Create, Pitch, Sell

Serial Quiller

Psychological Thriller

13 Complete Stories

SERIAL QUILLER 1—New Orleans, Louisiana
Posing as Alma LeJeune, sex worker, crime writer BJ Donovan embarks on a killing spree, by means of voodoo magic, and uses details of the murders to maintain her best-seller status with an episodic thriller series.

SERIAL QUILLER 2—St. Augustine, Florida
BJ goes on a murderous rampage after someone at a writers retreat steals her handwritten manuscript of a new novel containing details of a true crime that were never made pubic.

SERIAL QUILLER 3—Savannah, Georgia
With a little help from BJ Donovan, Alma LeJeune exacts revenge on the descendants of the people who had willingly participated in the unfair conviction and public hanging of a young Irish woman in 1735.

SERIAL QUILLER 4—Key West, Florida
Made the brunt of a sick joke by The Six, a snobbish group of writers, BJ shows them what make believe is all about when she uses the legendary Robert the Doll, a child’s toy created by voodoo magic, to hit back.

SERIAL QUILLER 5—Charleston, South Carolina
Possessed by the ghost of a female serial killer from the 1800s, Alma drugs traveling businessmen then feeds their dismembered body parts to her pet, a great white alligator.

SERIAL QUILLER 6—Salem, Massachusetts
A strange conversation between BJ and the descendant of a Salem witch leads Alma to believe that BJ is being drawn into a web of lies and deceit.

SERIAL QUILLER 7—Cincinnati, Ohio
BJ grows suspicious of an elderly woman’s true motives after she asks her to help get her granddaughter away from her cruel husband, a notorious gangster.

SERIAL QUILLER 8—Chicago, Illinois
After a devastating hurricane hits New Orleans BJ decides to get on the road and finish her promotional tour, unaware someone is lying in wait.

SERIAL QUILLER 9—Portland, Oregon
BJ is about to wage war on two animal abusers when something extraordinary happens.

SERIAL QUILLER 10—Hollywood, California
A playwright’s misuse of BJ’s thriller series infuriates her.

SERIAL QUILLER 11—Las Vegas, Nevada
An unexpected invitation to a murder mystery dinner party makes BJ wonder if she is the intended victim.

SERIAL QUILLER 12—Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
BJ soon regrets her decision to help a woman who claims she had just escaped from a torture chamber in the desert.


Special Preview of SERIAL QUILLER 1

Chapter 1

Virgil awoke late at night to find his wife gone. He kicked off cold and clammy bedcovers, box springs screeched when he got up. A steady breeze, weighed down with humidity, carried the vanilla-like fragrance of Joe-Pye weed and the barely audible sound of laughter through an open window.

He stood behind fluttering white sheers and watched Marie trot across the back yard, her long black curls bouncing with each footfall. The opaque security light above the barn doors cast an eerie pallor through the limbs of an old elm draped with Spanish moss. He noticed her belly, in the narrow space between her shirt and shorts, seemed rounder than normal. He lazily scratched his ass, wondered what the hell she’s doing.

A man stepped out of the shadows, and drew her into an embrace. They kissed for a moment, then entered the barn.

Marie came back out. She turned her head side to side, looked up. Virgil leaned back without thinking.

The man clasped her hand. “C’mere, baby.” He brought a shiny metal flask to his lips and took a long swig.

She giggled again. “Gimme some.”

Sh! Not now.” He pulled her into the barn, loosely swung one door shut, the other already latched at the top.


Virgil slipped through the half closed door. Stood beneath the loft and listened to the rough’n ready sounds of raw lust. Glossy photos in his dog-eared girlie magazines flashed through his mind. He hiked the leather rifle strap onto his shoulder, gripped the sides of the wooden ladder. Slowly mounted the rungs; aware one always squeaks.

He found them in a clearing behind short stacks of hay. Virgil recognized him. He was the same slick salesman who’d come sniffing around last April trying to sell them some kitcheny crap. He didn’t know if his wife got any. He’d left the house to spend the rest of the mild and sunny morning planting eggplants to be sold at the farmers market and to local chefs.

