tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85300588691228751702024-03-06T01:06:22.627-08:00Santa Fe Stories Tower Lowe makes up stories about Santa Fe scenes...Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-83741873989190287312021-03-15T10:09:00.003-07:002021-03-15T10:13:04.591-07:00A Devil in the Dancehall...or no?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMoqHOGJFwjCy5KmGq5_XWPsTMIi1R7zUXG8dFFfTrpfzNqIWXzRpzwDDz7o_gkpH9r14vdFETNw8oxptAYFwGgqCh3grQBR_-SP6Tg3nU87bKVbw8PMMzU2uIAmFkffhTbhRH1E58cG4/s840/Screen+Shot+2021-03-15+at+10.44.33+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="840" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMoqHOGJFwjCy5KmGq5_XWPsTMIi1R7zUXG8dFFfTrpfzNqIWXzRpzwDDz7o_gkpH9r14vdFETNw8oxptAYFwGgqCh3grQBR_-SP6Tg3nU87bKVbw8PMMzU2uIAmFkffhTbhRH1E58cG4/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-03-15+at+10.44.33+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />In the late 1980s, when I first moved to New Mexico, there was a dance hall in Pojoaque (a small Pueblo between Santa Fe and Espa<span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;">ñ</span>ola) for southern swing dancers. My husband and I took lessons and joined the free wheeling crowd swinging about the floor on Saturday nights.<p></p><p>One night, a fellow dancer told me a story about how a community was destroyed by a dance hall. </p><p>In early October one year, as the weather got cold, a young man, Octavio, lost his job as a carpenter. He began to drink and stay home. His wife was angry, so he took off on a Saturday night to go to the dance hall -- run by a very handsome newcomer in a black cape. The music was loud and the girls were pretty, but only a few people attended. Octavio scoured the community the next Saturday and convinced several other young men and the daughters of several churchgoers to join him at the dance. Octavio only danced with the girls at first, but as the gathering grew over the month of October, he began to give out a kiss or two. The other dancers saw him and took the same risk. </p><p>The community became alarmed at the behavior at these dances, yet the planner scheduled one for Hallow's Eve. Octavio's wife visited the local priest and begged him to go to the dance and send everyone back home to their families, but the priest was stopped at the door by an extremely handsome dancer, bearing eyes of onyx, a black cape and a white smile. He was a smooth talker.</p><p>"Nothing is going on here, <span style="font-family: inherit;">Se<span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;">ñ</span>or</span>. We are having good Christian fun. Do not worry."</p><p>The priest, smelling sulfur and feeling the heat of a fire, pushed past the well-dressed man, stopped the musicians, and took the stage.</p><p>"Young men and women. You are sacred children of God, well-loved by your community, in debt to your families. This planer is not bringing you happiness or joy. Think about it -- he is encouraging sin. The crowd booed loudly, and threw beer bottles at the priest. He was forced to run from the dance hall. The man with the cape and glassy eyes laughed loudly at the fleeing man of God -- a laughter that haunted the priest for many years to come.</p><p>And why? Because the next morning, when the sun rose over the fair town, all the revellers at the dance hall had disappeared and were never seen again.</p><p>I shivered when my friend told the story. But soon I realized that it might be a retelling of the old story of the Devil at the Dance Hall where the king of Hell makes off with the prettiest girl in town...but then...who says that story isn't true? "They" say it happened, and I certainly can't say it didn't...because things are....mysterious in New Mexico.</p>Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-68687420403308209382020-12-14T09:22:00.002-08:002020-12-14T09:22:29.224-08:00New Mexico Haunting: Mystery or Mayhem?<p style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Camping during the summertime around the lake. It's always a blast. I miss the big pines, starry night sky, and hanging out b… | Lake tahoe, Beautiful moon, Tahoe" class="n3VNCb" data-noaft="1" src="https://i.pinimg.com/originals/21/16/1d/21161df405e179d4d22efaa82b04fe4b.jpg" style="height: 435px; margin: 0px; width: 287.68px;" /> <br /></p><p> <br /></p><p>For several years I traveled once a week during the school year to Dulce, New Mexico on the Jicarilla Apache Reservation. As a rule, I stayed in Dulce at the famed Wild Horse Casino and Hotel. In the fall, the not on the front entrance announced, "no bloody boots allowed." In the evening, the lobby was alive with Casino players, but I never dared go in to gamble because a cloud of negative spirits seemed to always be following me in my tasks in that quaint rural town.</p><p>One day, I arrived in a snowstorm without a reservation, and the Wild Horse Casino was filled to capacity. I turned my little Honda Civic around and headed outside the reservation to the town of Chama. Dark was falling along with a heavy snowfall, but I did find a hotel accepting guests.</p><p>The business consisted of a log cabin style structure with 4 cabins build out back. Only one cabin was available, no rooms. Naturally, with it being so late in the day, I took the open cabin. </p><p>"One thing," the young man behind the desk held the old-fashioned key in his hand. </p><p>"Okay?" I was in a hurry to relax.</p><p>"You don't care if it's haunted."</p><p>"What are you talking about?"</p><p>The clerk laughed. "Just a joke." He handed me the key.</p><p>"One more thing," he said as I was about to exit the door. "Don't worry if a tree falls."</p><p>"A tree."</p><p>"Loud sound, but it happens all the time."</p><p>I frowned, figured the guy was stoned, and sped out of lobby.<br /></p><p>Lighting in the back of the building was poor, and the path to the back cabin passed by ponderosa pines whose black branches swayed in the cold breeze. It was eerie, even spooky. I began to wish that I had asked more about the haunting.</p><p>However, when I opened the door, the room was cozy, with a small refrigerator, a coffee machine, and a good television with cable TV. I fell easily into a dreamless sleep only to awake several hours later to a thundering crash. TI expected to hear sirens and see the lights of firetrucks out my window. </p><p>Instead, a deep silence fell on the forest surrounding my little cabin. No wind blew and no cars passed in the distance. I look at my bedside clock. Three in the morning. Maybe I dreamed the sound. Still, I knew I couldn't sleep without at least checking out the room and glancing out the door to make sure a tree hadn't actually fallen onto the roof of the hotel.</p><p>The snow had stopped and the night was dimly lit. A shadow swept by the entrance to my room. The figure wore a long dress with colors that flashed in moonlight. <br /></p><p>"Did a tree fall?" I called out.</p><p>"They killed my children." A woman's deep voice.</p><p>"Pardon me?"</p><p>"So I blasted the mountain." </p><p>A hyena laugh filled the dark air, and I slammed the door of the cabin, threw the deadbolt, and attached the chain lock. The laugh echoed in the woods outside my door.</p><p>Needless to say, I tossed and turned the rest of the night and dragged miserably through work the next day. And, yes, I asked the clerk about the sound.</p><p>"Happens all the time."</p><p>And that's why I say it's mysterious in New Mexico.</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-38461084587310194012020-05-12T12:31:00.000-07:002020-05-12T12:31:45.331-07:00The Present Moment of Covid 19 and Writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTKTGyvMQFK0wiTIVH81sZy_JImc2n338MPm1yxhVfQWJWPt_0FepUnT6Q6EzENRhOTt2rkyp-ZZJohEMyc5bgNJ0vK-X9j6Cvq6f_nZUIIlv6JBtMiq1Iw328Ee8YJ1WXyMlFqf63OyO/s1600/Don+Buddha+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTKTGyvMQFK0wiTIVH81sZy_JImc2n338MPm1yxhVfQWJWPt_0FepUnT6Q6EzENRhOTt2rkyp-ZZJohEMyc5bgNJ0vK-X9j6Cvq6f_nZUIIlv6JBtMiq1Iw328Ee8YJ1WXyMlFqf63OyO/s320/Don+Buddha+.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
My friend is selling this figure on Craiglist, but I don't know which Buddha it is. Here are my guesses, going on how I feel cooped up by writing a sequel to my latest traditionally published novel and trapped by Covid 19 in an endless loop of Covid 19 data.<br />
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<ul>
<li>Laughing Buddha </li>
<li>Laughing at you Buddha</li>
<li>Laughing at us Buddha</li>
<li>Laughing because it is funny Buddha</li>
<li>Laughing because it is not funny, but what else can I do? Buddha</li>
<li>There's still joy: Laugh Buddha</li>
<li>I'm overdoing the wine Buddha</li>
<li>Eat, Drink and be Merry because tomorrow may...Buddha</li>
<li>You're not a Buddhist, so you shouldn't be guessing Buddha</li>
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I'm not a Buddhist, it's true, but I am fond of the writer Thich Nhat Hanh. So using that limited knowledge, I think the Buddha is laughing, in a metaphysical sense, at the idea that we are controlling the events around us, when in fact we are merely observing them as they occur. Focus on the breath, focus on the step, focus on this moment, this dish you are washing, this sentence you are writing, this character...</div>
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My next book is halfway completed using this method. I have survived the virus, eaten well, and continue to exercise. Life is good for us today, in this moment. But I do sneak out on the Internet every so often, and I am hounded by crazed control freaks on every side of the issue of viruses, transmission, fear, loathing...you name it. There is very little about this information that suggests we are not in control. In fact, quite the opposite. We are encouraged to imagine we are the very epicenter of control over protective supplies, plans, transmission of invisible particles, vaccines -- it is exhausting and no wonder the Buddha is laughing.</div>
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Ohm. My meditation mantra, since, as I mentioned, I am not a Buddhist is as follows:</div>
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<i>God is love. Let God heal. </i></div>
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In the present moment.</div>
Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-91466386645824616282020-03-05T08:13:00.001-08:002020-03-18T14:58:51.712-07:00Do Ghosts Exist? Don't Come BackMy next Molly Donovan suspense novel (I'm writing it now) features -- spirits -- aka ghosts. Do they exist?<br />
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<a href="https://amzn.to/2Pi8X8b">Read Now</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDNTZT0wL5P-fMon6eg0hV8SDh51Edx29I6RuODa_OhMUhlF-a1ZufFbxofmZENMoFusQ0vVExdGC0wLUIQjiy1vnPJGyZvcHCz25pmdw9ZW3-PhlABSS2JQi0f6Ck5hVG-u2d_eML_HIC/s1600/No+Way+Out+eBook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDNTZT0wL5P-fMon6eg0hV8SDh51Edx29I6RuODa_OhMUhlF-a1ZufFbxofmZENMoFusQ0vVExdGC0wLUIQjiy1vnPJGyZvcHCz25pmdw9ZW3-PhlABSS2JQi0f6Ck5hVG-u2d_eML_HIC/s200/No+Way+Out+eBook.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sequel is <i><span style="color: blue;">Don't Come Back</span></i>!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Here's what happens. The main man of the novel here's drumming and he feels the presence of his ancestors. At first it's almost a stereotype. He's Navajo, and he has just moved to New Mexico, and he believes he is hearing the voices of his ancestors. Of course, maybe he's simply depressed and searching for his identity. (His mother moved away to Maryland before he was born, and never kept it touch with his family here.)<br />
