In the upcoming monthly posts, I’m going not only to present the profiles of my thriller cast, I want to share how they got to be who they are.
IN THE BEGINNING…
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Me – I need to create make-believable characters. Not as hard, one would think, as I only had to personify the traits from which each player operated. These would be traits I wanted to exploit or explore. And, while I wasn’t going literally to breathe them into the physical world, I knew that I had to make them real.
RITA MARS
If I told you that I am not a part of Rita Mars, you’d know I was full of it. I think of each book’s protagonist as a construct incorporating the author’s view point, a bit of the author’s personality, hunks of author ideology and her larger-than-life response to the main character’s challenges. In thrillers and mysteries, we get to be the protagonist as hero in the end. (Of course, I love this bit!).
Where did Rita Mars come from?
This author has been a rebellious sort forever. I was the bane of my mother’s social senses. I spent a good deal of my youth protesting wars and racism and hate in general. Rita, therefore, is that woman who will charge like the Light Brigade if she believes in the cause. She views people in high places as simply another human who puts their underwear on same as everyone else. Rita speaks her mind and sometimes gets away with it and sometimes she doesn’t. She’s just not going to stop speaking out when she disagrees. Rita will always let the chips fall . . ..
In my career of developing law enforcement and security applications, I had the most instructive education ever in work with federal agencies as well as local authorities. I was honored to work with people who were dedicated. They were smart. They understood the stakes.
I soaked up the war stories from these men and women. They taught me the nuances of surveillance. They recounted the cases that haunted them, the murders, the disappearances, the deaths they could not prevent. Theirs was a passion for holding the line. The toll it took in broken families and splintered relationships could be enormous. Nonetheless, they believed in their mission and they carried their grief and fear in silence. Their stories are part of Rita’s.
Her father had been one of those whose beliefs carried him into the Viet Nam war. It was not the fear of battle that shattered his sense of place in the universe, it was the disillusion borne of his awakening to the savage stupidity of war and the absurd idea that we must coerce everyone to our personal projection of what is right. In the end Robert Mars released himself from his loss of faith. The blow from that escape left Rita Mars clear-eyed about the evils of judgement. It also engendered a stance to keep that small, vulnerable flame of self-belief guarded; to shun intimacy and embrace emotional armor.
The last I’ll say about Rita – it is the wall of self-preservation that hampers Rita’s attachments. While not a battlefield veteran, she’s witnessed the ugliness of betrayal, the infinite appetite of greed, the foundational loss of those we have loved. Underneath her willingness to step into the cage, Rita Mars harbors the belief in a just world and that she will forever nurture the internal spark of that belief against what may come.
In psych thrillers, it’s always a dark and stormy night. As thriller readers, we love that brush with evil, that threat that cannot touch us. We’re safe from the likes of a Hannibal Lecter, but boy, do we love the intrigue, the danger and suspense. Since March is definitively the “Madness” month, I offer you some of the best of the self-published psychological thrillers that will make the hair on your neck stand up and deliver the chills we crave!
It’s February, and groundhogs aside, the fame of this month belongs to Cupids, heart-shaped boxes of cheap chocolate and flowers scooped up at the last minute from the grocery. So, what the heck do those things have to do with books, you ask?
I couldn’t make that leap so I decided to have a little imaginative fun – and very stingy on the imaginative, I might add. I’m an author I said to myself. Use your writer brain. What would a valentine from Romeo to Juliet say or Cleo to Antony? I squandered quality writing time concocting Valentines that some of fiction’s best loved lovers might have sent to their object of affection.
I had a birthday recently. One terrific gift was a cake, announcing in lavender icing “Happy Birthday Valerie.” Did I mention the icing was buttercream? I loved all the bright colors on that bright white field of sugar. I called it the Cake of Good Hope.
Why name a cake? And why that name? It is my response to the 2024 national elections. I was dismayed by results. Yeah, I thought of karma and her “bitch” persona. A huge number of the people who voted have no idea of this country’s history or what they bought for themselves.
They forgot their white forebearers came here, killed the native inhabitants, destroyed their culture and stole their land. No amount of lying changes that. But now, there are folk of color entering the country and some descendants of the white invaders are inflamed with righteous indignation that people of color should dare to want to live a better life.
