About Lori Ericson

An award-winning former reporter who is now trashing everything she learned about writing then, relishing the people she met and the stuff they taught her to write romantic thrillers, rom-coms and more.

Working Through the Novel

Posted on September 28, 2013 by Lori Ericson

As I read over my novel and get it as polished and perfect as possible, my characters are getting stronger and my resolve to finally be done with this thing is ringing in my ears. To push myself a little more and give you a taste of what I’m up to, I thought I’d share just a very small snippet here.

Girl With Pencil Waving So, from Chapter 1:

“I got a good enough look to know he was dead for sure. It looked like a little boy from what I seen.” She spoke next in a muffled rush, staring at the lake below. “I saw legs and tennis shoes. Those sneakers was the saddest thing, sticking up there in the brush. They were red with no shoestrings.”

“Could you see anything else?” Danni blew at a strand of hair tickling her cheek as she took notes.

“He was wearing jeans, but I didn’t see much more’n that. The smell. That’s something I probably ain’t gonna ever forget. It was horrible, just horrible.” Elizabeth fanned herself a little faster. “And the quiet. Like the animals, birds, bugs and all, had gone off and left him alone there in the woods. That was the quietest I ever heard it out here this time of year.”

Baby Eyes and Life Before Living

Posted on September 22, 2013 by Lori Ericson

The following story is from an actual experience I go back to whenever I wonder about life beyond this physical experience:

I saw that sparkle in her beautiful brown eyes as I pulled the pink cotton dress up by the hem to lift over her arms.

“I was with Jesus ‘fore I was in your tummy.” Her child speak was muffled by the clothing.

“What’s that sweetie?”

“I was with Jesus ‘fore I was in your tummy,” the words more deliberate this time.

She was my second daughter, a child I worried over during pregnancy. Worried she’d be unloved, that I couldn’t care for another the way I did my first beautiful baby girl. Of course, I later marveled holding her in my arms, realizing God had made my heart grow rather then depriving this little one of what she deserved.

I pulled the dress the rest of the way off, setting her arms free.

“I ‘member.” She nodded at me as if to make it understood she was being serious.

“You remember what Honey?” I slid a tee shirt over her head.

“I ‘member. They was nice there.”

I took in a breath and looked into those big browns. “When you were where? In my tummy? Who was nice?”

I pulled the overalls up and fastened a button on each hip, turning her from one side to the other, her short brown hair bounced as she swayed. Just as one shoulder strap was in place, the sound of potatoes boiling over drew me over to the stove. She followed.

“No ‘fore, Mama, fore.”

“Stay back now, this is hot.”

“K.” The double doors on the lower half of the pantry slammed shut behind me.

“Stop that. You’re going to pull those things off their hinges.”

I stirred the potatoes and lowered the flame. The table would have to be set soon, but I had to know what this child was getting at.

She was something, always inquisitive and ready to explore the world, but also so stubborn and determined to get her way that she’d act up, strike out at her older sister, defy orders. It wasn’t that she was a bad kid, just so busy living and learning, she didn’t have time for anything that stood in the way.

I leaned down and fastened the other shoulder strap of her overalls. “Now, what were you trying to tell me about being a baby.”

“Not a baby, Mama.” She pursed her lips, giving me a look I’ve seen many times over the years since, especially those teenage years.

“Okay, not when you were a baby.” I tucked an errant strand of brown hair behind her ear.

“When I was with Jesus in heavnen.”

Goose bumps ran down my arms. They come back to this day when I think about her words that Sunday afternoon. I walked her to the table and sat down. She stood in front of me. Holding each of her hands in mine, I looked her in the eye.

“Hmmm, I’m not sure honey. I don’t think you’ve been to heaven.” My mommy tickle was screaming down my spine ‘pay attention, this might be big.’

“Yep, I was in there.” Curls bounced as she nodded, her chin nearly hitting her chest with the enthusiasm.

