Me and Betsy

Hurricane season. They warned us this year would an active season. Talk about an understatement. Harvey in Texas. Irma in Florida. Jose on the heels of Irma. Unprecedented, they say. Since I moved to Houston in 1981, I’ve lived through Alicia, Allison, Rita, and Ike. But before those hurricanes, there was another one I’ll never forget. My very first encounter.

I was living in the Florida Keys in 1965 when Category 4 Hurricane Betsy cycloned down upon us on September 5.

“Betsy was a huge storm — more than 600 miles from edge to edge with an eye estimated to be 40 miles wide at one point. The size of the storm meant that while the eye passed over the Keys, serious damage stretched north to Fort Lauderdale. The storm brought a six-foot storm surge that flooded Miami and Fort Lauderdale and is said to have nearly covered the island of Key Biscayne.” (Sun Sentinel, September 9, 1965)

On August 25, 1965, my daughter, Shawn, was born. Earlier that day my second husband, and Shawn’s father, Johnny, was at work on a lobster fishing boat in Key West. I was alone in our Airstream parked in Big Pine Key. The baby wasn’t due for another month. I started having back pain that got increasing worse. Was I in labor? Something was pushing against my back. I tried telling myself, “No, just relax. The pain will go away. This doesn’t feel like labor pains.” But the pain didn’t go away. I needed help. I ran outside to the few other trailers in the area and pounded on doors. I screamed. Nobody answered. I limped back home.

By some fortunate calculation where I must have foreseen this happening, or maybe the doctor had given me a copy,  I had a book on “How to Deliver a Baby by Yourself.” As I positioned myself sideways on the couch, I now read this from cover to cover and again until I practically memorized it. At one point when the pressure became urgent, I went to the toilet and discovered I could touch the baby’s head.

I screamed. My husband burst into the door. He’d had a premonition that he needed to leave the fishing boat and rush home. He put me into the car and rushed me to his boss’s house. His boss ran inside and telephoned for the paramedics. When he came back to the car, I was on my knees in the front seat and Johnny was delivering my 5 pound baby girl. As he held our baby, he picked up his fishing knife, and asked, “Should I cut the cord?”

Having read the book on how to deliver a baby by yourself, I screamed, “No!” Fortunately, the paramedics arrived minutes later. They put me in the ambulance with my baby Shawn on top of my stomach, cord still attached, and drove to the hospital in Marathon Key. There the doctors delivered the afterbirth. The actual birth on my knees in the car was almost pain free, unlike the afterbirth.

Three weeks later we drove to a motel in Homestead with many of our neighbors to hunker down in the wake of Hurricane Betsy. Johnny brought his guitar and we all tried to keep calm in that one cramped motel room. I had bottles of milk since I was physically unable to breastfeed as much as the baby needed. With the loss of electricity, we heated her bottle in the radiator of the car amidst the onslaught of winds and rain.

When Betsy finally moved on, we ventured back home. We viewed the fallen trees and destruction on the way and wondered if our Airstream and attached cabana would still be there. The cabana was long gone, but our Airstream home was sturdy as ever.


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Laura Elvebak – The Story Behind the Fiction

The DancerI always wanted to be a writer but first I was a dreamer and a reader. My taste tended toward great adventures and romance. War and Peace, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Little Women, Nancy Drew mysteries. I fell in love with the heroes in the Frank Yerby and Sidney Sheldon books. I yearned to escape into those worlds and live with adventure and romance. I wanted to write big stories like those. Every night when I went to bed, I dreamed up a story to be continued the next night. There would be previews first, a taste of what was to come.

I read books on writing, attended university classes, and attended workshops. One lesson declared, “write what you know.” Great. I didn’t know anything. Like most teenagers I didn’t want to grow up to be normal like my almost invisible and boring parents and their friends. To be a writer, I must experience adventure and romance so I could write about them.

That’s how I met my six husbands. That’s how I got to ride on the back of a motorcycle and participate in a documentary with the Hell’s Angels. It’s why I chose a bus ride to Canada to see a motorcycle race instead of staying in college. It’s why I became a go-go dancer to support myself and my daughter.

I dreamed of living on the Left Bank of Paris and attending the Sorbonne. I would travel through Europe on a motorcycle with a typewriter in the sidecar and earn my living as a writer, like Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald.

Sadly, I never got to Europe. Spent six months in Mexico, though. Almost got to Canada.