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Then, Molly hears drums -- or is it just the subwoofer in a passing car?<br />
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I like to feature spirits in my stories...and themes of loss and abandonment. Are there spirits. I think so. I can't prove it, of course.<br />
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I grew up with lots of spirit stories: Miss Rosa rocking in the front hall, translucent figures in white, ghosts of former slaves haunting the lives of their white former owners, stories of spirit hauntings...were they true? I felt certain of it as a child. On the former plantation where I grew up, I noticed a strange phenomenon and still do. When I walked out the door as a child, the world I saw, the trees the grass, the farm buildings, seemed ephemeral, as if they might disappear or be transformed in a moment to another time and place. We had a tool house which had once been the outdoor kitchen, a graveyard where dead children were buried, still grieved all these generations later. Could these mothers still be heard crying, especially when the wind kicked up? I heard them. I often wanted to step through the veil and experience that past. But, of course, I never did. Maybe I thought there really was no veil, maybe I was afraid the veil was a one way travel and I could not return to the present.<br />
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Even today, when I walk out the backdoor of the old farm (my brother now lives there), I see a wavering light that threatens to reveal the buildings and plants of my childhood, my grandmother hanging clothes while chickens squawk at her feet. Is my memory of that time correct -- can I go back for fifteen minutes or so simply to check? Or will I then have to relive that past to get to the present<br />
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In <i>Don't Come Back, </i>Molly and her FBI helper Ray address the issue of spirits -- what do they find? I don't know yet, but it's still .... mysterious in New Mexico.<br />
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Do spiTower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-51681456064725572392020-02-20T07:57:00.002-08:002020-02-20T07:57:40.169-08:00Characters with Disabilities as Part of the Narrative<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqIzF22D8n97YC3HAQyqN_7cQg8UGBuKnBjyVqWKdPWkP4VGFelG7wJQjgxkdZ95AvemUvCdfYaefg4QrL80wo8fms2gdYIInfyXYWkHrJAYPrOTWwXKa8mVztPY3xbikkizMhN6kEPo5/s1600/full+wrap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="1600" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqIzF22D8n97YC3HAQyqN_7cQg8UGBuKnBjyVqWKdPWkP4VGFelG7wJQjgxkdZ95AvemUvCdfYaefg4QrL80wo8fms2gdYIInfyXYWkHrJAYPrOTWwXKa8mVztPY3xbikkizMhN6kEPo5/s320/full+wrap.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Think about it. How many people in your life live with mental illness (depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia) physical impairments, hearing impairments, vision impairments...<br />
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I'll bet you don't live a life peopled with <i>only</i> able bodied individuals, and yet, that's the ableist narrative, the cultural story, the stigma people with disabilities face.<br />
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I've set out to write mystery and suspense novels that include <i>characters with disabilities who are part of the narrative. </i>In other words, the disabilities are not the main point of the plot, the characters are not evil because of how they appear, and they are not heroes simply because they are alive. Oh yes, and they don't get cured so we can all feel like this is a perfect world with no problems.<br />
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Narrative fiction is flooded with able bodied people and stereotypical characters with disabilities. <br />
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I am recovering from depression and addiction, and I live a very full life. I worked, I raised a family, a have relationships with partners and friends. I did experience functional limitations to my life at various times, but because my disability was hidden, most people never noticed. So, in a way, I <i>passed </i>as non disabled. But that didn't work until I acknowledged to myself that I was experiencing a functional limitation, and I needed to accept that and not try to <i>pass </i>in my own brain.<br />
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I actually remember the place where it happened and how shocked I was to understand it. I didn't accept my own limitations.<br />
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I wanted to change fiction -- no literary fiction but popular fiction, romance and mystery fiction, to <i>include </i>characters with disabilities. <br />
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<i>No Way Out</i>, my soon to be released suspense novel features Molly Donovan, a hard-charging fraud investigator and her new romantic interest PI Miguel Alvarez. Molly lost the use of her left arm in a rare stroke suffered in high school. She uses brains, brawn and her unaffected arm to . Miguel is a recovering addict, who navigates a maze of old friends and old habits. The two make a connection. A peripheral characters fight the notion that his disability makes him evil.<br />
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And Cotton Lee Penn, in the southern mysteries <i>Gone on Sunday </i>and <i>Premonition</i>, fights the same cultural attitudes in the 1970s -- along with the idea that disabled people shouldn't have sex.<br />
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Let's change the habit of eliminating half our friends and lovers from our fiction.<br />
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Thanks remain as always: <i>mysterious in New Mexico...</i><br />
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<br />Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-90523631978770997812020-02-12T04:53:00.006-08:002020-02-12T04:56:06.971-08:00Cover Reveal Suspense Novel: No Way Out <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My first traditionally published book (<a href="http://www.solsticeempire.com/faq.aspx">http://www.solsticeempire.com</a>), first cover...so much fun. And so is the book...locked in an Espanola adobe, nearly drowned in Cochiti Lake...what next? </div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><i>If
anything happens to me…</i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">
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That
phrase from Gloria’s email haunts Molly as she bounces around
half-conscious in a dark space. Later, she opens her eyes in a small
house with all the windows bricked shut and the door boarded from the
outside. Her kidnapper has taken her keys, her cell phone, and her
purse. Molly scrambles through the house, looking for any sign of
life, any hope of escape, but the house is abandoned and she sees no
way out.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The
kidnapping of former fraud investigator Molly Donovan follows
Gloria’s murder, an event witnessed by Molly and PI Miguel Alvarez.
Gloria’s mysterious email throws the two investigators together in
a frantic search for the perp. A stranger traps Molly inside the
abandoned house while an old friend sucks Miguel into his troubled
past. Molly trusts Miguel until a series of notes incriminates him
and leaves Molly on her own to investigate a sex cult, missing money,
and jaded love.</span></div>
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***</div>
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After so much time, it's great to have the recognition of a traditional publisher. I enjoyed publishing through my small company <i>eiffeltowerpublishers</i>, but I wanted to try writing out in the real world. I started submitting to agents, but those folks are beyond busy. So I tried publishers who accept unagented manuscripts and that crowd is way more friendly. And I think my writing got a fair hearing from the publishers. Plus, of course, the manuscript was accepted by the Summer Solstice imprint of Solstice Publishing. </div>
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Editing is next. I hire an editors and beta readers for my independently published works, but now I'm working for someone else. I'll let you know how it goes. Generally, I love editing my works, but we'll see. I'm as vain as the next writer.</div>
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And it's still...mysterious in New Mexico.</div>
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Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-5291379562035070582020-02-07T11:43:00.002-08:002020-02-07T11:43:31.783-08:00Lightning Bolt Romance is back! (With a little suspense...)<div style="text-align: center;">
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How Did You Meet? by Tower Lowe</div>
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Office Delia Gonzales spotted a blue Toyota SUV in the ditch on Acequia Madre. Both passengers doors were wide open. A man about her age squatted by the rear wheel well. Muscles bulged in his thighs as he rose up and aimed a bottomless brown-eyed gaze at her body. Delia meant to be offended, but she got side-tracked by pheromones or the smell of pipe tobacco, she never knew which.<br />
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"My name is Ramon." He took too strides in her direction, put his hands on her waist and dented her skin with his fingers. Delia's right hand searched for her gun.<br />
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"I'm your cousin," Ramon said. "Don't you remember me?"<br />
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"No." Delia touched the cool steel of the police revolver. Ramon was close enough to breathe warm spearmint into her face.<br />
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"We played soldiers in the dirt out back of your house. You had a dog named Scruffy."<br />
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"I don't know you." Delia felt sweat drip between her breasts. "I never had a dog."<br />
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A line grew between his brows. "Then love me anyway, the way I love you."<br />
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His lips touched her cold mouth, her hand removed the gun from her holster and Officer Delia was seconds away from firing into Ramon's belly.<br />
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"Daddy. What are you doing?" It was a toddler in dark curls and a yellow jumpsuit.<br />
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Ramon backed off. Delia kept her gun pointed at him.<br />
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"Is that lady going to kill you, Daddy?"<br />
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Ramon opened both arms to grab the girl and lifted her into his arms, covering his belly and chest, making it impossible for Delia to fire without hitting the child.<br />
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"I want her to be your Mommy," Ramon said.<br />
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"Now?" the girl asked.<br />
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"No, not now. But in a little while."<br />
