by Toby Neal, author of Blood Orchids
How did this happen to me? I’m studying Forensics
for Dummies with a pack of Post-its. I’m cutting up a chicken in the
kitchen with a butcher knife as “research” for a paragraph on dismemberment,
leaning in close to listen to the wet thunk and gristly snick of the knife. I’m
looking at gruesome pictures of autopsies for accurate descriptions. I’m pulling
over to the side of the road and sniffing roadkill, trying for accurate words
for the scent of decay. Oh, and I’ve watched about a dozen YouTube videos on
handgun cleaning, shooting, loading and handling (still never have touched a
real one.)
I’m putting out FB questions—“Anybody know a
real policewoman I can interview?” A friend puts me in contact and I meet this
intrepid soul for coffee and flattery,
studying her body language, stance, and verbiage while peppering with
questions about procedure and the mysterious accoutrements on her duty belt.
I’m jogging with my (tiny, fuzzy and idiotic) dogs, imagining myself as the
physically fit, badass Lei Texeira, my protagonist, with her Rottweiler.
Through it all, and four books into it, I’m
still baffled that I’m writing crime mysteries—but I’ve passed through the
denial, bargaining, and anonymity stages and am well on my way to acceptance.
Here’s how it happened:
I wrote a short story on my anonymous blog
about a policewoman who’d been sexually abused, who was brave and a little
crazy in her persuit of justice. I wrote about the drowning of two young girls,
a situation that I’d dealt with in my real life role as a therapist,
helpless to do anything but grieve and help others grieve. I wrote this story
to try to work through the trauma of it, to understand it all better somehow.
People wanted to know what happened next so I
posted chapters. About 60 pages in, further than I’d ever made it on any of my
other attempts, I realized I was so into Lei’s story I was going to be
interested enough to actually finish a novel (after about 10 aborted novelets?
Novelinas? No-vellums that petered out.)
And I finished Blood Orchids.
I found Lei had more to learn, more cases to
solve, more islands to explore, healing to experience and sex to have—and I was
still totally into her story. Four books in, and I haven’t lost interest in the
seedy underbelly of humanity (did I mention I’m a therapist?) and the dual
faces of Hawaii—paradise, and purgatory.
I’m a little embarrassed by this. I’m a nice
person, a people helper—staid and a little matronly in my flowered pants and tank
tops with pearls. This fascination with
fighting crime really seems…unseemly.
But what I’ve also discovered is that I have a
side that loves to root for the underdog, that revels in justice, and that
wishes I could be more active than wiping the tears of victims. It’s that side
that revels in Lei’s ass kicking of psychologically sick perpetrators… and so
in a way it all does make sense.
Anyone else surprised by what they like to
write—and what they like to read?
Make sure to grab a copy of Blood Orchids! It has a beautiful cover, an intriguing story line and an author you'll want to read again!