A July heat wave made the guy come a-knocking again. Now he was a-rocking, in the hayloft, with a young wife and mamma. His face was nestled against her neck. He grunted mightily with each slow thrust. She flexed her leg muscles, gasped. “Bring it home, baby,” he told her.

A metallic click.

Marie froze. Her dark eyes and reddish complexion oddly reflected the lantern light. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Too late to warn her loverboy, anyway.

He shot the salesman named Russell Something-or-other when he raised his head and looked over his shoulder. She screamed bloody murder. Virgil yanked her up off the floor, got a whiff of the man’s scent, resisted giving her the beating she damn well deserved.

Shivering with fear, she used handfuls of hay to wipe the blood off of her. Watched Virgil load Russell’s body into the bed of his pickup truck. She looked at the back of the house through the open loft doors on the left side of the barn. Her gaze shifted from one upstairs window to the next. She thought she saw her four-year-old son, Bernie, rest his arms on the windowsill in his bedroom and stick his thumb in his mouth. Marie bowed her head and cried.

Virgil drove through the field, toppling crops in his path. He put the body in a rowboat. Filled a feed sack with the man’s belongings, added a cinderblock, then tied the bag around Russell’s scrawny neck. Virgil thought he heard a small gasp. Tightened the rope. Using a pair of wire cutters he removed the guy’s wedding band with his finger still attached, and slung the bloody digit to the ground for the snapping turtles to fight over.

He rowed to the middle of the bottomless pond where dark green scum floated on the surface and mosquitoes multiplied by the hundreds, and chucked the salesman in. Red-hot bolts of lightning clawed the black sky. A roar of thunder soon followed. Straight-line winds almost flipped his boat. Virgil returned to the water’s edge without delay.

In the midst of a torrential downpour his truck got stuck in the mud. He made a mad dash through the field. Lightning revealed the salesman’s car parked in the shadow of a live oak tree.

He jerked open the right door of the barn. Marie ran out screaming, waving her arms in the air, stringy hair covering her face. Crazy bitch looked and sounded like a banshee. His heart thumped erratically while his wet hands fumbled with the rusty iron slide bolt on the other door.

He drove the salesman’s car to the front of the barn just as a strong gust of wind blew one of the flimsy wooden doors shut. “Dammit.” One by one, he carried two empty oil drums out of the barn and propped them against the doors to hold them open. Drove in, and parked behind a do-it-yourself pegboard wall holding an array of hand tools, hooks, and baling wire.

He wouldn’t allow Marie to change clothes or to sleep in his bed, making her spend the night in the living room instead. Lamplight threw a shadow on a cheap seascape hanging to one side on the wall. He leaned against the worn banister, listened to her tossing and turning on the couch. Virgil was tempted to put her out of her misery. Decided a bullet would be too swift. He needed to teach her a thing or two about faithfulness. Too bad he didn’t think of that before he shot her loverboy.


Marie knew it was only out of meanness when Virgil woke her up at five o’clock one dark and rainy morning to come and get the rest of her things out of his bedroom. About to bend down to scoop up the last pile of clothing in her drawer, he grasped a fistful of her long spiral curls and slung her onto the bed. She didn’t tell him she’s pregnant. Or about having frequent thoughts of murder-suicide.

As the months passed and her stomach swelled to the size of a ripe watermelon she started wearing the long, baggy dresses she’d found in a trunk in the attic, where she’d also found a secret compartment inside of a closet. A place to run and hide.

By her seventh month she couldn’t conceal her big belly anymore. She could under the dresses, but not…

“Jeebus Christ, woman, you gettin’ fat?” Virgil asked in a drunken manner.

She frowned. Is he that stupid?

He propped himself up with his arms, and stared intently at her. She shrank back. He moved to her side. “Get the hell away from me.” He pressed his foot against her hip and shoved her off the bed.