We were astonished that people who called themselves Christian began trying to snuff out anyone who was not made in their image. They apparently do not believe in their own god. They’re so scared, they feel they need to protect themselves from new arrivals by stealing their children, placing them in camps and shipping them out of the country. I haven’t heard any of them praying about what to do or saying they believe their god will protect them. “Christian” is just a name they chose because it used to mean a person who tried to live a life philosophy like their New Testament Jesus. Surely Jesus would not recognize his teachings in any of these people.
I digressed. Cake of Good Hope is my sticking point. I will continue to act in good faith in a country founded on the principle of equal treatment for all. I will resist mandates of hate and violence and I will act against it. I will speak out when I see injustice and I will do that without hesitation. We all know what evil requires to sprout and grow – for good people to do nothing.
I started looking at German resistance efforts in the 1930s. One of the most interesting was “The White Rose” movement started by a brother and sister team who were attending the University of Munich. They were surprised that so many of the educated in Germany supported Hitler. Hans and Sophie Scholl, aided by friend, Christoph Probst, began to print anti-Nazi leaflets and painted slogans like “Freedom!” and “Down With Hitler!” on walls of the university. There were creative resisters, like Oskar Schindler who hired Jews to keep them from Nazi hands and Dutch teacher, Johan van Hulst, who used bicycle delivery as a way to sneak Jewish children out of the country. Swiss diplomat, Carl Lutz, issued official Swiss protection papers to safe houses in Budapest. As thousands of Jews were forced to walk to concentration camps in Austria and Germany, Lutz, with his wife, pulled as many people as they could from the march and provided them protective documents.
And we have the American, Virginia Hall, the most daring and Reich-feared spy – a Maryland native, I’m proud to add. In 1941, posing as a NY Post reporter, Hall appeared in Paris with a fake id and forged papers. She radioed troop movements and other military info back to U.S. intelligence. She recruited agents for the French resistance.
Hall eventually had to flee the country. She escaped with Spanish guides across a treacherous 50-mile trek over the Pyrenees mountains into Spain. No mean feat, pardon the pun, when the woman had suffered an amputated foot as a result of a hunting accident years before.
Virginia returned to France a few months before D-Day via a British torpedo ship. She roamed the French countryside disguised as a 60-year-old peasant woman, organizing sabotage missions against the German army. The Office of Strategic Service (OSS), a precursor to the CIA, credited Hall’s team with derailing freight trains, destroying a number of bridges, killing 150 Nazis and capturing 500 more.
Hall was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, one of the highest U.S. military honors for bravery in combat. She was the only woman to receive the award during World War II.
Meanwhile, back to The Cake! None of us are going to parachute behind enemy lines and blow up infrastructure. We are not Virginia Hall. We do not own a factory where we can hide folk. And I, for one, have no diplomatic powers to employ. But I have faith in the community of decency and the common good. We will not be silent and we will not be silenced.
Originally the point at the southern tip of South Africa was Cabo das Tormentas (Cape of Storms). We know that years ahead of us will be stormy and our work to preserve a decent way of life will work at times, fail at others. It was much later that John II, king of Portugal, renamed the cape. He called it the Cape of Good Hope to reflect the optimism for new trade routes.
I’m nurturing my optimism; it will need care and feeding. We may get tired, like a boxer keeping his gloves up in a protracted and bitterly contested ring match. Then again, we will definitely have successes. We will go the distance and we will never, ever be those good people who do nothing.
I graduated in the first graduating class of Salisbury’s James M. Bennet High School. That fall I entered Salisbury State College which had just risen from the designation of Maryland State Teachers College in 1963 from a “normal”, or two-year college for elementary school teachers. The school evolved to a fully fledged four-year institution with expanded academic programs, varsity athletic teams and the SSU Foundation.
The choice I made for my freshman English requirement made all the difference in my life. I learned only after my selection of Mary Gay Calcott’s English 101, that hers was a class to avoid. Too hard other students said. You can’t get a decent grade they complained. I was worried.
