The Newest Lance Underphal Mystery

Woman in Red Dress

Here it is, nearly the middle of August (damn near my birthday) and I haven’t posted a blog since the end of July. What with all the new social media marketing, book proofs and editing of the first mystery novel, Dark Side of Sunset Pointe, I haven’t had much time to write. Ah, the business of writing . . . I have to admit, it’s growing on me.


After completing the first draft of the second book, Flight of the Tarantula Hawk, I was thinking about taking a breather—concentrating on marketing the first book and getting it out. After a few days I realized I was missing something . . . WRITING! Writing is why I started all this in the first place.

Stuck on OFF

Creating mystery stories—the pure joy of it . . . Well, mostly. The hardest part is getting started. I’d had a couple ideas kicking around, generally knew the direction I wanted take the series—the master plan and all. But still, sitting down and fleshing out the character back-stories, scoping out locations, researching the basics, it all takes time—the grunt work of getting mystery books going. It’s Physics, pure and simple, overcoming inertia, an object at rest and all that. The only cure is to START. Looks good on paper . . . Hah!

Grey Daze

Forcing the issue, I carved time out of my schedule (robbing Peter to pay Paul.) Time to do my job—write mystery stories. And it’s official, I’ve started the third book in the Lance Underphal Mystery series. The working title is Grey Daze.

Just a Taste

A few lines from the first chapter titled Cashing In:

The wipers stop as she shuts off the ignition. She stares through the drizzle streaking the windshield, screwing up her courage, telling herself there’s no way she’ll get caught, the plan is perfect. They’ve been working at it for months, getting everything set up. Now it’s time. Only one thing left to do and they’ll be home free. If only she could get her hands to stop shaking.

Elbowing  the door, she squirms thick hips out of the seat, the new-car leather smell fading as she climbs out into the cold. She scurries across the drive and up the crumbling concrete steps, thumbing the remote to lock with a flash and a chirp. Twisting the key, she opens the weather-beaten back door, stepping in out of the wind and rain and into Hell for the last time.

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