Marie bolted from the room.

Lying on the couch, she listened to him pacing overhead. Every creak and squeak of the floorboards was deafening. Her teeth chattered. She balled her hands around the top of a wool blanket, tucked them under her chin. The house was very hot. She was freezing cold. Teardrops disappeared in her hair.

Will this be the day that I die?

“I hope so.”

Chapter 2 (excerpt)

Near the end of December, under the luminous glow of a full long nights moon, Marie went into labor. Virgil stood at the entrance of the living room with his hands on his hips, stared with morbid fascination as the pain worked its way up to her face. No sooner had she started making gross bodily noises than he turned and walked away. He clicked on the radio on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Fetched a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass from the cupboard.

He intended to get rid of the kid, he believed wasn’t his, soon after it’s born. Thoughts of killing the thing with his bare hands, though, gave him the willies. More than that, he felt certain God would strike him deaf and blind if he outright murdered it. Bad, bad mojo. He couldn’t bury it alive anywhere on his property, either, knowing the Almighty would be watching.

One thing he knew without a doubt, God truly approved of Marie’s punishment for committing adultery. The proof was in the abundant crop the Wentzel’s had that year.

He sat at the table, gospel music bouncing off the walls, and filled the small glass.

The first drink calmed him. Marie hadn’t fixed his dinner yet. Drinking on an empty stomach, the seventh shot of liquor made his head swim.

As Virgil lifted the glass for the last time she screamed. His hand jerked, spilling brown liquid down the front of his faded blue and red flannel shirt. He slammed the glass down on the table, got to his feet after a couple of attempts, and stomped off toward the living room.

It occurred to him he hadn’t seen his son for a while. “Bernie? Where y’at? Get your ass in here and help your damn mamma.”

Virgil felt his blood pressure rising. He went to Marie. “What’s wrong with you, woman? You act like you’ve got a burr up your ass. You’ve had a kid before. You know what to do. Just squeeze the slimy thing outta ya same as any animal do. How hard can it be?” He angrily rubbed spittle off his chin, and returned to the kitchen.

He knew when the end came he’d have to help her. He’d have to cut the cord. The very thought made his stomach queasy. He turned up the music, sat at the table, and downed another slug of whiskey. He was dizzy as hell, but at least he’d finally worked up the nerve to face the task when or if the time came, which he hoped would be nev—

“Virrrgil. Anmwe mwen! Please, please help me.”

Smoke On The Water

Book One in The Hellfire Trilogy
A Mystery Novel
Featuring Sheriff Josh Wolfe

October, Point Jove, Missouri

It was her uncanny likeness to Adele, his adoptive sister, that made him stare at her. She sat to one side of a barstool with an arm propped on the padded edge, nice legs crossed beneath a short denim skirt. She sipped a margarita; checked out the Saturday night crowd in the intimate saloon setting. Smiled and waved at anyone she knew.

Jim took a seat at the end of the bar. He slid a pack of Morilos out of his shirt pocket. One by one, the single men honed in on her only to get shot down. He lit a cigarette to curb a satisfied smile. The slow moving couples on the dance floor reminded him of his brief stint as a deckhand on a cargo ship and the way the vessel rocked side to side on the rolling sea in advance of a storm. He loved it, even when he was almost swept overboard by a crashing wave.

When a barman with ERIC on his nametag approached, he ordered a shot of off-brand bourbon. A rock glass was plunked down in front of him. Jim paid for the drink with cash. He flicked ashes into an empty peanut bowl. Downed the cheap whiskey that displeased his palate. Tilting a hat back on his head, he cast a furtive glance in her direction. The lights winked at her auburn hair when she tossed her head back to knock long strands from her shoulder. She looked at him, her eyes twinkling with carefree interest. Glossy red lips beckoned him with a playful smile.

He stood. An older man staggered toward her. Jim realized the effort to go unnoticed so he could keep coming back was about to end.

“Hey, sugarbritches. How ‘bout a dance?” The man wobbled on his heels, trying to remain upright.