So I did what I always did when confronted with criticism of my themes or style. I defended my position. Ms. Calcott and I were not seeing eye-to-eye and my grades reflected it. After a few papers, I saw clearly the flaws in my work.
Then, she did what she always did, she spent time hours with a student, when I asked for help. She recommended examples; I read them. She gave me exercises; I practiced. She was not the student-punishing ogre I had imagined in all the chatter I heard. I had begun to learn to write.
In her advanced classes Mary Gay Calcott opened a path to a literary world I had never experienced. I would love that world throughout my life. It gave me endless pleasure in reading and appreciating the craft and imagination.
She gave me an even greater gift in demonstrating how to harness my own imagination into cogent narrative. She introduced me to storytelling. How to breathe life into characters. How to spin a tale to capture readers’ attention. She gave me confidence in my ability.
I now have two books: Driven and Objects of Desire. Both in the Rita Mars Thriller series. I’m working on my third. Driven captured an award from the Colorado Independent Publishers Association. Objects has launched to amazing reviews.
Since my days at “SSC”, I have always been grateful for meeting Mary Gay Calcott. I was fortunate to have recognized the value of what she was offering me. I carry those long-ago lessons with me every day.
Now as I remember Mary Gay, I recall the words of Gibran: The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind. Amen.
My friends – are you as weary, worn and woeful as I have been watching the news of the run-up to the 2024 presidential vote? After a few seconds of the news, I get that itch to switch. I compare the current political news to gavage, the term used to describe the force-feeding of ducks and geese to achieve a ten-times normal sized fatty liver. The end product is a delicacy for humans; not so much for the sequestered and fattened water fowl.
We are drawn like those cliched moths. We moan and complain about the one hundredth view of a politician’s speculation about whether it is better to be eaten by a shark or to be fried by an electric boat. We are flummoxed by the idea of childless cat ladies as an inducement to vote. And we cannot sync the rationale for whining about rally crowd from someone who would be leader of the free world.
Then there’s the guy from one of the richest families in the country scraping roadkill to eat and who later abandons the carcass in Central Park. And how about the female candidate who “turned black.” How in the heck does one do that I think to myself. How would Darwin explain this?
Unnerving and undeserving of our attention is what I say. So how do we counter with something to restore our own mental health with the promise of something uplifting, something hopeful, something just plain more, well, normal.
I submit we should take smaller glimpses of that “must see” political tv and go for the gold. Do it for the sake of your sanity and emotional wellbeing. While we’re not Coneheads, let’s go to France and the Olympic Games.
Ok, I’ll cede you the weird opening ceremonies with a hooded runner carrying the torch, a bizarre rendition of “The Last Supper” and Marie Antoinette, grasping her own severed head. BUT -Celine Dion singing “Hymne à l’amour” at the Eiffel tower sent shivers across the world.
We are able to see Katie Ledecky in performances of a lifetime in women’s swimming. In that same greatest-of-all-time vein, Simone Biles wowed with perfection through the gymnastics moves that only she can perform. We watched a hopeful and sometimes flawed men’s gymnastics lifted to the medal stand by Michael Nedoroscik, the University of Michigan unicorn who rose to the moment on the pommel horse. I was so happy for the women’s high jumper, Yaroslava Mahuchikh, who will carry the gold back to her war-torn Ukraine, that I cried. And can you not be moved by Julien Alfred and Saint Lucia’s only Olympic medal in history, a gold?
We needed this Olympics, dirty Seine or not! Like oxygen, we need to see there is beauty and grace in the humanity who populate this orb with us. We need to see that hate does not make us strong or good at our chosen field. We will not believe that grievance will drive us to win because we are witness to the camaraderie among Olympic competitors, the support of one for another, countryman or not. And we will not go back to any time where fear dominates and freedom to be is stripped to leave us empty and wanting.
In this country we stand at a crossroad and we look for a way forward. We will choose a right path and we will not look back.
Valerie Webster and Driven: A Rita Mars Thriller in the spotlight via Author of the Day interview.
Make your next book club event an author event with a writer who’s lived the cases, developed the crime fighting technologies. Contact Valerie Webster today.