“You were in heaven?”

“Yep, ‘fore I was in your tummy.”

I plastered a smile on my face, not sure she’d go on, not sure I wanted her to.

“I ‘member cuz that man told me to pick you out.”

The chill started with the goose bumps embedded in the back of my arms. It ran up my neck and down my spine. I gulped. “What man?”

“That man with the glasses.”

She yanked one hand away from mine and pointed to the hallway.

“That man in the picashure.”

I couldn’t speak. Still gripping one of my hands, she led me down the hall. Photos of the two girls lined one wall. At the end, photos of my family were clustered together. A picture of my older brother in his tan leisure suit at graduation, my younger brother in his Marine Corps uniform, and shots of each of my sisters at graduation.

“That man told me to pick you out.” She pointed to a photo of my dad. He’d died nearly four years before her birth.

I hated that picture of him. I had hung it low on the wall so it seldom caught my eye as I passed. His eyes looked big, magnified by huge 1980’s glasses.

My daughter watched me with curiosity, uncertainty. The lump in my throat felt like a Ping Pong ball. Tears started to gather in the corner of my eyes. I dabbed them away.

“What do you mean, he told you to pick me out sweetheart?”

“He said you should be my mommy.” She said it softly.

I knew she was telling the truth. Her bottom lip trembled. Tears welled up in those big beautiful brown eyes. I hadn’t realized it, but it hit me right then, those weren’t her father’s brown eyes, she had my father’s big brown eyes.

“When I was in heavnen, he told me to pick you out, pick you for my mommy,” she whispered.

My own tears couldn’t be stopped. I knelt down, hugged her and breathed in the sweet innocent smell of baby shampoo.

“I’m so glad, honey. I’m so glad you picked me out.”

She doesn’t remember ever telling me she’d picked me out. And didn’t just a few years after that, but I can never doubt the truth. I know the blessing she’s been in my life. I know the blessing of each of my girls.

Reagan, my granddaughter, has a similar wise and knowing look in her beautiful blue eyes.

She came to stay with Lloyd and I this weekend. I took a photo of the two of them and wonder as I look at that picture, both their eyes looking directly at me, what we really know in those early years that is forgotten as we make our way through this life on earth.

BBs, Caskets and Art

Posted on September 15, 2013 by Lori Ericson

The BBs scatter and ricochet in an empty mausoleum crypt like a kindergarten class bursting onto a playground. They move quickly, bounce off each other and stop in random spots.

The cylindrical BB shape makes for a perfect tool to move a casket easily in the tight space. They roll with ease beneath, keeping the bottom from scraping along the concrete interior as it’s pushed into place.

I thought of the way we used BBs at the cemetery when I read last week about Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville using them to weigh down art displays. Most museums use elevator weights made of cast iron, sand or lead shot for anchoring their display cases.

But Crystal Bridges is taking advantage of a local resource in the Daisy BB company, and is better off for it. There are no health concerns and moisture issues, and they’re cheap. Daisy has donated about 6,000 pounds in defective BBs for anchoring the display cases.

The museum, according to the article, moves the BBs into bags from big blue 55-gallon barrels. We bought BBs in small cardboard tubes and had a lot less hassle in using them to serve our need. But they seem to be the perfect tool for either use.

A typical empty casket can weigh 200 pounds or more, and the opening in each mausoleum space is made with little room to spare. Tandem units that allow two burials end-to-end in one mausoleum crypt mean the first burial has a long way to go. There could be a lot of scratches and damage to a costly casket holding precious cargo without the aid of the simple BBs.

Crystal Bridges hosts hundreds of people daily. They gawk and stare, and move around the museum’s many display cases that manage to stay in place, keeping their precious cargo stable with the help of those same simple BBs.

I have to wonder how the emperor Shah Jahan would have used BBs in the 17th Century when moving his wives into the Taj Mahal, the world’s greatest and most beautiful mausoleum. All he had was some little ole elephants.