I did want to go to college. My aim was for a small liberal arts college. My parents vetoed that right away. Too close to Camp Pendleton. My parents picked a Lutheran college in Tacoma, Washington where there were relatives to watch over me and I could stay with an aunt.

I met my first husband when I was selling Christmas cards door to door through Junior Achievement. I was seventeen. Mark was twenty-seven, tinkering with his motorcycle with his bohemian, poetry writer friends. Even though he was Jewish, he bought a box of Xmas cards from me. I was in love.

He was the exact opposite of my parents who were horrified and refused to let me see him. I ran away two weeks before my eighteenth birthday when I was supposed to be going to college in Washington. Mark hid me with the leader of the Hell’s Angels, who only agreed because Mark could fix their bikes when they broke down. They kept me in a back room, and told Mark that I couldn’t stay long. They were very nervous and didn’t want to get caught. I didn’t want them in trouble so I went home and told my parents I was ready to go to college. My stepmother took me shopping and bought me a new college wardrobe.

I never did go to that Lutheran college after all. A week before classes were to start, Mark had a race in Canada. I told my aunt who I was staying with that I would see him race, then “I’ll be a good girl and attend college. Please don’t tell my father.” I got on a bus, got as far as Seattle and got cold feet. When I returned to my aunt’s house, my worst fears were realized. She had called my father. Sorry for me, my bags were packed, tuition refunded, and I was put on a bus back to Los Angeles and given a room at the YWCA. No more going home.

I married Mark on the way to a motorcycle race when I was nineteen. I went to all his races, which were run on the same track as the car races, which made it twice as exciting. One time Mark got invited to participate in a documentary with the Hell’s Angels. I rode on the back of Mark’s Vincent Black Shadow. He had the required chain around his waist like the other riders. The chain was supposed to ward off aggressive truck drivers.

I left Mark year later and my father arranged to get the marriage annulled. Shortly afterward when I turned twenty-one, I met Husband No. 2.

Johnny was fifty and looked like Kurt Douglas or Burt Lancaster. He was the character out of the Frank Yerby books. He was exciting and different. He’d been a hard hat diver and demolitions expert and freelanced for oil companies. He knew movie stars, called John Wayne a friend, and even got hired as an extra on Red River. He’d been around the world many times. In France an Arab once emptied his gun at him and missed.

Johnny was half-apache and could drink like no other I’ve seen and still walk straight. I met him in Santa Monica while he was recuperating from a fall off a three story building and fractured both feet. I move in with him and rubbed his feet and nursed him for three years until he could walk without a limp. We lived in Mexico for six months, New York City for a summer, several cities in Florida, then New Jersey. We changed our name a few times also. That’s when I figured out that his ex-wife’s Sicilian brother was in the Mafia, and the mob was hunting him.

Johnny delivered our daughter in a car while we were living in Key West. We were too far from a hospital. My little girl was six months old when we left Johnny and moved to Philadelphia.

I supported my daughter by working as a medical secretary, a waitress, and a go-go dancer. The Flawed Dance became the fictionalized version of those years in the late sixties. In fiction I could be the heroine who fought the bad guys and saved a few lives. Writing was therapeutic and helped me gain greater understanding of who I was.

I met Husband No. 3, a bartender who gave me my wonderful son. After a rocky five years with that husband, I took my son and we left and moved back to California.

Husband No. 4 was a Hawaiian chef who took me to Hawaii where I met his wonderful family and later I gave birth to my beautiful youngest daughter.  No. 4 wasn’t so wonderful. He stabbed a leader in the Mexican Mafia and we had to run and hide for a while.

Two husbands followed after I moved to Texas. One was for convenience. The other went to prison for murder. I decided no more marriages. I had my fill of adventure and romance. From then on, I would just write about them.

So you think that after all these experiences I would have material to write. I did, but could not just rehash my experiences on paper. I had enough characters in my head to pick them apart and use them to craft my stories.

Now I watch my children and grandchildren make the same kind of mistakes and I know I can’t help them. But at the same time I learn from them. They introduced me to troubled teens, runaways, parents struggling with their children, and making painful decisions.

From them and for them I write my Niki Alexander mystery series. She’s an ex-cop turned counselor for a teen shelter. She is the champion of the runaways, the throwaways, the ones looking for a different life, seeking adventure and excitement. She knows the dangers they face and she is there for them.

In the first book, Less Dead, Niki has to find an abandoned teenager, who might have witnessed a murder, before the murderer finds her. Lost Witness, the second in the series, deals with a lost little boy caught in the center of drug ring involving two brothers between the border of Texas and Mexico. Both books are available as e-books, print, and audio, and can be found on Amazon, iTunes and Audible.