“No thanks.” She tried to ignore him.

“Aww, c’mon now, don’t be that way.” He danced a silly jig. Failing to make her smile, he took hold of her jean jacket and pulled her close. “Give us a little kiss, then.”

Jim shoved the man. He stumbled sideways, tripped and fell. The bouncer yanked the intoxicated fool up off the floor, and escorted him to the manager’s office.

Eric poured a shot of the good stuff. “On the house,” he told Jim.

A hat tip. Jim turned his attention to the woman. Ever so slowly, his smoldering gaze took in her petite physique. He thought he saw her shiver. Lowering his eyelids he smiled into his drink. Swallowed hard. Dragged a thumb and forefinger down the sides of his mustache.

“My hero,” she gushed, jokingly.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and husky in tone.

“Yeah. Wanna dance?”

“Sure.” He lifted the black felt cowboy hat long enough to rake his fingers through dark wavy hair. Extended a hand to help her step down off the stool. “What’s your name?”

“Vera. You...?”

He frowned; somewhat disappointed it wasn’t the answer he expected. Nerve endings tingled. He squeezed his eyes shut, just as fast reopened them.


Her impatience amused him. He took her to the dance floor. They swayed to a mournful country western song. Her breathing went deeper, grew warmer. Had he been searching for a woman only for sex she would’ve—

His eyelids flew open.

He kissed her, tasting lime and candy apple. Breathed in the musky scent of her perfume. “Why don’t we go someplace quieter Adele, er, Vera?” He murmured sweet nothings in her ear. Followed the curve of her neck with his tongue, gently nibbled on her earlobe. He cupped her ass and pressed her body closer to his. She moaned, too loud for comfort.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her toward the exit. Both bartenders had their backs turned. The sound of Jim’s Western boots slapping the wooden floor echoed through the hallway. He rushed her past the restrooms. Pushed in a metal rail and unlocked the self-closing rear door.

He clasped her hand in his, led her to an old black van parked at the edge of the woods on the opposite side of a gravel driveway beyond the reach of the security light. She smiled up at him. He tightened his grip. They walked to the sliding door on the side, crunching leaves blown into their path by a strong gust.

The sharp tip of a small branch steadily scraped the top of the vehicle. Jim grabbed the twig and broke it. Before he could get the door open she locked her arms around him. The strength of her kiss momentarily crippled him. He pulled her arms from his neck and stepped away. He swiped a hand down his face, felt embarrassed by his erection. Opening the door, he leaned in and grabbed a sleeping bag.

“Oooo, hurry baby,” she murmured, with a dizzying sense of anticipation. She nimbly scratched his shoulder with red acrylic fingernails.

Unrolling the bag he spread it wide, rather pleased he’d removed the back seats a longtime ago. His hands shook. He worked faster at smoothing out the material to quell his own excitement, which was different from hers.

She latched onto him the moment they climbed in.

He tried to close the door. She clung to his shirt and continued to put little wet kisses on the side of his face. He shrugged her off of him. Hooked his fingers around the handle and slammed the door shut. An apology poised on his lips, he was surprised to find she had removed her jacket and skirt by the time he turned around.

Oblivious of his slight tantrum, she peeled off the rest of her clothing. Gripped the front of his shirt with both hands and ripped the snaps apart. She kissed and caressed him all over.

Without a sound he forced her onto her back.

In mere seconds, the dirty deed was done.


The blare of a car horn pulled him out of a fitful sleep. Vera didn’t move. Keeping his head low, Jim peered through the front windows.

A noise to his left.

A car had been backed out of a parking slot. A young woman opened the door to get in. The male driver yelled for her to hurry the hell up. Clouds of bluish gray exhaust polluted the air each time he revved the engine. She strapped on her seatbelt at the same time he accelerated. Instead of heading to the main road at the front of Smoky Dawg the man fishtailed his car around the back of the large wooden building. The woman glanced at the van reflected in the headlights. Jim ducked. Bits of gravel pinged off the van’s windshield.

