I would like to thank Bonnie for hosting me once again on her blog. I last visited her blog in June of 2019 and discussed the third installment in the Risky Research Series, A Foundation of Fear, as well as when a writer should end a series. The best part of series fiction is that it gives the reader the opportunity to really get to know the characters on a personal level, to see the recurring protagonists and antagonists progress emotionally, evolving into better or worse people, and sometimes we even see them grow old. And, eventually all series must come to an end.
In the fourth installment of the series, A Measure of Madness, which released on April 9, 2021, FBI agent Devyn Nash’s pursuit of a deadly organization heats up, and the action takes us south of the border…way south! In this novel Coterie, a deadly organization that has been manipulating the diet and nutrition industries, starts to unravel exposing the truth behind the organization’s inception and the commitment level of its remaining members, leaving some questioning if they’ve gone too far.
Since my last visit, I do have a better idea on when this series should end. I am currently working on the fifth, and likely final installment of the series, A Recipe for Revenge. But for now, here’s a bit more on the latest novel, A Measure of Madness.
“Devyn, where are you? Are you all right?” When he was worried and anxious for information, he always jumped right to the point. It felt good to have someone who cared enough to really worry.
“I’m about forty miles from São Paulo. Gordo has made arrangements to fly me out of Brazil and into Uruguay on a private plane, and I’ll fly home commercial from there.”
“Thank goodness you’re on your way home. How about the second part to my question?”
“Do you want the truth or the candy-coated version.”
“I’m a big boy; lay it on me.”
Other Books in the Series
A Dose of Danger (book #1)
A Taste of Tragedy (book #2)
A Foundation of Fear (book #3)
A Measure of Madness (book #4)
A Formidable Foe (perma-free prequel novelette)
Midnight in Montana (perma-free micro-read)
To learn more about the Risky Research Series or to Download your copy of any of Kim’s novels, visit:
“Kids today have it so easy,” says the Odd Old Man Next Door to his wife. The couple has just returned from a visit to grandson Conor. Conor, obsessed with computer games, has been longing for an adult laptop for several months, an eternity for him.
They sit down at the dining table for a cup of coffee. The Odd Old Woman Next Door stirs sugar into her drink, circling the spoon round and round for what seems like hours. She notices the OOMND frown and cast a disapproving look in her direction, so she stops stirring to reach for the box of donut holes and pushes it toward her husband. She knows this will distract him and put him in a better mood.
He seizes a cinnamon-covered treat to pop in his mouth whole. “His dad’s going to get him the new computer this weekend. Eight hundred dollars! Can you imagine?”
The OOWND picks up her donut hole with thumb and forefinger and nibbles delicately. “Well, as I understand it, he’s been saving for quite a while. His allowance, his house-plant watering business, the chores he’s done for us.”
“Eight hundred dollars. When I was young, if I had ten dollars, I thought I was rich. Eight hundred was something that families lived on for a year.”
“Hardly.”
The OOMND shakes his head as if to debate the point, so the OOWND hastily amends her statement. “At least very few families had to live on that.”
“My first bicycle cost thirty dollars. And I rode it for ten years,” says the OOMND. “I’d go around the neighborhood after a snowstorm and shovel neighbors’ sidewalks for fifty cents. Can you believe it?”
“And my first babysitting jobs were for eighty-five cents an hour,” she answers “I was expected to buy all my own extras with that.”
“Now a bike easily costs several thousand dollars,” he says. “And to get a haircut for fifteen dollars, I have to go to barber college.”
“Conor says once he saves up enough money for the laptop, he’s going to throw his money around,” she says. “I wonder what he thinks that means?
“I can just see him with a jarful of coins, tossing it in the air, and laughing as it rains down. Trying to catch them. Batting them everywhere.”
“Or taking a stack of dollar bills to hide all over the house. Under cushions, in the cat’s climbing tower” She sips her coffee and ponders. “Say, I bet we could throw our money around,” the OOWND says.
He chuckles. “You already do that. Every time you see someone on the corner asking for change, you pass him a five.”
“Well, it makes me feel good. These days lots of people have trouble making ends meet. What about you? Whenever I turn around, you’re buying a new mystery.”
“I don’t spend nearly as much as you do on going out for breakfasts. According to the blanks in our budget, you laid out fifteen thousand on breakfasts last year.”
“That’s an exaggeration. It includes our weekly dinners out.”
“Still, a significant figure.”
The OOWND sighs. “After talking about food, now I’m hungry.”
He pushes the donut holes in her direction. “Here. Have another.”
She holds her palm up. “No way. Each of those has about two hundred calories.”
The OOMND stretches in his chair. “The way I see it, as regards Conor, the important thing is the same as it always has been. He worked for his money and what he buys. He values it A major life lesson for a nine-year-old. And he’s having fun.”
“Us, too,” the OOWND answers. “We get money, we throw it around, and we have fun. We throw it around, but we don’t owe anyone anything.”
“What would the neighbors think if they saw us flinging bills and coins up in the air in the front yard? Would they run to grab some?”
“Who cares?” says the OOMND. “That’s one of the good qualities of growing old. Not worrying about people’s opinions.”
“You’re right” his wife agrees.
“So I guess Conor’s not so different from us,” says the OOMND.
“Guess not.” She reaches for her husband’s hand and squeezes it.
The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”
Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”
“Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”
“If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”
He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”
How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.
The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”
As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”
She groans. “Why would I want to?”
In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.
After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).
“What?” he asks.
She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”
“No,” said the old man. “Why?”
“She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”
The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”
“I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
“What? What?”
The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”
“Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.
“Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.
(Perhaps to be continued)
The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”
Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”
“Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”
“If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”
He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”
How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.