The third book in the Niki Alexander series is A Matter of Revenge and is due to be released in September from Black Opal Books. This time Niki is faced with two pre-teen, runaway street kids who have taken as their mission to destroy a dangerous pedophile rings a. More to come as the launch date approaches.

The Flawed Dance

The Flawed Dance


The Flawed Dance is currently available on Amazon, b&, Black Opal Books, All Romance Magazine

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Where the Action is (Cash Anthony)

Source: Where the Action is (Cash Anthony)

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First Chapter of The Flawed Dance

The Flawed Dance

The Flawed Dance


The instant I landed the blow on Johnny’s head, I knew he would live with me forever. I knew I wouldn’t escape no matter how fast or how far I ran. He lived with me as I crossed borders to a new life, one filled with unfamiliar sights and smells. I was the same person as yesterday, yet different. I was free, but shackled with my past. What other choice did I have, but to go forward?

I took a deep breath and trudged up the dark, narrow stairs of the converted row house, following Jesse to the second floor. The smell of grease and stale cigarettes seeped from the walls. I hesitated, one foot on the next step. “I’ll be the only white woman living in this building, won’t I?”

Jesse looked over his shoulder. “You wanna turn around and go back?”

If only I could. But I didn’t come all this way to change my mind at the last minute.

I stared straight ahead. “No.”

Jesse’s thick upper lip curled. “Didn’t think so.”

The door at the landing came into view. I clenched my hands to keep from shaking and reached for something to say to calm my nerves. “The radio said there’ve been riots in the city since Doctor King was killed.” Not that I was worried. Street fighting no more affected me than the war in Vietnam. I was more scared of Johnny. Dead or alive.

“This is the west side,” Jesse said, now sounding annoyed. “No trouble here.”

I didn’t know west from east. I’d never been to Philadelphia. What if there were riots? Maybe I should be worried, should have paid more attention to the news. No trouble for him, but what about me? I decided to keep my mouth shut until after I faced the stranger on the other side of the door—Jesse’s brother and my new roommate.

Jesse rapped hard on hollow wood.

A stocky man, wearing a faded flannel shirt and tan trousers with suspenders, opened the door. The man looked old enough to be Jesse’s father. His smile reached his eyes. Maybe he was the one with the nice gene.

“This be her. Erin.” Jesse mumbled the words. With a furtive glance in my direction, he said, “This be Carl, my brother I tol’ you ’bout.”

Carl chuckled softly, dispelling the bad air between Jesse and me. “I suspect she guessed that already. It’s a pleasure meeting you, Erin.”

His voice had a musical, sing-song quality. Cocoa skin crinkled around warm dark eyes. Tight gray curls framed a pleasant face, but I suspected the map of wrinkles remembered a road traveled over many miles of ruts and potholes. I wondered if my own face reflected my journey. I pushed away the thought and gave him my best smile, wanting to make a decent impression, no matter what Jesse might have said about me.

Carl gave me a quick study. I tensed, thinking he could see right through my shell to the runny yolk inside. I thought he looked trustworthy, but my ability to judge men had not proved reliable.

I understood Jesse’s motivation for driving me all the way from New Jersey, but how did he convince his brother to take a strange white girl into his tiny apartment and into his life? I’d give anything to have listened in on that conversation. The man had to be a saint in disguise.

Carl stepped aside. “Come on in. You made it in time for breakfast.”

Jesse looked uncomfortable, a definite change in attitude now that he was in his brother’s presence.

I wanted to be sure Carl understood. “You really don’t mind if I stay here a few days? You probably didn’t have a chance to think this through.”

“How old are you, girl?” Carl’s tone was soothing.


Carl nodded. “Jesse said you were a decent person and needed someplace to stay. That’s good enough for me.”

Decent? Jesse called me decent?

“Hope you don’t mind tight quarters. I only got the one room and one bed, but you be safe here.”

A quick study of the efficiency almost changed my mind. To the left of the door, a stove and a tiny refrigerator squeezed in next to the sink and a narrow counter. A small dining table, two chairs, and a foldout sofa bed with an end table was the sum of Carl’s furniture. One bathroom and a closet filled the rest of Carl’s space. Where would I sleep? Did it matter? I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“You sure are trusting,” I said.

You don’t know Carl either, I thought, as I set my bags on the floor, felt my stomach tighten. My words spilled out like water. “Don’t worry. I’ll get a job right away. I’ll pay you back, whatever you want, for rent, for food. Won’t take me long to find my own place and be out of your way.”