He listened to the squeal of rubber against concrete then the roar of an engine fading into the distance before he felt confident the couple wasn't returning.

Jim leaned over Vera to fetch a roll of duct tape. She curled up beside him. He became aroused again by her sexuality. No woman, including his wife, ever extracted so much passion out of him. The initial shock of having sex with her hadn’t fully waned. Only a minimal amount of coaxing by Vera, his body soon fell into rhythm with hers. He found she could cause an explosion within him even at a measured pace. He rocked to and fro, oblivious of his surroundings. She cried out in pain. The sound energized him.

“This is wrong, this is wrong,” he whispered in agony, his muscles flexed hard in climax.


Jim divided his attention between both sides of the parking lot. Waited for the steady rhythm of her breathing to tell him she was asleep.

Manicured fingers groped the interior for the tape. Vera moaned. He was overcome with the urge to strangle her with the cheap chain around her neck. He resisted. The bar had closed. He needed to link up with the other departing customers. He lightly pushed her onto her back. She grunted. Her breath stunk. He wondered how many drinks she’d had before he arrived. He tore off a short strip. Placed the tape over her mouth and pressed down. Waited a few seconds.

Be a hell of a note if she woke up and caught me.

He bound her wrists and ankles. When he was through, he covered her with his half of the sleeping bag. He climbed into the driver’s seat. Made a quiet departure.

When he reached the cabin on Talon Ridge, he steered right and followed an overgrown rocky footpath to the utility shed. Shut off the headlights but kept the motor running. Jim lit a cigarette. He enjoyed listening to the song on the radio. It reminded him of the one and only time he had picnicked with his wife, out on the lake in their boat.

A sluggish cloud of smoke drifted around his head. He recalled the sex. The first time was rather incredible. The second time, he had wanted to punish Vera. He didn’t know why. There seemed to be no end to the fragmented memories. So much had been blocked out over the years.

He burned his thumb when he ground out the cigarette in the ashtray. The pain helped chase away the confusion. He took a deep breath, released it unhurried.

Too much stress?

He turned the key to silence the van and heard the steady clickity-clack of a freight train winding its way through Point Jove. His mind went back to another time and place that held little meaning for him now.

Humming the song about a lonesome whippoorwill and the midnight train, he picked her up and carried her into the shed. After placing her on the floor, he pulled back a bearskin rug. Yanked the trapdoor open. Tired and desperate for sleep, he dragged her nude body to the black hole, stopped so fast he almost fell through. Unsure why he wanted to, he got out his switchblade and cut the duct tape. Before he dropped her in he ripped the strip off her mouth.

CHAPTER 2 (excerpt)

A rush of adrenaline filled her when she eased up the trapdoor and peered through the crack. Lifting the door higher, rusted hinges screeched, the side of a bearskin rug slid off. She scanned the room in the semidarkness. Released her grip. The door landed with a dull thud on top of the rug, wildly scattering dust particles. Taut spider webs vibrated.

She climbed out of the root cellar. A strong musty odor on the surface mingled with the stench of decay from below. She choked back a gag. Turned in a tight circle, quickly assessed the contents in the room. The thinning glow of a sooty oil lantern couldn’t penetrate the deep shadows in the corners of the large utility shed.

A loud thump.

She snatched up a crowbar and faced the open door.

The darkness beyond the threshold brought a preternatural quiet to the setting, the silence so bottomless that she heard her heart beating. She could feel him watching her.

Where is he?

Shivering hard, she tightened her hold on the crowbar, stared over her right shoulder at the mud-spattered window and readied herself for him to appear at any moment. Another thump.

She jerked around in time to see the door bang against the wall behind it. Her heart throbbed. Her breath came and went in short frosty plumes. She crossed her legs, tried in vain to stop the flow of urine. It curled across the rough plank floor and dripped into the cellar. Her gaze shifted to the dark lines around her ankles. She stuck out her arms and saw the same marks around her wrists.