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Delia put away the gun.<br />
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***</div>
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<i>No Way Out, </i>a romantic suspense, is under contract to be published soon.</div>
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<i>Follow me on <a href="http://bit.ly/376wUFU">Bookbub</a> </i>to get the release date!<i> </i></div>
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<br />Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-2624673128019736942020-01-16T14:07:00.001-08:002020-01-23T12:02:15.358-08:00Physical and mental impairments are part of life...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My romance novel <i>No Way Out (</i>now in submission), features a main character, Molly Donovan, who has a physical impairment -- limited use of her left arm due to a rare stroke that occurred when she was in high school. This inhibits Molly not at all -- in fact she's one tough woman, and her love interest, Miguel, has his hands full keeping up with her.<br />
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All my stories feature characters with disabilities, because, from my point of view, fiction contains few characters with physical or mental disabilities -- or hearing and vision impairments. Often, such characters are villains (which I find deeply offensive) or are the object of great amazement because they don't just stay home and watch television.<br />
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Really -- it's ridiculous. And this lack of representation exacerbates the cultural attitude towards persons with disabilities. "They" are <i>different -- </i>scary, embarrassing, to be looked away from, kept separate, not acknowledged accept for pit. They are, as we say in New Mexico, <i>pobrecitos.</i><br />
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In the course of my career and my life, I have known many successful persons with mental and physical impairments. In fact, these people taught me that life is about making the most of the choices I do have. Believe it or not, that wasn't clear to me before...I felt sorry for myself because I had passed up certain opportunities or failed at others. My work with people with impairments who were successfully managing families and careers taught me that I simply had to wrong attitude.<br />
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And I've never been the same. But, to the books. I have two published series. My very first is the Cinnamon/Burro New Mexico mysteries. The very first story <i>In Dulce, Disturbed, </i>is about a missing boy with autism. One of the detectives is living with schizophrenia.<br />
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My second series, is part of the Cotton Lee Penn historical mystery series. In this series, Cotton Lee Penn fights the stigma of a polio impairment in the 1970's rural south. Readers tell me that like Cotton Lee because of her grit and honesty, and because she doesn't allow others to define what she can and can't do. I set Cotton Lee in the 1970's to make the prejudices against her working and having a love life believable, but these same prejudices are out among us today.<br />
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My latest book, <i>No Way Out, </i>is a romantic suspense, and I'm submitting it now. I hope to get the book in good enough shape so that readers can enjoy it. Readers get it that we all are vulnerable to physical or mental impairments. It's a matter of luck and time. And, so far, my readers respond positively to my characters who manage their physical and mental impairments quite well, overcoming the functional limitations of their disabilities, and overcoming the attitudes of others to persevere and wring a good amount of success out of life.<br />
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Bravo to you, my fair readers.<br />
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Things remain, as ever, mysterious in New Mexico.Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-11740299111744265022019-12-16T09:16:00.000-08:002019-12-20T10:30:41.597-08:00Neurodiversity, Mental Illness, and the Fiction Narrative<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What does neurodiverse mean?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">According to </span><a href="https://www.disabled-world.com/disability/awareness/neurodiversity/" style="background-color: transparent;">https://www.disabled-world.com/disability/awareness/neurodiversity/</a> the word neurodiverse includes an expanding number of conditions that need to be accepted as part of the human condition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Today, neurodiversity is broadly defined as an approach to learning and disability that suggests diverse <a href="https://www.disabled-world.com/health/neurology/" style="box-sizing: inherit; padding: 5px;" title="Neurological Disorders: Types, Research and Treatment">neurological conditions</a> appear as a result of normal variations in the human genome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Neurodiversity advocates promote support systems (such as inclusion-focused services, accommodations, communication and assistive technologies, occupational training, and independent living support) that allow those who are neuro-divergent to live their lives as they are, rather than being coerced or forced to adopt uncritically accepted ideas of normality, or to conform to a clinical ideal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Different people think differently - not just because of differences in culture or life experience, but because their brains are "wired" to work differently.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i style="box-sizing: inherit;">"Neurodiversity is not a word about autism alone. It is a word that embraces all neurological uniqueness, all rhythms of neurodevelopment and all the forms by which humans can express themselves and contribute to their world."</i> - newforums.com/use-term-neurodiversity/"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have worked providing accommodations for many individuals who had a diversity of brain issues, and I have a family member who is neurodiverse. That word hasn't been around that long, and so my family member struggled through numerous oddball labels and definitions -- autism, depression, bipolar, schizo-this or schizo-that -- it got crazy for us and for the family member, because none of these labels had any diagnostic touchstone. In the 90's, I accepted that reality, but in the 2000s, I started to wonder. If there's no evidence, no blood test, no MRI, no x-ray, sonogram, no nothing...then what are we really talking about here? And if the label keeps changing, what does that say about the medical practitioners who are creating and dishing out these labels?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Those are rhetorical questions, because, from my point of view, we are talking about the concept written above -- people are neurodiverse, and there are a variety of ways that neurodiversity reveals itself in humans. The answer to the second question about medical practitioners is that they are not qualified to label individuals with an "illness" when there is no diagnostic proof it exists. The symptoms vary and are vague or pronounced depending on how they affect each individual. As I often say, if doctors diagnosed heart conditions the way they diagnose mental illness or autism, they'd be sued for malpractice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And as regards mental illness -- with all due respect to practitioners -- psychiatry is 17th century medicine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So what's this got to do with the fiction narrative, you ask. I have been dealing with this for a while. My first book with a character with mental illness was <i>In Albuquerque, Abandoned, </i>published in 2016. One of the characters, a suspect, had schizophrenia. The character's challenges, the prejudices against him, the challenges of his family -- these are all examined as the mystery is solved. I communicated with several readers who had family members diagnosed with schizophrenia after the book was published, and I began to think about the situation more seriously.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then I started another mystery novel about a family detective agency that was started to give the mentally ill family member a place to work, because her personality was different and hard to appreciate. After writing the first few chapters of the book, I stepped back. I didn't like the label, so I took the leap -- I called her undiagnosed, or misdiagnosed. As the story unfolds, her different way of seeing and operating in the world is turned to an advantage. This is when I learned about and embraced the concept of neurodiversity. The character is challenging to her family and to other characters because her behavior is not neuro-conventional, yet her unique method of operating in the uncovers information that the characters who are neuro-conventional don't see.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I created a word there -- neuro-conventional. Maybe you can find another, and the words and labels don't really matter. I guess the way I see it is the way the Burt and Ernie characters saw it in a tape I used to have when the kids were small..."Anybody Can Play." In other words, people need not be eliminated from our life experiences, our work world, our church, or our community because they don't play the same way we do. We can make room for them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And I am trying to make room for people with disabilities -- diverse individuals -- in my fiction narrative. While I don't--yet--have a physical impairment, I will if I live long enough. I have struggled with mental health issues -- and I only succeeded in managing those issues successfully when I accepted the idea that it's okay to function differently from others.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So...all of this said, we need fiction novels for adults with characters with neurodiversity who are part of the narrative, not the subject of the narrative. We need more adult fiction with characters with disabilities who are part of the narrative, not heroes because they live with the disability or subjects of pity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Thus, being submitted to publishers now is my mystery novel that includes Spree, who lives with neurodiversity and her family, who lives with her and her neurodiversity with love and with challenge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Silencing Sistine </i>by Tower Lowe</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The star investigator at The Finders, a missing persons agency, is
the multiply diagnosed (neurodiverse) Spree, a Brazilian adoptee,
sister to long suffering Jack and daughter to the ever-patient Eva,
who started the agency to keep her family together. The team are
hired out of Santa Fe, New Mexico to find Sistine, who disappeared
from Miami twenty years ago on the arm of a dangerous man. Sistine’s
younger sister, Lace, hires the agency when her dying mother accuses
Sistine of murdering their father.
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The story quickly moves to Cuba, where The Finders discover that the
story of Sistine is a bit more complicated than they first thought.