Carl gave me a fatherly smile, but didn’t respond. Instead he spoke to his brother. “You’re welcome to stay, Jesse. You must be hungry after your long trip. No sense in rushing out again.”

“I gotta get back,” Jesse said, not looking at me. “Phyllis will skin me alive if I don’t get back in time for work.” Phyllis was Jesse’s wife and could be a bitch if she suspected Jesse even looked at another woman, let alone helped one who was running from another man.

Carl’s tone stayed calm but firm. “You can at least have a cup of coffee before you go. Don’t want you falling asleep while driving.”

“Yeah, okay. I can do with a cup.” Jesse lowered himself into a hard, armless chair, the type I remembered from school.

Jesse hadn’t looked at me since we arrived. We both worked at the same restaurant. I was a waitress, Jesse a bus boy. Last night, I arrived late and gave him my tale of woe—omitting a few details. To my surprise, he agreed to help me, even left work two hours early. His attitude had since changed. Guess he got scared I’d tell his brother about that cheap, smelly hotel room with puke green walls he insisted we stay at, arguing he was too tired to drive all night after working.

I couldn’t even guess what Carl was thinking while he scrambled eggs and fried bacon. He turned off the burner, poured boiling water into three cups, and mixed in instant coffee. He handed each of us a cup.

Jesse gulped his and stood.

“Thanks, Jesse. I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.” I meant every word. “There’s no possible way Johnny will find me.” Because he’s dead. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

His eyes bugged and his back went rigid. “You crazy? You think I want my skin stripped from my bones and my neck stretched and hung from a tree? And that’s just what my wife would do. Your husband would probably cut off my balls. Nobody knows nothing, and nobody ain’t gonna know.”

I sat on the bed and spoke as calmly as I could manage, which I could tell irritated the hell out of him. “Stop worrying. Johnny won’t suspect you. If he shows up at the restaurant looking for me, will you let me know?” I surprised myself sometimes. I could lie like a professional con man. Practiced the art while living with Johnny, who I knew wasn’t ever going to show up anywhere.

Red lines streaked the whites of Jesse’s eyes. “Are you kidding? How, without getting people suspicious? What I am supposed to say if they ask where I disappeared to same night as you? I ain’t saying or doing nothing to make them look twice at me.”

Carl chuckled. “My goodness, you sure are paranoid. Don’t make this a big deal. You learn something might help our girl here, call Nettie. You still have her number?” He turned to me. “She’s a good friend, lives upstairs, has the only phone.”

Jesse gave him a sour look. “Yeah, sure.” He moved toward the door.

Carl laid a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Jesse.”

“Little late for that shit,” Jesse said, and shook him off. “Don’t worry. This is the last time I go outta my way, be a Good Samaritan. What’s in it for me, huh? Nuthin’.”

His attitude pissed me off. I wanted him to go, but I still owed him. More than he’d ever know. I swallowed with difficulty. “Thanks again, Jesse.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.”

He didn’t look at me. I knew he was thinking of last night and how he missed out on that big thank you he was expecting for his trouble and didn’t get.

“Are you all right?” Carl asked me after Jesse left. He handed me a plate with a liberal serving of bacon, eggs, and buttered toast.

I put the plate on the table and settled in the chair, still warm from Jesse. “I’m fine. More worried about you. Don’t want to bring trouble to your door.”

Carl shook his head slowly, the smile trembling on his lips. “You don’t bring trouble, girl. Trouble was here before you was born.”

I wanted to laugh before I burst out crying. What would he say if I told him the truth about me? How much trouble would that be?

I pulled myself together. So far, I’d handled myself pretty well, I thought, pretending to be normal. I almost believed the lie. Just act like nothing bad happened. Take the bad stuff, roll it in a ball, and stuff it in a corner. Don’t tell anyone.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Carl’s concern finally got through to me.

“Yeah, sure. Are you?”

He chuckled. “Don’t you worry your head about me. You go ahead and eat.”

He sounded so confident. Maybe I would be all right. Nothing I could do about the past. My life started now. I looked into his eyes, sensing a deep peace in them. I envied that look. My stomach rumbled as I gazed at my plate. “You shouldn’t have bothered.” I managed a smile and realized I was hungry after all. “But I’m glad you did.” I drank half my coffee before tackling my food.

“It ain’t nothing special. I have to eat anyway.” Carl sat opposite me and dug his fork into the eggs.