What the...?

The bottom step creaked.

It never once occurred to her that she wasn’t alone down there. She inched away from the cellar. The shed came alive with the staccato sound of sleet tapping on a tin roof. She found a dirty bed sheet, wadded up underneath the shelf holding the lantern, and wrapped it around her shoulders for warmth. One more gust of air smacked the door against the wall and made her heart jump.

Go! She willed her legs to move and bolted through the entrance.

Killing Summer

A Mystery Novel
Featuring Sheriff Josh Wolfe

July 4, Point Jove

Stripped down to their underwear and socks, the two men walked into the chilly, snake infested waters of White River swatting mosquitoes every step of the way. Moving slowly through a shallow, rocky area with only their head and shoulders above the surface, they stayed close to the bank using their hands to feel around under submerged boulders. A half a mile or so upstream from where they had slung the rest of their clothing over a tree branch, the man in the lead, twenty-seven-year-old Kevin Rayland, took a deep breath, and dove under the water.

More than happy to play the role of spotter, Jasper Monroe kept a watchful eye out for game wardens who don’t care the practice of noodling has been legal in Missouri for quite a while. Since most flathead catfish are on the nest when they’re noodled, wildlife fanatics continue to argue that too many eggs are being destroyed, and this ridiculous and dangerous style of fishing must end.

They weren’t there to hand-fish. Not today. If they get caught, not tomorrow, either.

Kevin shot up out of the water, gasping for air. Swiped a hand down his face. “Found one.”

Jasper got behind him, and tucked his hands under Kevin’s arms to help him keep his balance while he twisted sideways to put his leg in the catfish hole. “Yep, it’s empty.” Jasper let go. Kevin fell backward, scraping his knee. Went under again trying to gain his footing. Angrily smacked the water with the side of his hand.

“Take it easy. Don’t be stirring up any damn leeches.” Jasper broke off a sturdy twig full of stiff brown leaves, stabbed the end in the ground above the hole to mark the spot. Piled rocks around the base for added support. “Let’s get this over with.”

In the waning daylight the men trudged back to their starting point, on guard for venomous snakes swimming about. “Good thing it rained,” Kevin whispered. “It turned the water brown. Maybe they won’t see us coming.” He shuddered, knowing how easy it would be to encounter snakes or beavers that have taken over abandoned holes. A sock won’t prevent sharp teeth or fangs from sinking into his flesh. Snapping turtles can also inflict a lot of misery by biting off a finger or two.

When they reached the rocky shoal, Jasper remained in the water. “Go on, get her.” Focused on the lengthening shadows in the surrounding woods he thought he saw movement. He leaned in, squinted his eyes, then pulled back. “Hurry the hell up,” he said in a low tone.

Kevin ran over to the boulder where they’d hidden the twenty-something ticket taker. He grasped her by her wrists, dragged her to the water’s edge. Jasper took hold of her hands, pulled her headfirst into the water. Kevin jumped in, reached under and found her feet. Her long hair flowed across her face like corn-yellow seaweed stems. The water washed blood from her wounds and marked her passing, as they floated her to the hole in the riverbank.

Jasper crossed her arms over her bare chest then pressed down hard, pushing her under. Banged her head against the rocky wall several times trying to find the opening.

“What’re you doing?”

“I don’t think she’s going to fit.”

“Sure she will. You’re just too chickenshit to duck under and do it the right way.”

“Oh yeah?” Jasper went down, and worked her head and shoulders into the mouth of the hole. Shoved her in as far as she’d go. Jumped up and sucked in a lungful of air. “There’s not enough room for her feet.” He glanced at the concave bank of the meandering river. “I don’t see anything we can use to cover her with.”

“So what? It’d take one hell of a drought for the water to recede enough for someone to see her feet sticking out of there. That could be many years from now. I don’t see the little waterfall up ahead going dry any time soon. Besides, it won’t be long before critters start feasting on her.”