The Cuban government, Cuban families in both countries, and a
mysterious stranger back in the United States cloud their efforts to
locate the elusive Sistine. Spree’s quirky personality and
intuition drive the family towards a resolution, aided by Jack’s
sketches and Eva’s knowledge of human psychology. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">More on the book and characters with neurodiversity in fiction when the book releases.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Thank you for following all that is <i>mysterious and romantic in New Mexico.</i></span></div>
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Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-83237287864253917712019-11-23T15:24:00.001-08:002019-11-23T15:25:04.175-08:00The Ghost of San Miguel Past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I spent the last two weeks in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, and I wondered: Does that old colonial town full of artists, great Mexican food, <i>mercados</i>, and USA ex-pats have any old ghosts?<br />
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<i><span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">Claro que sí.</span></span></i><br />
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<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"> I asked one of our neighbors, a Mexico native who has lived ten years in San Miguel de Allende, and did she ever have a story to tell. It starts in on of the historic hotels in <i>El Centro</i>, which is basically the town square. This hotel goes way back into the time when the Spanish ruled the area. </span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">In this hotel, people kept losing items of clothing! The aristocracy staying there blamed the Maya who worked for them, but they Maya simply shook their heads and whispered. Finally, one of the young Spanish girls -- Carmelita -- who had befriended a young Maya girl asked, "What are you whispering about the missing clothes?"</span></span><br />
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<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"<i>Aluxes</i>," the Maya girl said. "They are stealing the clothes because they do not like the people."</span></span><br />
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<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"What is an <i>Aluxes</i>?"</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"They are little people who live in the forest. Mostly they joke around, but, in this case, they are mad because the Maya are not getting enough food."</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"How do you know that?"</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"They whisper to us in the night."</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">Carmelita did not really believe this story, so she asked if she could spend the night with her friend and hear the <i>Aluxes</i> for herself.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">It was agreed, because Carmelita was a very spoiled child and usually go to do whatever she wanted. It was fun to stay with the Maya family, as they were warm and funny, and not so strict as Carmelita's family. The girl meant to stay awake until the <i>Aluxes</i> appeared. But she and her friend snuggled into blankets on the floor, and after the warm meal of beans and squash, Carmelita fell instantly asleep. She dreamed off beautiful gowns and tiaras and as she went forward to try on one of the beautiful dresses, but just as she was ready to put it on, the dress was snatched away, and Carmelita was left standing naked. She awoke, and felt a cold wind on her chest. </span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">Carmelita opened her eyes. She saw a tiny figure holding the tip of her blanket, pulling it off her shoulders.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"No!" she called, but the creature continued. It was a girl, too, and she winked at Carmelita once the blanket was down to her waist. Then she hopped on the Spanish girl's chest, tickling her so that she laughed.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"What do you want?" she asked.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">The little creature walked closer to Carmelita's face. And then, she ran to her shoulder an leaned into her ear.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"You must tell your mother that the Maya don't have enough food. Just as you were cold when you tried to wear the beautiful dress, the Maya are hungry when they prepare your food."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"Tell her yourself!" Carmelita did not think her mother would like the message.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">But the <i>Alux </i>had disappeared and Carmelita was covered by her blanket again and warm. The next morning, she told her little friend about the visit.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"You must help us," he friend said.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">So, Carmelita, spoiled and beloved, told her mother about the night time visit of the creature and her message. Her mother looked at her closely and then bushed Carmelita's hair from her face.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"I think you are a very observant little girl," she said. And she gave her daughter a basket to fill with food for the Maya.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">That's a nice story, I told my Mexican neighbor.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">"Indeed. But watch out, now. For once you speak of the <i>Aluxes</i>, they will come to visit you with a message."</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">Little did I know, that very thing would happen in two days. I'll write about it in my next post.</span></span><br />
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st">And that's why it's <i>mysterious in New Mexico (and Mexico, too!)</i></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCUCJL2CzteASiABCE1I2ayg-K2YuYhyJsvOT6ZgAg0sv7KJO8OEAJEp-ou0G3wCgk9T71fFPRmwEf5RMcbgXG2tV0jIrkwFVIwR3iLsc3KNBeqM88oT0rlMMowE9BjXpA12oBanVHsPV/s1600/San+Miguel+El+Charco.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiCUCJL2CzteASiABCE1I2ayg-K2YuYhyJsvOT6ZgAg0sv7KJO8OEAJEp-ou0G3wCgk9T71fFPRmwEf5RMcbgXG2tV0jIrkwFVIwR3iLsc3KNBeqM88oT0rlMMowE9BjXpA12oBanVHsPV/s320/San+Miguel+El+Charco.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
<span class="QXzCSe"><span class="fJyiwb" dir="ltr" id="tw-bil-st"><br /></span></span>
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<br />Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-91912462262823811772019-10-01T08:05:00.000-07:002019-10-01T08:05:14.332-07:00A romantic ghost story?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEcM33yzslMrAaOJXW6vDb_kgfGxVK0qQiufzJjC13dSNAyDTHkf7Y9v_K0PCKtjpoG5lEJqVXzaobVrWo2Y7Fjuz60Z7Nnr_EiLi02nh6B1GX57PzY-76TYdQFIQqzAxsjGiNeNVkbRS/s1600/Graveyard+Homeville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEcM33yzslMrAaOJXW6vDb_kgfGxVK0qQiufzJjC13dSNAyDTHkf7Y9v_K0PCKtjpoG5lEJqVXzaobVrWo2Y7Fjuz60Z7Nnr_EiLi02nh6B1GX57PzY-76TYdQFIQqzAxsjGiNeNVkbRS/s320/Graveyard+Homeville.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
What? You say a graveyard isn't romantic? But this is a ghost story. My great great grandfather is the guy under that tall obelisk, and I remember he had something like four wives. Now, the facts have it that they died in childbirth. Now that was common back then, with childbirth being an extremely dangerous event. And, sadly, one of the babies died of whooping cough, also an extremely dangerous event back then.<br />
<br />
But teenage girls like a ghost story, and I had a girlfriend who was descended from one of my great great grandfather's wives. And here's what she heard from her grandmother about that...<br />
<br />
Miss Rosa Thornton was the wife in question -- already known to haunt the hallways of my antebellum house in Homeville. (See pic below.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDE3u4767W_CP2dgSSDZ6kiEfN9Ueq2aThIMhVkFHPbDKEYchRAdmjOi_uu-iLNjOi_uT8jigpY1SUYAWPIDsTc4QF7o_T1vToFJA4p2j5fzENdWCyG8k19hTK87j94VeiSpkKIls5l2rC/s1600/Homeville+Farm+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDE3u4767W_CP2dgSSDZ6kiEfN9Ueq2aThIMhVkFHPbDKEYchRAdmjOi_uu-iLNjOi_uT8jigpY1SUYAWPIDsTc4QF7o_T1vToFJA4p2j5fzENdWCyG8k19hTK87j94VeiSpkKIls5l2rC/s320/Homeville+Farm+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Miss Rosa haunted the lives of her sisters after her untimely death. The sisters attended church one Sunday and sat next to a woman who introduced herself as "Rosa." They did not recognize their sister, but at one point the woman got up and walked to the altar. No one seemed to notice as Rosa circled the church. She stopped at the sister's pew, leaned down, and whisptered, "I miss you, but I loved another man, and I had had to get away from my husband."<br />
<br />
Afterwards, when the sisters asked the other churchgoers, they all said they didn't see any woman at all, much less their sister Rosa. So maybe she was never there, maybe she never had a lover, and maybe she died in childbirth. Either way, we are .... mysterious in New Mexico.<br />
<br />
<br />Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-6483774073413557992019-08-19T11:14:00.000-07:002019-08-19T11:17:25.889-07:00Romantic New Mexico<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRsyl2bN7AZwAyEzbWHNNYTwFcf80_hU_mw642RpPJqPLXpKqMSn2OzFGBSUHdA7wN6X3VL96ZpicStu45Y7fREhjMYIN-sXKodrZ_hdp6G-CW7DwqjIl_VWuLkry4LRoQ5EJ9WUA3GVg/s1600/fireplace+Don+Miguel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDRsyl2bN7AZwAyEzbWHNNYTwFcf80_hU_mw642RpPJqPLXpKqMSn2OzFGBSUHdA7wN6X3VL96ZpicStu45Y7fREhjMYIN-sXKodrZ_hdp6G-CW7DwqjIl_VWuLkry4LRoQ5EJ9WUA3GVg/s320/fireplace+Don+Miguel.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
I decided to try out something new....Romance...or, actually, Romantic Suspense. I've finished the first draft and I'm halfway through the second. What fun!<br />
<br />
Here's my working blurb for <i>Let me Out, Please </i>by Tower Lowe...<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A
charming conversation between Miguel Alvarez and Molly Monahan is
interrupted by a lone gunman who enters the Santa Fe real estate
office and murders Molly’s friend Gloria. An email sent before
Gloria died propels Molly and Miguel into a hunt for the killer. The
two are immediately attracted to each other, but Miguel is a
recovering addict who can’t leave his past behind, and Molly
doesn’t dare trust him – especially after being dumped by her
fiance because of her stroke-damaged arm. Soon Molly realizes her
life is in danger, and so is Miguel’s – or is it? Miguel may be
part of the plot to kill her. Molly fights for her life until she
uncovers the unexpected truth.</div>
<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 10); line-height: 120%; text-align: left; }p.western { font-family: "Liberation Serif", serif; font-size: 12pt; }p.cjk { font-family: "SimSun"; font-size: 12pt; }p.ctl { font-family: "Lucida Sans"; font-size: 12pt; }</style>Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-8762460423528738932019-04-30T09:34:00.004-07:002019-04-30T09:34:31.356-07:00Graveyard Ghost in the Attic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Here's a little fictional ghost story based on Homeville and my latest novel set there, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07N6HVSWC/ref=series_rw_dp_sw">Premonition</a>. </div>
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Part of the story is true...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxLLBg8xtO0rJ2uNaA5XvD3EkF6EuGL5oGcSs-TU_8imo3A7rr4XW-kmrs-MGXbrZdcp7g54_WiUN0PP_TOT2BJOgXmZLStpM8pkj5Kr3ScNG__Y8tuF5B5Mvbza4PkTqftcIERFJRaWTq/s1600/Graveyard+Homeville.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxLLBg8xtO0rJ2uNaA5XvD3EkF6EuGL5oGcSs-TU_8imo3A7rr4XW-kmrs-MGXbrZdcp7g54_WiUN0PP_TOT2BJOgXmZLStpM8pkj5Kr3ScNG__Y8tuF5B5Mvbza4PkTqftcIERFJRaWTq/s320/Graveyard+Homeville.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />
I was five, and my grandfather was my hero. He took me around his half acre garden, explaining all the plants and vegetables, he took me to the spooky cemetery out back and pointed to the gravestones, explaining who they were and how they died -- particularly one woman who died in childbirth. Her little baby died, too, and was buried right beside her. I was barefoot and mesmerized, a country girl with big eyes and a vivid imagination.<br />
<br />