I finished first and rinsed my plate in the sink. I had to be doing something. Too wound up to relax. I meandered to the window next to the bed and looked out over the gray day.

Fog hovered over the tiled roofs of row houses that marched down both sides of the street.

Carl brought me a fresh cup of coffee. I wondered at his patience, felt a touch of envy at the mellow look in his eyes. He seemed too good to be true. “I’m really grateful for your taking me in,” I said. “But I’m curious, what’s in this for you?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“All you knew about me is whatever Jesse told you and he didn’t know much.”

He said with a straight face, “What? Are you going to tell me you’re a serial killer?”

I almost dropped my cup. “Why do you say that?”

He looked at me funny, and I held my breath. Then he laughed. “You look so serious. I’m kidding, my dear. Oh, wait. You think I have a hidden agenda? Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect when Jesse called. He said you needed to get away, but had no place to go. I feel it, girl. Think you’re the only one who’s come from bad times?” He patted my arm. “Are you uncomfortable here?” He slapped his forehead. “What am I saying? Of course, you are. You come in to a strange city to move in with someone you’ve never met, a man of color.”

He didn’t get it. I put my hand up to stop him. “Uncomfortable? Carl, you have no idea what my life has been like the last few years. I don’t think I could ever be that uncomfortable with anyone or anything again. Except maybe…” I looked down at the sofa that would pull out into a bed at night.

“Ah, yes, I can see where the sleeping arrangements might make you nervous, but you don’t need to worry about me.” He tapped his chest. “I have a weak ticker. When I go to bed, it’s to sleep. I wish I could offer you something more, but this is all I have.”

I wanted to take him at his word. Just in case, I still had my grandmother’s hat pin, the one that kept Jesse away last night.

“I suppose you’re curious. Why I left in such a hurry?” I said.

“That’s your business. I figure if you want to tell me, you will.” Carl took his empty plate to the sink.

I stood and moved him aside. “I can do the dishes. You’ve done enough. Sit and relax.”

He looked startled, but then he smiled and sat on the sofa. “Thank you.”

I filled the sink with soapy water. The silence stilled the room. I wanted to scream just to avoid listening to my own thoughts. Or Johnny’s voice. My insides were quivering like jelly.

“Johnny’s thirty years older than me.” Good one, Erin. Carl and Johnny are probably about the same age. I scrubbed a dish so hard the painted flowers were in danger of peeling. “He’s got lines on his face like yours. Used to be a hard hat diver for oil companies. Demolitions expert. Worked all over the world—before his accident. But our age difference was never a problem.” That’s right. Keep talking like Johnny’s alive.

I steeled myself for Carl’s question, but it didn’t come.

I rambled on, unable to keep quiet. “I left him once when we lived in Key West. Hopped a bus to Miami. He found me the next day.” I shot another glance at Carl, who sipped his coffee while he listened. “Talked me into going back with him. Said he needed me. Threatened to kill himself if I didn’t. I was all he had, you see. That made him jealous all the time. We didn’t stay in one place long enough to make friends.”

I wiped my hands and turned to face Carl. “But this time is different. He won’t find me. I’ve never been to Philadelphia. Don’t know anyone here. I was smart this time, didn’t leave a trail. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” I blew out a shaky laugh. “I just don’t want you to worry.”

I didn’t really lie. Everything I said happened. I couldn’t tell him the rest. I couldn’t tell anyone.

I turned my back to him and finished washing the dishes. I avoided Carl’s eyes while I picked up the dish towel to dry them.

After a long silence, he said, “A lot of life packed into twenty-two years.”

I squeezed my eyes shut for a second. If you only knew the half of it.

I’m not worried,” Carl said. “I’m curious about one thing, though. How did you get Jesse to help you?”

The question threw me. My laugh sounded brittle. “You know what? I didn’t. I asked a few of the girls, the other waitresses. No one else wanted to get involved. Jesse volunteered.”

Carl had taken another sip of his coffee, and he almost spit it out. A few drops hit his chin and he wiped it with his hand. “That crazy fool.” His eyes narrowed. “But I never knew him to help someone out of the kindness of his heart. He’d want something.”

I guess he knew his brother well. Jesse had a family, but fancied himself a ladies’ man at work. He probably envied Carl’s bachelor lifestyle, or the way he imagined how his brother lived. But regardless of what Jesse hoped to gain by having me to himself for the duration of the trip, I considered the man a hero for following through with his offer.

“Jesse did exactly what we had agreed upon,” I said.

Still holding the dish towel, I sank in the chair.