The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”
As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”
She groans. “Why would I want to?”
In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.
After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).
“What?” he asks.
She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”
“No,” said the old man. “Why?”
“She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”
The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”
“I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
“What? What?”
The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”
“Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.
“Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.
(Perhaps to be continued)
The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”
Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”
“Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”
“If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”
He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”
How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.
The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”
As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”
She groans. “Why would I want to?”
In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.
After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).
“What?” he asks.
She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”
“No,” said the old man. “Why?”
“She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”
The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”
“I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
“What? What?”
The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”
“Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.
“Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.
As a writer, I depend on my imagination (and books and discussions and movies and articles) to come up with ideas for plot, characters and descriptions. This leads to some interesting searches to support a concept. I’m currently working on a science fiction novel set 200 years in the future. You can guess what a challenge it is for someone who never enjoyed the sciences to sketch out a logical and plausible story.
Not now. We seem to be living in an actual dystopian novel. Certainly the stories we hear via social media and actual media make it seem so. All are talking in superlatives despite our true perspective of ants in an ant hill being stirred by a big stick. From the viewpoint of the ant, total chaos reigns! End of the world conditions are looming! Phrasing for estimates and projections exist only in extremes, such as “as many as (insert scary statistics),” or “skyrocketing estimates.”
This situation is great for me as a writer. In the early days of our lockdown, streets and businesses were deserted, as if an alien force had zipped all humans out of sight. Now when I jog, people jerk masks into place and cross the road to avoid me, illustrating what an outcaste might experience. The prevalence of masks helps me imagine strange, distorted space travelers behind them. Even government incompetence, infighting and brangling serve useful purposes because my novel has political and social themes.
The truth, however, is that we’re stunned by our circumstances. We’re so accustomed to American privilege, we can’t believe we have no control over COVID and that we, like every other living thing, can die. A woman I met recently, an immigrant from Asia, used the term “entitled,” thinking we’re so special that we deserve privileges or special treatment. Perhaps that’s the reason we all sling accusations in every direction, desperately trying to find someone or something to blame: the Chinese, non-maskers, old people, drug companies, scientists, elected officials. I wish we’d wise up and realize everyone’s in this situation together and life is just life.
When a large crisis occurs, whether that’s a massive fire, a tornado, a terrorist attack, or pandemic, I, like many, freeze up and tend to panic. Often we feel helpless, hopeless, fearful. Even if we’re not directly affected, we sense the tension around us. The response to panic frequently can be senseless and absurd. Some may react poorly and fall apart, get super-selfish, even violent. Buy out all the toilet paper and cereal in a grocery store. Start slinging racist accusations at others. Then there are the people in crisis who react well and rise to the occasion. These are folks able to organize donation drives or rescue the kids perched on their roof during a flood.
I’ve decided some of the reaction is rooted in a feeling of control. Years ago, after 9/11, my 3-year-old granddaughter knew something bad had happened. She also noticed people exhibiting American flags as a symbol of undefeated spirit. Failing to distinguish between one flag and another, she collected small state flags and displayed them around the house to raise everyone’s spirits. That’s when I realized the importance of taking a positive step to establish your control over yourself and life. Kids continue to learn this by scrawling encouraging messages in chalk on sidewalks in my neighborhood during this quarantine.
In the current COVID crisis, we’ve been inundated with a surplus of advice, some of it incorrect; some hysterical and encouraging extreme reactions; much of it as repetitive as old I Love Lucy segments. How often do we need to be lectured about washing our hands?
An example of our compliance is face masks. Until recently, all the advice from experts indicated face masks held little value unless a COVID patient or health care worker were involved. Yet within the space of less than a week, masks became de rigueur at all times, in all places, for all ages. I’ve seen babies wrapped in masks that surely are interfering with their breathing, bicyclists endangering themselves and others as their masks block their vision and their physical responses.
Rather than debate the pros and cons of masks or other “safeguards,” I gave up once I realized these actions are ways people are attempting to gain control back over their lives. Parents need to believe they’re doing the best for their kids, those with health problems hope they’re gaining a slight advantage in their struggles. This also applies to compulsive behaviors, such as bleaching or wiping every surface in sight. To me, these actions are no different from throwing salt over your shoulder or spitting literally or figuratively by saying “pooh, pooh, pooh” to drive away bad luck. We don’t know for sure if any of these are helpful, but they can’t hurt.
Or can they, if carried to extremes? In the March 22, 2020, issue of Scientific American, David H. Rosmarin asks,“What’s Scarier than the Coronavirus?” He says, “There is no question in my mind that our emotional and behavioral responses at the present time are creating more damage than COVID-19.” He continues by pointing out our extreme responses—my example: screaming at passersby in a park who aren’t walking six feet apart—reveal a social vulnerability of more concern than the virus itself. We’re handicapping ourselves by not admitting there are limits to what we can know and control. We must learn to accept being human means we aren’t invincible, we can’t control everything, and, yes, living means taking risks.
I reluctantly comply with most social distancing mandates. First because I’d like to maintain cordial relations with friends and family, many of whom are enthusiastic practitioners. Second because I hesitate to become a pariah in society by not conforming. Third because pandemics are as much a condition of life as are eating and breathing. We might as well discover and test effective responses to prepare ourselves for the next one. But let’s also accept and learn from the lows in our current situation as part of our very human existence. That’s part of gaining control back over ourselves.
As a writer, I depend on my imagination (and books and discussions and movies and articles) to come up with ideas for plot, characters and descriptions. This leads to some interesting searches to support a concept. I’m currently working on a science fiction novel set 200 years in the future. You can guess what a challenge it is for someone who never enjoyed the sciences to sketch out a logical and plausible story.
Bonnie McCune, author 