One afternoon, we trudged up to the second floor of the farmhouse <a href="http://www.towerlowe.com/">(see pic here)</a> It was hot in those days -- no air conditioning, just fans to throw around the air. Grandaddy put up a ladder and opened the entrance to the attic. Recall, I was small, and I had no idea what an attic was...I thought it was an entrance to the past. And, in a way, that's what an attic is -- a place where the past is stored. Grandaddy let me look into the opening and I saw boxes and old dressers, a pile of tools and a trunk full of lacy cotton undergarments. I know now these were from the early part of the 20th century, but at the time I thought they might be the clothes of ghosts.<br />
<br />
Grandaddy disappeared into the attic, looking for an old footstool, and I stood at the entrance, dizzy from the heat. I saw visions of the graveyard where my ancestors were buried. I thought about the baby and that's when I saw her -- a woman dressed all in white undergarments, her hair pulled on top of her head, reaching out to me. I felt the tendrils of her hands on my arms, her warm breath on my cheeks, and I screamed.<br />
<br />
Grandaddy was upset of course. Why was this little kid screaming while he tried to a stool in the attic? I told him I saw a lady in white, but he only laughed.<br />
<br />
Was she a figment of my imagination, or was she trying to get back her baby?<br />
<br />
That's why it's still <i>mysterious in New Mexico -- and Homeville, too.</i>Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-74202293392190286282019-02-24T10:03:00.001-08:002019-02-25T09:53:52.712-08:00Ghosts Appear<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1023" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlaPsYigxpEQUmAp4SQMWL7mc8YkdbBmH-66cIFnvyu8GQjXWLZEX3WaWUvZLv3yoLbwyHZ6wgnyNyMOJwRBDBmnHi_m-LHRUAjU6jx_UeoVPZmCx9JN-rcVT7befGMRGAEbpX2TGQx_lX/s320/Premonition+digital+Cover+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="203" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Premonition-Cotton-Penn-Historical-Mystery-ebook/dp/B07N6HVSWC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1548941169&sr=8-1&keywords=Premonition+by+Tower+Lowe#customerReviews">See More Here</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95QBr4t_ntiW8xYnT2zW5NsbL3AFzluoBXOGpA4K9v9dPX89XjS3c-BfGY7JvSGnZh67OsYYYx2VdnTvj0qWS6CB4PiEbBPhYx-U3gGw1pncnCLkryvtoQmSfLYh5TzZ5BlpgF0YVTzXB/s1600/kTKBGpkMc.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1408" data-original-width="1600" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95QBr4t_ntiW8xYnT2zW5NsbL3AFzluoBXOGpA4K9v9dPX89XjS3c-BfGY7JvSGnZh67OsYYYx2VdnTvj0qWS6CB4PiEbBPhYx-U3gGw1pncnCLkryvtoQmSfLYh5TzZ5BlpgF0YVTzXB/s200/kTKBGpkMc.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ghosts or no Ghosts?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The supernatural enters my new murder mystery through elements of the past (1864-5) trying to break through to the present (1972-4).<br />
Here are some of the Ghosts that appear to the characters in 1972-4.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<ol>
</ol>
<ol>
<li>A young man from the 1890s holding a law book appears in a deer's eyes in 1974. </li>
<li>The sounds of fire crackling and the smell of smoke from a kitchen fire in 1864 overcome the modern day Cotton Lee on the front porch.</li>
<li>The voice of the Civil war Sophie as she falls down the stairs is heard by a modern day character who slips on his attic stairs.</li>
<li>Cotton Lee in 1974 sees the figure of Martha, the young Civil War cousin of Sophie. Martha is angry.</li>
<li>And then there are the ancestor's, lurking in the forest and threatening the 1974 plumber as he digs up the sewer. </li>
<li>The image a modern day Mark sees driving to a Christmas party at ... is a it a drug fueled hallucination, or the devil himself? </li>
</ol>
Read decide for yourself whether the past is trying to break through to the present, or the characters merely have rich imaginations.<br />
<br />
Available for purchase <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Premonition-Cotton-Penn-Historical-Mystery-ebook/dp/B07N6HVSWC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1548941169&sr=8-1&keywords=Premonition+by+Tower+Lowe#customerReviews">here.</a> Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-9373438285989852882018-10-22T12:37:00.001-07:002018-10-22T12:37:57.464-07:00The Ghost of Methane Past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz1nqWE17BftuAUF5ij2yZaalWibmyTJbt2Co6sstoCXWdscLyKFTSoB2wxDlffYbmHkvzZonx5GOSHUKljoE4PK7yZIOkkDSygUUobpmVwLCj-SmxuN72jigzKnSwFSjC0UDW1Zp0FmMj/s1600/Ghost+of+Methane+Past.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz1nqWE17BftuAUF5ij2yZaalWibmyTJbt2Co6sstoCXWdscLyKFTSoB2wxDlffYbmHkvzZonx5GOSHUKljoE4PK7yZIOkkDSygUUobpmVwLCj-SmxuN72jigzKnSwFSjC0UDW1Zp0FmMj/s1600/Ghost+of+Methane+Past.JPG" /></a></div>
When I was a kid, we were told never to go near the railroad tracks in the town of Waverly, Virginia because there was a ghost who would run after you. He was a black man, so they said, who had tripped on the tracks and got his head cut off by an oncoming train. Now he walked along the tracks with a lantern, looking for his head.<br />
<br />
Was this true? I have no idea. These stories are supposed to discourage children from going near the railroad tracks and it worked for me. I was too terrified to check out the ghost, though numerous high school boys claimed to have gone out there late at night and looked for the unfortunate man. Some swore to have spotted the him with his lantern.<br />
<br />
My daddy said, "It's methane gas, baby."<br />
<br />
So I said, "What is methane gas, Daddy?"<br />
<br />
His explanation involved decaying leaves and tree limbs, stagnant water and bacteria. It glows, he said. I wasn't sure I understood how that phenomenon could appear to be a headless black man with a lantern.<br />
<br />
So let's move forward to a night when I was in high school myself, and up to mischief with my friends in Homeville. We had avoided a broken leg in the local abandoned houses on previous outings. We were in the country, so we couldn't really go look for the black man without a head, as he was situated in Waverly.<br />
<br />
But, I reasoned to my friends, if it was methane gas, caused by the miasma of swamp water and decay, there was plenty of that (if not more) right here in hour little village. We also had an abandoned railroad bed, which, on the whole is much safer than a track that is still in use where we might ourselves become headless ghosts. We parked near a dark stretch of pine forest, loaded up on mosquito repellant and took a weedy path back to the raised railroad bed. We had flashlights. It was very dark, and the call of crickets was loud and persistent.<br />
<br />
I remember that I loved the idea of an old railroad bed. The past had always seemed so close to me during my childhood in Homeville. I was aware, since I lived in an old house, that many lives went before mine. I <i>felt</i> these people from the past, like they wanted to talk to me, or come through the veil that separated us and explain what had gone one.<br />
<br />
That sense was strong near this old track -- it was a place where a whole business had come and gone. A train that took passengers and goods right by this very spot and then, one day, it was cut off, went out of business and disappeared. There must be ghosts looming here whether they had connected with any methane gas or not...<br />
<br />
...And, sure enough, after about five minutes of breathing and listening to noises in the forest, a boy shouted, "There. I see it."<br />
<br />
"Where?" The rest of us were looking back and forth, trying to see the "it."<br />
<br />
"Down there," he said as he tried to turn us in the direction of the crescent moon over a particularly thick patch of pine. I squinted. My best girlfriend screamed. Everybody started running back to the car. I stayed, only for a few brave seconds, but I did see a light in the trees, a glow down low to the ground, bluish green in color. Not a lantern, not a man, black or white, but a distinct glow -- and then I screamed and joined my friends hurrying through the weeds to the two lane blacktop and home, where I rehearsed my story for school in the fall.<br />
<br />
So...was it methane gas...a ghost...another group of kids looking for the headless man of Homeville? I will never really know. Maybe it wasn't even there at all, and I imagined it.<br />
<br />
That's why, for me, things are still mysterious in New Mexico....(even if they happened years ago in Homeville).Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-59196658689599327342018-07-02T12:41:00.000-07:002018-07-02T12:42:47.651-07:00How Many Readers is Enough? Independent Publishing from the Bottom of a Well <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4CBWV_KjMyqrZfMcB68UJYcXC7w0KlZRdsWP5L6i9mJQR-ysHyM7G3p5jCHLztXgvlmO1NE61Nk_2m7Xu4lwcnv4kuygmLrgdI8ZzDDp9SXKDWQp3uWd4CAfM_DuS6-yFkXeXlRMeE1z/s1600/IMG_3691.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4CBWV_KjMyqrZfMcB68UJYcXC7w0KlZRdsWP5L6i9mJQR-ysHyM7G3p5jCHLztXgvlmO1NE61Nk_2m7Xu4lwcnv4kuygmLrgdI8ZzDDp9SXKDWQp3uWd4CAfM_DuS6-yFkXeXlRMeE1z/s320/IMG_3691.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I published my first
work, <i>In Dulce, Disturbed, </i>a short story, in 2010. It was a
lark. I was mad because, years ago, I successfully published a couple
of mystery short stories in <i>Alfred Hitchcock</i> and another
magazine without too much bother. Today, the competition for a spot
in a magazine monumental.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I looked at a few
online magazines, but then I decided to publish the story myself with
amazon. It was easy enough in those days. I used a couple of beta
readers and no editor and I actually went with the default cover.
(Remember that thing….kind of blue, I think, like a library book
from the 19<sup>th</sup> century.) It was so ugly. Looking back, it
was insane to expect success with a formula like that. But I wanted
an audience and wanted to write. So I did it.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And I sold five
stories the first month – and it wasn’t to friends of mine, but
to readers out there who were curious about this self publishing
thing – I guess. Or perhaps <span style="font-style: normal;">I
landed </span><span style="font-style: normal;">a few folks</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
interested in the Jicarilla Apache Reservation where Dulce is located
or in the UFO facility that </span><span style="font-style: normal;">is
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">falsely said to be located
there. I don’t know who they were, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">but
I was hooked. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Back then, five
readers was enough.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
wrote a few more stories. I</span><span style="font-style: normal;">n
those </span><span style="font-style: normal;">early </span><span style="font-style: normal;">days,
I </span><span style="font-style: normal;">could list a </span><span style="font-style: normal;">story
on amazon </span><span style="font-style: normal;">for free</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">and </span><span style="font-style: normal;">get
over </span><span style="font-style: normal;">a</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
thousand downloads without buying any promotional spot</span><span style="font-style: normal;">s</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
at all. It was so much fun. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">also</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
list</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ed</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">stories</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
for free in a promotional newsletter and g</span><span style="font-style: normal;">o</span><span style="font-style: normal;">t
multiple thousands of downloads. That was a short lived marketing
window, but I miss it today when I have to pay $20-40 dollars for a
spot and often don’t get anything close to a hundred downloads. Of
course, I don’t </span><span style="font-style: normal;">promote</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
the books for free anymore.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">wrote </span><span style="font-style: normal;">five</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
short stories </span><span style="font-style: normal;">in all</span><span style="font-style: normal;">,
hired a cover creator, and then </span><span style="font-style: normal;">a
better</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> cover creator. From
this time on I rarely sold less than 20 </span><span style="font-style: normal;">stories</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
a month. Readers gave me their honest opinion, and several insisted
that it was time for me to write a novel – so I did. That’s when
I hired my first editor and proof</span><span style="font-style: normal;">reader</span><span style="font-style: normal;">.
