Ray-Bans that covered half his face had been an effective disguise.

Anyway, when they got to his apartment, Harry had cornered my roommate and questioned her, apparently relentlessly, about why I had been so aloof when he’d seen me that afternoon.

Didn’t I like him anymore?

Wasn’t I the one who was always mooning around, watching every move he made?

He had been shocked that I hadn’t taken the opportunity to spend some quality one on one time with him. He had planned to buy me an ice cream cone or a beer or something.

And I had just brushed him off.

Me, brushing him off!

Seriously?

Oh, and where was I? Out with Tim?

Tim? What on earth was I doing with Tim?

Then, evidently, according to my roommate, he spent the rest of the night alternating between trashing Tim and sulking.

Is there a point to this long-winded story?

Sort of.

You see, I was right and I was wrong when I gave Harry the nickname.

Because that night, while I was sitting in a movie theater, holding hands with a guy that wasn’t Harry, a heartache did happen.

Just not to me.

 

 

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.