Shut Up Dr. Oz!

Posted on September 7, 2013 by Lori Ericson

I’m sick of seeing those ads with Dr. Oz holding a big blob of fat!

I get it… take supplements that boost your metabolism, eat some crazy fruit, hold off on the carbs, whatever it takes, drop the fat! Okay, already.

I’m not some tiny little petite thing and never will be, but I don’t care because I was once about 100 pounds heavier than I am now and happy just to be me. Sure, I could stand to lose another twenty pounds, but I love me just like I am.

People who met me in the last decade might not know that I once weighed about 250 pounds. I was miserable at that weight. The secret was that I had to lose that attitude before I could lose a pound. I had to love myself just as I was to have the desire to take care of myself. It wasn’t dropping the size 18 pair of jeans for a size 10 that made me want to lose the weight. It was the fear of what I was doing to my heart and body in general. It was worrying that I wouldn’t be here to see my grandchildren.

It took about a year of eating low carbs, avoiding sugar and learning to exercise. I bought a Pilates machine that I still use and love it. I learned that the more active I am, the less I have to struggle with food choices and the more active I can be because I’m not bogged down with that extra 100 pounds.

I work hard at times to keep the weight off still. Especially at the end of summer when I’ve had a few too many strawberry sundaes or bowls of dutch chocolate ice cream. Yes, that’s right, I’m my heaviest usually at the end of summer. I know the holidays can add a few too, but really the end of summer is my struggle time.

But I love me and will never let myself go like that again.

I just want Dr. Oz to stop holding up all that blubber and tell people to love themselves healthy.

My Near Arrest in the Cemetery

Posted on August 31, 2013 by Lori Ericson

At dusk each night someone in my family would travel the gravel lanes meandering through our nearly thirty-acre cemetery to see if any visitors were still lingering. It wasn’t a good thing to lock the gates and imprison some poor unsuspecting widow inside the cemetery after dark. Leaving the grounds unsecured overnight also had its perils. The least of our worries were the lovers who were subject to a surprise when a spotlight was shown through the car window revealing their private tryst. More troublesome were the teenagers who wanted to spin their wheels in the open gardens of the back acreage, and the evil minded who thought it fun to vandalize a family memorial or a mausoleum.

I hadn’t had my license but just a few days when a friend and I offered to take Dad’s brand new four-wheel-drive Ford truck for the nightly gate duty. Dad didn’t object to my driving the truck for the first time. I didn’t even have to pull out on the road since our driveway was connected to the cemetery’s entrance. I would stay on the grounds. How much trouble could I cause?

We climbed up in the cab, found the appropriate rock n roll music station, giggled aplenty and started our trip. We took our time, cruised around chatting away, made several loops and eventually parked down by the cemetery pond to watch the ducks flapping their wings and chasing each other for a bit of entertainment.

As we made one last spin around the grounds, I realized we were being followed. And it wasn’t just anybody. We were being followed by a Fayetteville Police cruiser. Uh oh! This was a first-time experience for me. I anxiously glanced in the mirror, followed the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit inside the cemetery and eventually made my way to the gates. The officer simply followed and didn’t put on his lights. Stopping the truck just past the stone pillar entrance, I glanced at my girlfriend and climbed out of the cab. The officer had parked just a few feet from the chrome rear bumper of the Ford.

I hadn’t taken but a step, maybe two, when I heard a ‘pop’ and realized the truck was rolling backward. The officer, who had started to step out, jumped back in his police cruiser. I held my breath and hopped up into the driver’s seat, slammed my foot on the brake, and yanked the gearshift into park. I knew I’d put it in park once. Or, hadn’t I?

The officer was more than a little pissed. Questions exploded at me as I stuttered and shook my head, trying to look as innocent as possible. No, I didn’t have my license. I’d left my purse behind. I was the daughter of the cemetery owner and was simply trolling the grounds before locking the gates for the night. I pointed toward the house. He lectured and followed me across the side lawn.