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">Plus, that first book was
favorably reviewed by Publisher’s Weekly/Booklife (no fee back
then, I was selected from a pool of applicants). This review led to
my first contact involving film rights. While this didn’t pan out,
I was so amazed to get that kind of attention. Those small
recognitions and the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">readers
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">are</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
what kept me writing. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">R</span><span style="font-style: normal;">eaders
– </span><span style="font-style: normal;">and</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
the editors </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I hired</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
– helped me see the strengths and weaknesses in my writing. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">This
was invaluable to me, and I don’t think I would have made the
progress the readers and editors taught me to make if I had not been
able to publish independently.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">On
the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">journey</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
I began to pick up </span><span style="font-style: normal;">more
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">reviews </span><span style="font-style: normal;">and</span><span style="font-style: normal;">received
my first one star revie</span><span style="font-style: normal;">w</span><span style="font-style: normal;">.
I pushed passed it – everyone </span><span style="font-style: normal;">wasn’t</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
going to like my writing, I knew, but it was great that some people
were enjoying my work. I began to get grammar trolls (as I call them)
who moan </span><span style="font-style: normal;">every </span><span style="font-style: normal;">typo.
This helped me too, though. For my second novel, </span><i>In
Albuquerque, Abandoned,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I hired
a </span><span style="font-style: normal;">two</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
proofreader</span><span style="font-style: normal;">s</span><span style="font-style: normal;">.
</span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">This
was the novel that gained the most success of anything I’ve
published so far. A few months after it’s release, the book sold
700 copies in one month. The other books and short stories in the
series sold well, too. This success led to continued sales in the
hundreds for months. I took the profits and tried all sorts of
marketing combinations that included Facebook ads, trailers, Amazon
ads, Freebooksy, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Books
Butterfly (</span><span style="font-style: normal;">loads of
downloads, not many sales), </span><span style="font-style: normal;">google
ad words</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> and other
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">promotional ideas</span><span style="font-style: normal;">.
I made more than I spent, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">but
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">I didn’t get the </span><span style="font-style: normal;">kind</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
of audience I really want</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ed</span><span style="font-style: normal;">.
As for Bookbub, they never gave me a shot, though many of my fellow
writers were actually making real money with Bookbub. No matter how
many </span><span style="font-style: normal;">reader </span><span style="font-style: normal;">reviews
or good professional reviews or great covers </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I
had</span><span style="font-style: normal;">, I wa</span><span style="font-style: normal;">s
never</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> up to snuff </span><span style="font-style: normal;">for
those guys</span><span style="font-style: normal;">. Now they seem to
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">do</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
a lot of ads for the traditionally published crowd, so I’ve quit
trying until </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I </span><span style="font-style: normal;">write
more books and get a bigger audience. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">Bookbub
will take me yet, I say. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">But
w</span><span style="font-style: normal;">ill writing more and
improving my craft really help? In other words, i</span><span style="font-style: normal;">f
I build it, they will come? </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I
honestly don’t know. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">But I
look up to </span><span style="font-style: normal;">successful
independently and </span><span style="font-style: normal;">traditionally
published writers – I still want to be one of them. And the way to
do that is to keep writing.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">But
what about marketing? The first book in my new Cotton Lee Penn series
of southern novels has been very well received. I paid for
professional reviews and even Kirkus gave me a thumbs up. This book,
</span><i>Gone on Sunday, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">was my
best success with amazon ads and made money there for a few months,
then fell off. The reviews are good. I get emails (and someone even
stopped me on the street) asking when the next book in the series is
coming up. That’s fun. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Still,
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">I have five short stories and
three books on my author page, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">and</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
I have fallen back to my early sales record: 20-30 books a month.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">Thus,
I feel like I am marketing up from the bottom of a well. I have a
blog, a </span><span style="font-style: normal;">F</span><span style="font-style: normal;">acebook
page, a mailing list, a website – I’ve tried stacked marketing,
going exclusive with amazon, going wide. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I
have two audible books.</span><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I
now have an editor, and </span><span style="font-style: normal;">two</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
proofreaders plus several beta readers an</span><span style="font-style: normal;">d</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
a great cover artist. And yet here I am – right back where I
started. What next?</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I’m
nearly done with the first book in a new series about a family that
runs a missing persons agency called The Finders. And I am also
nearly done with the second novel in the Cotton Lee Penn series. I
tried for an agent and got some reads but no offers with the first
Cotton Lee Penn book. My plan is to try for an agent again. The
Finders book, </span><i>Silencing Sistine</i><span style="font-style: normal;">,
fits squarely into the mystery genre, </span><span style="font-style: normal;">and
that makes it easier to sell to a publisher.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">And
speaking of </span><span style="font-style: normal;">publishers</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
– who knows whether traditional publishing is that much better than
independently publishing? I might sell more than 30 books a month,
but that might not mean much. I need to get over the hump, out of the
dark, to the tipping point….and maybe I will…or not. But I will
tell you I love the writing, and I love the readers and editors. </span><span style="font-style: normal;">I
keep learning about writing, and, for me, that’s addictive. If I
</span><span style="font-style: normal;">don’t</span><span style="font-style: normal;">
make </span><span style="font-style: normal;">a little more money</span><span style="font-style: normal;">,
I’ll have to quit because independent publishing is expensive, but
it’s a blast, it really is.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">And
that’s why </span><span style="font-style: normal;">for now, it’s
still </span><span style="font-style: normal;">… </span><i>mysterious
in New Mexico.</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; }</style>Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-55786462871585219222018-04-10T10:28:00.001-07:002018-04-10T10:28:47.389-07:00The Ghost of Plaza de la Catedral, Cuba<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkt09GG9noLB40oGKH9fsfeYRXv7ItbeMTgRHdqFIu0W2GGAyHM9TC0lTLVYLXNDe_-_L54xe8uRtSKsYVu9iFcvhigSVfHavjrL0HDRG76_MerK_zs0ItGOnGZlXsNxQ6Fb1sZeu6VbOB/s1600/Plaza+de+Catedral.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkt09GG9noLB40oGKH9fsfeYRXv7ItbeMTgRHdqFIu0W2GGAyHM9TC0lTLVYLXNDe_-_L54xe8uRtSKsYVu9iFcvhigSVfHavjrL0HDRG76_MerK_zs0ItGOnGZlXsNxQ6Fb1sZeu6VbOB/s320/Plaza+de+Catedral.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WKfghtLSK_B50oKDnBYF2oegR2d5FMnrpPk_d2n1uUfiP8ncUyhrzVXzGiIiFlRoPEOwdNoezFUHOvXynm8eMEYIW2NAkgQ_6RkE57NaPfQPfclS0nFHANYNjIM4460Mg6X2hCeEArsl/s1600/Cuba+Blue+Car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1064" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7WKfghtLSK_B50oKDnBYF2oegR2d5FMnrpPk_d2n1uUfiP8ncUyhrzVXzGiIiFlRoPEOwdNoezFUHOvXynm8eMEYIW2NAkgQ_6RkE57NaPfQPfclS0nFHANYNjIM4460Mg6X2hCeEArsl/s320/Cuba+Blue+Car.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Part of my next novel, the first in the <i>Tres Perdidos </i>Detective Agency series, takes place in Cuba, where a missing girl escaped as a teenager and was never heard from again. Plaza de la Catedral, Cuba, was the setting of a ghost story I heard while visiting Cuba a few years back. This stone streets of the Plaza are the setting of many gatherings and religious festivals.<br />
<br />
One of the tour guides for our trip says that there are many haunted stories from the Plaza, and one involves a young woman standing atop the roof of one of the buildings in the plaza. People see the woman at dusk, as the sun sets and the light is gray. She wears a purple rebozo over a long white dress. Tourists report hearing a high pitched singing, some say it is "Ave Maria" and then the figure begins to descend into the plaza. One man reported that the woman touched down on the brick surface of the plaza and began to walk towards him. He took off running.<br />
<br />
No one knows who the figure is or why she is singing. For certain, our guide said. The plaza is haunted. I was there at dusk, and I saw a beautiful good Friday procession -- but no ghosts in purple rebozos. So I can't say whether it is true or not. Only that things appear to be mysterious in Cuba as well as Mysterious in New Mexico!<br />
<br />Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-42771912933349192292018-02-06T10:30:00.001-08:002018-02-06T10:30:52.952-08:00The Fishing Ghost of Pine Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsSI-uGttoc-Ntgoz_L9hhtmd-u893TfiPxUtGa6NZiuO3_4a9dM1CmNWIbAuEUo4zGpqnzxexbzPnRecmwacyDHHvbekW2ElwIy3Su0T64ilODAbUlJCR5zSYvwaHCRAHMQxEy3WJfcy/s1600/Kayaking+narrows.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsSI-uGttoc-Ntgoz_L9hhtmd-u893TfiPxUtGa6NZiuO3_4a9dM1CmNWIbAuEUo4zGpqnzxexbzPnRecmwacyDHHvbekW2ElwIy3Su0T64ilODAbUlJCR5zSYvwaHCRAHMQxEy3WJfcy/s320/Kayaking+narrows.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
On a recent visit to Pine Island, Florida, I heard the story of the disappearing fisherman. Since we were planning our first kayaking voyage, I was a little nervous to hear about the man who went out with his wife to catch a few Sheep's Head fish for dinner, and never returned...<br />
<br />
In all started in September of 2017, just before Hurricane Irma made a pass at the island. All the weather forecasts threatened a direct hit on the island. A man named Earl and his wife Ivey had made plans two weeks in advance for a kayaking adventure. Ivey wanted to cancel, but Earl insisted that no hurricane would stop him from catching a fish.<br />
<br />
Apparently Ivey continued to hound her husband the night before at Woody's Bar and Grill and then even later at the Ragged Ass Saloon. Earl insisted the hurricane was two days away, but by then Ivey was pretty drunk and kept repeating the same phrase over and over.<br />
<br />