“Whatever. Frickin’ knowitall. C’mon, it’s getting dark. I sure as hell don’t want to be in here when it is. I could use a smoke and a beer, anyway. If we hurry, we’ll have time to stop by Roadhouse Redd before the fireworks begin.”

Jasper raced ahead.

Kevin stood still waiting for the ripples to subside. He looked intently at the muddy water trying to see through it. Tried to imagine lying in that dark hole for all of eternity. Tried to remember exactly why Jasper thought they should remove her clothes. Tried to remember where they stashed them. He felt sorry for her. Just a little. What was her name? Carly? Charley? He shook his head in disdain. What woman goes off with two guys she’d just met? Harley, was it?

Screw it. It isn’t my fault why she tripped and fell down.

Links Of Interest

This And That

From June 2013 to April 2014 -- I re-wrote, re-covered, and re-uploaded all my books. Completed the Bad Mojo Series (SERIAL QUILLER). Compiled all 13 episodes of SERIAL QUILLER into one book, A BAD MOJO SERIES MYSTERY SET, and made a cover for it. Updated my accounts with Goodreads and Shelfari.

Then someone pointed out to me that I had forgotten to "right justify" my stories. I checked. Sure enough, the uneven right edge looked sloppy and unprofessional. Jeezlepete. To keep from overwhelming the Draft2Digital and Amazon people I resubmitted one book at a time, day after day, for two weeks or more. I am happy to announce that all 24 titles are up and running.

I went to the Kindle Community Forum (KBoards) to put the new cover for STAY WITH ME on my forum profile. When I typed the title in the search box 20-some books with the same title popped up. I knew in an instant I didn't want this title anymore. Mostly, I didn't want someone to look for my book and find one of the others instead! I changed my title to LIZZE, then made a new cover.

On SERIAL QUILLER: I omitted key information so the story didn’t invite people to try stupid things.

I'm getting a picture made for my blog. Changing the background of my blog, as well.

The groundwork has been laid for a romance novel, a children's story, and a Halloween ghost story, but for now, I'm taking a much-needed break from writing.

Writers' Conferences & Festivals In 2014


April 19 – Alabama Book Festival Montgomery, Alabama

April 24-26 – Las Vegas Writers’ Conference Las Vegas, Nevada

April 24-26 – Arkansas Literary Festival Little Rock, Arkansas

April 25 – Southern Kentucky Bookfest Bowling Green, Kentucky

April 25-26 – Chicago Spring Fling Writers Conference Chicago, Illinois

April 25-27 – Pikes Peak Writers Conference Colorado Springs, Colorado


May 1-3 – The Oklahoma Writers Federation Story Weavers Conference Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

May 2-4 – Malice Domestic Bethesda, Maryland

May 3-4 – Ontario Writers Conference Ajax, Ontario, Canada

May 14-18 – Romantic Times Book Lovers’ Convention New Orleans, Louisiana

May 15-18 – Canada’s Writing Conference Vancouver, BC

May 16-17 – Tallahassee Book Festival and Writers Conference Tallahassee, Florida

May 16-18 – SC Book Festival Columbia, South Carolina

May 17 – Detroit Working Writers Conference Clinton Twp, Michigan


June 6-8 – Philadelphia Writers' Conference Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

June 6-8 – Bloody Words mystery writers’ conference Toronto, Ontario, Canada

June 7-14 – Santa Barbara Writers Conference Santa Barbara, California

June 13-14 – Mystery Writers Key West Festival Key West, Florida

June 13-17 – Kachemak Bay Writers’ Conference Homer, Alaska

June 13-17 – Southeastern Writers Workshop St. Simons Island, Georgia

June 14-16 – Greater Los Angeles Writers Conference Los Angeles, California

June 18-22 – CanWrite! Canadian Authors' Association Writers' Conference Orillia, Ontario


July 8-12 – Thrillerfest and Craftfest – International Thriller Writers Conference New York City, New York