Carl looked at me shrewdly. “What did he expect from you?”

I looked away, not wanting to rat out his brother.

Carl pressed on. “That boy always act like someone gonna beat him to death when he hiding something. He acts jumpy, too eager to leave.”

I figured he’d already guessed the answer. “He made a move on me,” I admitted. “But I had my secret weapon.” I pulled out the hat pin Grandmother had given me. I remembered Jesse’s expression as he lay beside me in that hard bed with the gray sheets, reaching for me, only to get stabbed for his trouble. “It works.”

Carl flung back his head and laughed outright. “No wonder that boy was pissed. Good for you.” He sobered and gave me a knowing look. “You’re not what I expected, Erin Matthews.”

What had he expected?

“You won’t be sorry, Carl.”

I hoped those words were true.

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Untangle Your Story with Cherie Doyen – My Interview

I’ve given my most personal interview ever with Cherie Doyen on Untangle Your Story. The Interview airs on Thursday, June 25. We talked about my book Lost Witness, and the Niki Alexander series about runaway and throwaway teenagers and what makes them run. We also get into how my personal story inspired the books.

Hope you join me Thursday evening at 5:00 Central Time.

Untangle Your Story

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The Flawed Dance

The Flawed Dance has been accepted by Black Opal Books . It’s been years of writing, editing and submitting before finding the right publisher, approved by both Mystery Writers of America and the International Thriller Writers.

If you have a project that you love and are passionate about, like The Flawed Dance for me, remember, Never, Ever Give Up!

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My Day at Prison

Several weeks ago, an amazing young woman named Sara, who teaches non-fiction and poetry, offered me the opportunity to teach a one-time class on writing mysteries to her students at a nearby prison. My initial reaction was to decline and offer to find someone else.  Strange as it may seem, it wasn’t the thought of being with the prisoners that gave me second thoughts. I’m not a teacher. I’ve never taught a class before. Secondly, I’ve only two published books and four short stories included in anthologies. There are lots of mystery writers more qualified than I am.  Then Sara told me I was referred by a mystery writer they had asked first, one for whom I have the greatest respect and admiration, and whose books have appeared on the New York Times Best Sellers list.

So I got to thinking, what are my qualifications? There are the fiction and screenwriting classes I took at UCLA, USC, Beyond Baroque, and Rice University. There are the mystery writing classes and countless workshops I attended. I have both attended and participated on conference panels and even been a featured speaker. More important are my critique groups who pointed out to me what I was doing wrong and have continued to support my writing for years, not to mention the film producers who hired me to write screenplays. Not only have I been writing most of my life, I have benefited from all those amazing teachers and fellow writers that have given their time and expertise to teach me.

I accepted Sara’s offer because I wanted to pay forward what I have been given. I decided I could and should share some of what I’ve learned to men who could benefit the most and were soon getting out of prison. They had been preparing for life on the outside since being moved to this medium security prison from where they were serving time because their release date was coming soon.

I arrived at the prison with Sara. Twenty-one prisoners rewarded me with their attention, their enthusiasm, and insight. I know I got as much out of that class as they did. I don’t know their backgrounds or why they were incarcerated, nor did I care. All of them were preparing to get out of prison and back into the outside world. They had stories to tell and wanted their voices heard.

Some were writing novels, others screenplays, some were using poetry. All wanted to know more about the publishing world and what it took to get published.  I came with lessons on creating characters, how to use setting, on editing, and steps on building the plot for a mystery. They in turn shared their ideas and what they were working on. We had a question and answer session. In two hours, we built something that will last in my mind for a long time and, hopefully, will impact their lives as well.

The program that brought me to the prison is PEP, or Prison Entrepreneurship Program. Established in 2004, PEP is a Houston-based 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization. They have pioneered programs that connect the nation’s top executives, entrepreneurs, and MBA students with convicted felons.

The Creative Writing Program is just one of several that these men were participating in. They took computer classes, attended programs by CEO’s and lawyers, learned to write a business plan, and were offered housing when they got out. It’s a rehabilitation program that I never knew existed in the state of Texas. It took a non-profit and many volunteers to offer an opportunity to reformed inmates who thrive on challenge and accountability to get a fresh start.

The following week after I gave the class, I got another call. For the men’s final session with the Creative Writing Program, they will be reading what they have written. They were given the opportunity to invite up to two volunteers to attend. I was privileged to be given one of these invitations. In two days I will return to the prison at their request. I’m looking forward to being in the audience this time and learning from them.

For more about this program, go to

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