"You'll never return, Earl. You'll never return."<br />
<br />
Her husband left the Ragged Ass without her, and it's rumored that Ivey went went home with one of the other patrons.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, by the next day at noon, when the two showed up for the kayak rental, they seemed to be getting long fine. The hurricane was still off a day or so, and they both laughed at Ivey's fear. The guide gave the couple a map and pointed out a few good fishing spots. Earl loaded the gear and both rolled into their kayaks and paddled off...but, you guessed it, only Ivey came back. Ivey said he simply disappeared. Maybe he was lost. Search and Rescue looked for Earl for two weeks straight, but he was never seen again.<br />
<br />
The turned south and missed the island for the most part. But by December, fisherman, taking off in their kayaks were getting a weird message from the wind that whistles through the mangroves. Two men and one woman, swore they heard a woman whispering...<br />
<br />
"You'll never return, Earl. You'll never return."<br />
<br />
Did Ivey help Earl disappear?<br />
<br />
Nobody knows, but one thing's for sure: It's mysterious in New Mexico (and, apparently, in Pine Island, too).<br />
<br />Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-10769589030826322332017-12-01T11:24:00.001-08:002017-12-02T08:00:15.454-08:00Ghosts in the Santa Fe Cathedral<br />
<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><i>In Santa Fe, Salacious </i>by Tower Lowe tells about a murder that haunts the Santa Fe Cathedral until the true story unfolds. The main event in the novel takes place in the small adobe chapel at the Basilica, dedicated to Our Lady La
Conquistadora and brought from Spain in 1625. That's centuries of prayers and offerings for peace. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">There are said to be ghosts in the adjoining cemetery, and I can attest that there are angels in the chapel.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">One afternoon I dropped by to pray the rosary for my daughter. As I sat there, quietly touching the beads and remembering the prayers, an old woman entered the chapel. She was quite small and wore a black lace mantilla over her head. this struck me as odd, as few people actually wear the mantilla walking around in these days. When I finished my rosary, she touched my arm gently.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">"I want to tell you something," she said. "In my life, there have been many difficulties and people whose actions you can't understand. But don't worry. It all works out in the end."</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">I smiled politely. "Thank you." I didn't want to be rude, but the elderly lady looked concerned, as though she feared I had not understood her.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">"No, she said. Listen. You don't need to worry so much. It all works out in the end."</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">The she stood, pulled the mantilla close to her face and exited the chapel.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">Was she real? An angel? Perhaps it doesn't matter. My father was a lapsed Catholic, and I was not raised in the church. But I do pray often in the chapel, and I learned the rosary while teaching at a Catholic school. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">For me, she was an angel. What about you? Any church ghost stories you want to tell?</span></span></span></span><br />
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Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-86061982806376925622017-09-13T11:01:00.000-07:002017-09-13T19:05:11.635-07:00Mystery Muse Reports: Ghosts on Pine Island, Florida<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last January, I visited Pine Island and the Randall Research Center with friends. The day was sunny -- perfect paradise weather in Florida. We got out of the car, talking and laughing until we neared the outdoor deck of the Research Center Building. Two of us stopped in our tracks. We felt a force emanating from the building. And believe me, the friend at my side is no ghost buster. He's a scientist who thinks ghosts are like Casper from the old cartoon. But he said.</div>
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"Wait a minute. There's something funny here."</div>
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I was the one who said, no, let's go in. And the feeling dissipated. We completely forgot until we again exited onto the deck and walked past a small room. It was said to be the former post office. My scientist buddy stopped again.</div>
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"We've been here before," he said.</div>
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"No," I responded. "But I think we're in the presence of a ghost."</div>
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He laughed and followed the rest of our crew out into the exhibit of Calusa Indian life. I lingered back and stood at the entrance to the little room. A sign said it was the former post office. Nothing hit me, so I stepped back and that's when I saw her. she was more than a shadow, less than a person in a red sweater and dark skirt. I heard a whimper and then silence.</div>
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That scurried me along, I'll tell you, but ever since I got back, I wondered. Has anyone else seen a ghost there? I've been writing two new books and experimenting with all sorts of publicity, most of it helping only a little, but it's work, so I forgot about my Pine Island ghost. I finished the second book in the Cotton Lee Penn/Max Mayfair series and got 3/4 of the way through the new series featuring the Lost Coin Detective Agency, when I found myself writing a scene on Pine Island and I remembered my ghost...</div>
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So I took a look on the Internet, and discovered that Make Shevlin of the Pine Island Eagle reported a similar incident from Dave Holmes. Right there, in that location, Dave heard a woman weeping and the shuffling of slippers! Could they be the same person, and what is her regret? There's a story that a young child drowned in a pond near there. Perhaps the weeping woman is the mother. Nobody knows for sure. </div>
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Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-82360306888389804542017-06-17T15:41:00.000-07:002017-06-17T15:41:23.096-07:00Bees equal ghosts in a Burning Hearth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This story takes place in Homeville, Virginia where my new book <i>Gone on Sunday </i>takes place. It is a story from my childhood, but recently, when I got together with family, I found out more details about this fiery adventure. Ghosts were often rumored to haunt the house, and now a friend tells me that bees are a sure sign of haunting spirits. After this story, you'll conclude the house in Homeville needs an exorcism!<br />
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We lived in an old two story plantation house built in 1830. There were fireplaces on each side of the house, on the first and second floor. Bees (spirits?) made a nest in the unused fireplace on the second floor of my parents room. My mother was deadly allergic to bees, so the hive had to be eliminated. Now, I don't know too much about exterminators in the 1960's except that my grandmother, who lived with us, was dead set against these professionals. Her comments on pesky critters usually addressed by exterminators went as follows.<br />
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"In my day, we never paid to get rid of bees or roaches or whatever. We lived with them, or we used borax or lemon oil or we burned them out."<br />
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My opinion is, mostly they lived with them. But, in this case, it was resolved that, since the bees were in a fireplace, they could be burned out. My mother was super committed because of her fear of dying from a bee sting (reasonable, but, then so is an exterminator).<br />
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So, all I remember is the fire, that it got out of control, and that <i>I</i> thought it was the fire that burned up the original Tower Lowe (Eiffel Tower Lowe, my writer namesake.) I learned, however, that the fire was fueled by my brother's favorite comic books (burned up money, he moans today). Every time he complained, my mother apparently shouted the irrelevance of comics and said, "We'll burn everything we can get out hands on." To which I say:<br />
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e-x-t-e-r-m-i-n-a-t-o-r<br />
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Not surprisingly, as my mother got more desperate, the fire got more out of control. Both my brothers were sent outside to make sure the house didn't catch on fire. As I recall, I was being kept out of the bedroom in the hallway, listening to the panic and hearing the roar of the fire. <br />
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What happened.? Well, the bees were driven away and the house didn't burn down. Next, the fireplace was blocked and is still blocked to this day.<br />
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Everyone involved had the incident burned into their memory, pardon the pun. Maybe a few of the spirits took off, but I'll tell you, the last time I slept in that bedroom, with my two little children, my daughter woke up and said,<br />
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"Momma, there are other people here in this room. I can hear them."<br />
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And that, folks, is more mysterious than New Mexico.Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-27532777537199594692017-03-31T15:32:00.000-07:002017-03-31T15:36:42.406-07:00Professional Review Fest! (Okay...sort of like a BAR-B-Q Fest -- and this place is in Virginia where my novel, <i>Gone on Sunday, is set...)</i><br />
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Hi all...no ghost stories just yet, but I have one coming about <u>bees and evil spirits in the pink room.</u> Hang on for that.<br />
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Today I'm celebrating two professional reviews of my first novel in a new series: The Cotton Lee Penn Historical Novels.<br />
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The first appeared in <a href="https://www.forewordreviews.com/reviews/gone-on-sunday/">Foreward Clarion Reviews.</a><br />
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Here's a quote:<br />
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<span itemprop="reviewBody">With nary a mint julep or other southern cliché to be found, <i>Gone on Sunday</i>
mixes the light touch of a cozy mystery, the terrible weight of
history, a hint of romance, and the secrets of stifling summer to
engrossing and highly entertaining effect. The result is a historical
mystery combined with a modern one, satisfying on every level. -- <i>Foreward Clarion Reviews </i></span><br />
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<span itemprop="reviewBody"><i> </i>The second, and most surprising to me, appeared in <i><a href="https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/tower-lowe/gone-sunday/">Kirkus Reviews</a>. </i>Those guys can be so-o-o mean -- but they gave me a thumbs up. Here's a little of what they had to say:</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The author does an
admirable job of tying the two eras and two crimes together. She deftly drops a
trail of crumbs from suspect to suspect, leading the reader down multiple paths
before revealing the surprising truth in a climax worth waiting for.…</span>This
vibrant first installment of a detective series should leave readers looking
forward to more adventures with the engaging heroine. --<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kirkus Reviews</i></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For a writer, every book is a work of love -- until the next book comes along. But I am so pleased this mystery story has entertained readers and now -- a few critics.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I recently finished the first draft of the next book in this series, tentatively titled <i>Premonition. </i>Here's an excerpt:</span></div>
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<div class="Body" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: .25in; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Anselm tugged on his flannel shirt and held