July 12-18 – Antioch Writers’ Workshop Yellow Springs, Ohio

July 10-13 – Public Safety Writers Conference Las Vegas, Nevada

July 17-20 – Pacific Northwest Writers Conference Seattle, Washington

July 24-27 – Book Passage Mystery Writers Conference Corte Madera, California

July 27-Aug. 1 – Napa Valley Writers’ Conference St. Helena, California


Aug. 1-3 – Willamette Writers Conference Portland, Oregon

Aug. 1-3 – Writer's Digest Conference New York City, New York

Aug. 9-13 – Romance Novel Convention Las Vegas, Nevada

Aug. 8-10 – When Words Collide, A Festival for Readers and Writers Calgary, Alberta

Aug. 21-24 – Killer Nashville Writers’ Conference Nashville, Tennessee

Aug. 30-Sept. 1 – Decatur Book Festival Decatur (Atlanta), Georgia


Sept. 5-7 – Colorado Gold Writers Conference Westminster, Colorado

Sept. 4-7 – Writers’ Police Academy Jamestown, North Carolina

Sept. 20 – ORAcon2014 - Fiction Writers Conference Springfield, Missouri

Sept. 19-21 – Southern California Writers' Conference Newport Beach, California

Sept. 25-27 – Florida Heritage Book Festival and Writers’ Conference St. Augustine, Florida

Sept. 26-28 – The Midwestern Book Lovers Unite Convention Minneapolis, Minnesota


Oct. 3-5 – Write on the Sound Writers’ Conference Edmonds, Washington

Oct. 10-12 – The Southern Festival of Books Nashville, Tennessee

Oct. 25 – Boston Book Festival Boston, Massachusetts

Oct. 22-26 – The Author’s World, the Novelist, Inc. (NINC) writers conference Myrtle Beach, South Carolina

Oct. 24-26 – Surrey International Writers Conference Surrey, BC, Canada

Oct. 24-26 – Stars of Florida Writers Conference Orlando, Florida

Oct. 24-26, 2014 – The La Jolla Writers Conference San Diego, California


Nov. 1 – Louisiana Book Festival Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Nov. 6-8 – Tony Hillerman Writers Conference Santa Fe, New Mexico

Nov. 6-9 – Sanibel Island Writers Conference Sanibel Island, Florida

Nov. 7-9 – The New England Crime Bake Conference Dedham, Massachusetts

Nov. 8 – Murder and Mayhem Muskego, Michigan

Nov. 13-16 – Bouchercon Crime Fiction Convention Long Beach, California


Dec. 13-20 – Abroad Writers' Conference Otivar, Spain

Now Available

All 13 Episodes of SERIAL QUILLER

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SERIAL QUILLER 1 - Moved by the success of her debut novel, twenty-six-year-old BJ Donovan of New Orleans, Louisiana can’t handle the thoughts of being a one-hit wonder and never feeling special ever again.

Using her position as the executive chef and owner of a popular restaurant in the French Quarter to blend in with the community she embarks on a killing spree, by means of voodoo magic, and uses details of the murders to maintain her best-seller status with an episodic thriller series.

While the body count rises—from her brother’s girlfriend, found mutilated at an abandoned farmhouse, to an undercover cop murdered in a dark alley on the riverside—BJ tries to remain above suspicion as she continues to write the wrongs in her world.

SERIAL QUILLER 2 - St. Augustine, Florida

SERIAL QUILLER 3 - Savannah, Georgia

SERIAL QUILLER 4 - Key West, Florida

SERIAL QUILLER 5 - Charleston, South Carolina

SERIAL QUILLER 6 - Salem, Massachusetts

SERIAL QUILLER 7 - Cincinnati, Ohio

SERIAL QUILLER 8 - Chicago, Illinois

SERIAL QUILLER 9 - Portland, Oregon

SERIAL QUILLER 10 - Hollywood, California

SERIAL QUILLER 11 - Las Vegas, Nevada

SERIAL QUILLER 12 - Truth or Consequences, New Mexico

SERIAL QUILLER 13 - Coming Home