I am in love with my pen and the words it writes. I write because I see. I write what I see, so I must love my eyes as well. I once thought of the well of inspiration as a body of water whose dam was never meant to hold it back. Rather, it is the discipline to control the flow lest it flood and be spent. Writers need more than imagination; they need life experience. Without knowing how life flows, and that one cannot merely dangle their toes in the stream, but swim in the current, imagination has no fuel to flourish. I write because I love people, I love history and I love language. The three are inseparable and no successful writing is accomplished without paying dues to all three. As long as I stay in the flow, the pen will stay in my hand.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010


The Blue Lady by Richard Cheney [fiction]

In the winter of 1929 on the California coast, Frank's Roadhouse and the beach below is the scene of untimely love, desperate moments, betrayal, crime and the death of nine people, murdered for reasons Icarus Huxley, paranormal therapist, and his assistant, Sarah McDonald, are hired to discover. The roadhouse, now a seaside restaurant, is haunted by the spirits of the dead from that night, still anxious, still seeking their deserved rest and still bitter to have lost their mortality by the avarice of a sinlge man. The Blue Lady was that man's wife. Johnny Fagan, the piano player, fell hopelessly in love with her. Paddy Reed, the brutal husband, is the west coast purveyor of illicit liquor and brutal crime boss of an empire that comes apart at the seams of a desperate triange in competition for the Blue Lady. Unknown to Huxley, and only by the utter psychological shock to Sarah, she withdraws into a coma in which she begins to understand her personal ties to the Blue Lady. Huxley follows the clues to discover Sarah's family background and how it relates to the desperate struggle of nine people whose violent end reaches out to Sarah from the distant past on the darkest evening of the year.

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