his gun loosely at his waist, making his way through chiggers and ticks and the
underbrush where they thrived. A shot fired in the distance, followed by a
hollow echo and a scrambling noise in the brush. A male deer, antlers high into
the green, stopped some fifteen yards ahead. Anselm made eye contact. Deep in
the brown iris he saw a story unfold. </div>
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A small boy with dark hair and pink puffy
hands reached up, asking Anselm to take him. The hunter thought to lift the
child, but the figure grew to six feet and became a young man, holding a law
book in long curved fingers. Anselm drew back from the deer and grabbed his
satchel. The tall young man shouted at him.</div>
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“Daddy. Watch out!”</div>
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Another shot fired, striking Anselm through
the heart. The startled buck blinked, and then leapt high into the forest,
taking with him the young man and the law book. Anselm felt the sadness of the
young man’s going, as he did the sadness of his own passing.</div>
Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-48037959565430721512017-01-04T07:34:00.001-08:002017-01-04T07:34:26.808-08:00Spirit Leads Us to Light in Las Vegas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Montezuma Hot Springs in Las Vegas, New Mexico reflect the wild history of this town and the numerous stories and tales that accompany it's past.<br />
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On a recent visit to the hot springs, a friend and I soaked our feet with a couple of local college students. As we sat, taking in a beautiful winter day, I asked about a wooden building nearby.<br />
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"Oh...there's a spring in that building, too. But it's locked and nobody can go in."<br />
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"Why? Is it ghosts?" (I'm always looking for a story....)<br />
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"No, I don't think so. I heard that the building was opened years ago, and people would go in there to soak. A woman was sexually assaulted, I was told, about twenty years ago, and then a series of children were molested there and that was the last straw. It's closed forever.<br />
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Yikes! Not the kind of story I was looking for. I don't know if it's true at all, but it gave me a creepy feeling for the rest of my trip. The town is a beautiful record of the history of the railroad (Montezuma Castle here is said to be haunted by the ghost of a railroad executive's wife.) It has a vital group trying to revive the historic building on the plaza, an international school and a chapel of light. Plenty of spirits might enter here. And, as I stood up to wrap myself in a towel at the hot springs, I got a burst of spirit energy that led me right to that chapel.<br />
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I'd never heard of the Dwan Light Sanctuary even though I've lived in New Mexico for over thirty years. I visit Las Vegas regularly because I like the plaza and the Montezuma Castle. But this trip was already turning a bit sour. While the hot springs were free and great, the story about the sexual crime left me filled with anxiety. I've heard stories that the springs are on Jicarilla Apache land, and that the native spirits want it back. I wondered if there weren't bad spirits there, welling up with the spring water. An yet, when I stood to look around on a January day, the weather was mild, the sun shining and the water sparkling. I dried myself off and walked towards the car.<br />
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But it was still there, and it wasn't only a feeling. The hair on my arms stood up, and I knew I was in the presence of a spirit stream, or a metaphysical energy of some kind. I had planned to return to the car, but I felt this urge to keep walking. I put on a sweatshirt and a jacket and followed the spirit urges up to the college. Maybe you think I'm a little wacky, but even though I write this ghost story blog, I don't normally follow spirits or energies or even ghosts. In fact, I rather prefer to keep ghosts in stories and not in my presence. But, on this day, I even talked my friend into following my urges.<br />
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We walked through a parking lot, past an office building and then I saw it, up in the distance -- the chapel. Now, many of you probably already know about the chapel. My friends laughed at me when I got home. But, remember, I'd never heard of the place. I was following a presence that led me away from the awful story at the hot springs and into this strange round building. Inside, the feelings of doom faded as a bathed the the prism filled light of the chapel. I sat on a molded bench with my friend and we were silent for a few minutes. The story of the wooden building at the hot springs, true or false, faded and was replaced by a sense of peace and tranquility. I felt my spirit rise above the troubles of the day, the need to believe in the negative and dark side of live, and lift up to the light. A spirit led me there, to contemplate the joy of life on this earth.<br />
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And that, my friends, is more evidence that things are, indeed...mysterious in New Mexico!<br />
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<br />Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-6266487710476571102016-11-03T08:53:00.000-07:002016-11-03T08:54:57.718-07:00The Floating Ghosts of Taos, New Mexico<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thirty years ago, in my early years in New Mexico, I invited a good friend, Diana, to join me in Taos. We stayed an an historic inn, where the rooms boasted functioning Kiva fireplaces that burned fragrant pi<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">ñ</span>on wood. It was the month of October, which we should have known was the month of spirits and haunts. But...we were young and sophisticated and smart. Right.<br />
<br />
We started off as good tourists, with lunch at Michael's Kitchen, already a must in Taos. Then we walked the town square and drove up to the ski basin. The air was brisk, and the mountains full of autumn mists and the colors of dying leaves. At a small jewelry shop on the plaza, Diana contemplated a pair of turquoise earrings, but ended up buying an old musty book about Kit Carson. As we left the shop, Diana remarked that the hair on her hands stood up. I laughed at her.<br />
<br />
"Next, you'll be telling me you feel a sudden chill."<br />
<br />
She looked at me with wide eyes, but said nothing.<br />
<br />
We bought Courvoisier, our favorite brandy at the time, and settled on a restaurant for dinner that was only a few blocks from our landmark hotel. The green chili enchiladas and sopaipillas (a fried, puffy pastry) were exceptional, and we returned to our room sleepy and happy. The Kit Carson book was on the night stand. We started a fire, and poured Courvoisier into the hotel glasses. Silence, broken by the cracking of pi<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">ñ</span>on wood, surrounded us. I think I dozed off, because I remember being startled by a rush of wind and the sound of whispering. My rational mind suggested wind and dead leaves, but I felt scared. The room was dim except for the firelight and strange glowing clouds above the bed.The clouds moved about t the room and the whispering grew louder and became a chant. Diana reached over and touched my arm. I jumped. She shoot her head and me and then looked in the direction of the bed. The clouds of glowing gas were in a circle now, and the chants grew louder. A breeze stirred again, seeming to blow near the nightstand and the Kit Carson book blew open to a page near the end. I was paralyzed, as this was the spookiest encounter with ghosts I ever experienced. Diana, on the other hand, was energized by fear.<br />
<br />
She jumped up and shouted, "Go, go, go." The clouds of gas and chanting ceased. I found myself seated in with my back to the bed, certain I had dreamed the whole affair.<br />
<br />
"Did you see all that?" I asked Diana.<br />
<br />
"I saw something," she replied.<br />
<br />
She walked over to the nightstand and looked down at the open book. The page described the burning of Navajo villages and the killing of the Navajo men and the animals families needed to survive.<br />
<br />
"Why did the book open to that page?" I asked Diana. "Were you reading it."<br />
<br />
She backed away from the book and the night stand. In spite of my skepticism and my sense of fear, I know I heard a dim chanting sound start in the back of my head.<br />
<br />
"Of course I turned it to that page," Diana said. "I was looking for the gory parts."<br />
<br />
"Want to grab a late night snack?" I asked, anxious to get out of the room and away from that chanting sound in my head.<br />
<br />
She grabbed her jacket. We went down to the lobby and ordered Dos Equis. Nothing further happened. We passed out in our room, the fire went out, and the next morning, a bright sunny affair with leaves dancing along the street, we breakfasted at Michael's and headed home.<br />
<br />
To this day, Diana swears that she saw nothing that night and was simply thumbing threw our souvenir book -- a book which she can no longer locate, for some reason.<br />
<br />
I'm sure it was all a dream, but you never know for sure in <i>Mysterious New Mexico...</i><br />
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</style>Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8530058869122875170.post-75707523322453069752016-10-03T07:06:00.000-07:002016-10-03T07:08:16.155-07:00In Albuquerque, Haunted?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_8n809MSLRvVXZPyEDnW0qavuLnPobLeINYiQJgmd4500gr-xRzd8OLOD9jxoe86hoPt9m6eoM1QWJw6XKG0zpz-2_ciQkgtjLKYjTYx_timTTboFtwpldYj5QoIlwnbip-hFX1Q6g1A/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-09-30+at+9.28.31+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_8n809MSLRvVXZPyEDnW0qavuLnPobLeINYiQJgmd4500gr-xRzd8OLOD9jxoe86hoPt9m6eoM1QWJw6XKG0zpz-2_ciQkgtjLKYjTYx_timTTboFtwpldYj5QoIlwnbip-hFX1Q6g1A/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-09-30+at+9.28.31+AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel Andaluz, downtown Albuquerque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today my new novel, <i>In Albuquerque, Abandoned </i>is in early release. This put me in mind of the most haunted hotel in the city, the <i>Hotel Andaluz.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I am literally afraid to go there myself, because a teacher I met when I worked in Albuquerque attended a conference there and saw two apparitions. The conference was on spirituality, she says, so it put her into a mood where she was open to the unseen world that surrounds us every day but remains invisible.<br />
<br />
"I felt more alive as we discussed the world of spirit people -- those who are at rest and want to communicate good and those whose life ended suddenly. I think this opened up the vision to me in the Andaluz lobby."<br />
<br />
"It was early in the morning, about 4am, and I couldn't sleep. I wondered down to the lobby to get out of my room, and sat on a couch there. I was about to fall asleep again when I heard the sound of heels clicking on the tile floor. I looked up and brown haired woman dressed in a shirtwaist dress in a deep green, with large black buttons and wearing black high heels and a matching square purse approached me. She did not speak, but raised her purse and threw it at the door."<br />
<br />
"I was speechless, I can tell you, but I also heard her thoughts. I knew she had been jilted by her husband. She sat next to me when I extended sympathy in my thoughts and she cried. I didn't know what to do, because I think I realized she was an apparition. So I sat quietly there on the couch until I fell asleep. When I awoke, the lobby was empty except for me and a desk clerk who had just arrived."<br />
<br />
"I remember this woman often and wish I knew more about what happened to her."<br />
<br />
Wow. This story is one of many that led me to write my new release <i>In Albuquerque, Abandoned.</i> It's full of quirky characters and abandoned lovers and more. Ready it <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Albuquerque-Abandoned-Mystery-Cinnamon-Mysteries-ebook/dp/B01HVWXLFK">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Because we are, without question, <i>mysterious in New Mexico.</i>Tower Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02285308946507859285noreply@blogger.com0