I steeled myself for more lecturing from my father and tried not to cry. I explained what happened and that I thought for sure I’d put the truck in park. The officer added his own account of how I tried to run over him.

Fortunately, Dad came to my defense. He said the truck had a tendency to pop out of park, and that Ford had been talking about recall but there’d been no official word yet. He apologized as well for not warning me to put on the emergency brake. He even accompanied the officer back to the gates, officially closed them for the night and retrieved the truck.

I sat down and cried in relief. I could have crashed into a police car. Or, even worse, run over a cop. What a way to christen my new driver’s license.

These stories of my life growing up in a cemetery seem to be popular on my blog. I’ve incorporated a lot of ideas from these memories in my writing as well. . So, thank you to those who enjoy reading them and for any feedback.

Cemetery Sardines

Posted on August 25, 2013 by Lori Ericson

We huddled against the cold granite slabs of the mausoleum while the moon faded in and out amid the moving clouds. Suppressed giggles and whispers, then a “shush, he’s coming.”

This was so much more fun than the traditional hide and seek. We hid together in a group and weren’t out there in the cemetery stowed away alone all those heart-pounding minutes while someone tried to discover each secret hiding spot.

In the game Sardines, there was just one person walking among the headstones, peeking in the dark hedges and searching in the moonlight for everyone else. There were trade offs, of course.

The loneliness for the seeker would end when at least one player was found in hide and seek. In Sardines, the group was often easier to find. But as the seeker neared, the group was also allowed to move, and attempt to find another place to wait out discovery.

There were five or six of us hiding out next to the mausoleum that night. My older brother was doing the searching. We heard his footsteps on the gravel road and tried to slip around to the other side of the mausoleum before he found us. But, we were too noisy. Oh, the perils of keeping a bunch of young teens quiet in a cemetery in the dead of night.

It was my turn to go up to the shop to wait ten minutes alone while everyone hid.

The heart pounding fear traipsing around some twenty-five acres of rolling hills and moonlit headstones in solitude was so much different than the pounding a young heart does when trying to squeeze several young bodies together to wait out discovery.

It’s easy to guess which one I preferred.

Now that I’m older and can look back on those memories of growing up next to the cemetery, I’m glad for it all. What fodder for a writer of mysteries to use and embellish!

This story will likely find it’s way into that young adult book I’ve had bouncing around my brain in recent months.

Shooter 13-14

Posted on August 22, 2013 by Lori Ericson

It’s hard to fathom from a journalist’s point of view the notion of not providing all the pertinent information for any news story. However, I’ve come to believe we should never know the names or see the photos of accused shooters or mass murderers, particularly those who wreak their havoc in our schools.

We so often fulfill their goal when their name becomes immortalized, when we forever remember the Eric Harrises and the Dylan Klebolds of the world. This seems to be especially true of school shooters who strike at the most innocent of victims.

The gunman who entered an Atlanta, Georgia school on Tuesday is now famous. We’re lucky we’re not seeing the faces of countless young children who didn’t go home to their parents that night. Although the outcome was brighter than his plans, his motives were likely the same of countless others who have been more successful. They are so often seeking notoriety through mass executions in some warped sense of self.

Sometimes they claim to be striking out after being bullied, which is an issue schools seem to be dealing with more frequently and more fervently. But the desire still comes down to an “I’ll show them and make myself famous doing it” attitude.

We should know Tuesday’s shooter as a number only. Take away that privilege of hearing his name on the television, knowing that his mug is now familiar to everyone within earshot of a television, and let’s see if the tragedies don’t slow down.

Withholding of personal information on the shooter should have started with the Columbine massacre in April 1999. If we knew them simply as 99-01 and 99-02, maybe we wouldn’t have had many follow in their footsteps.

It’s just a thought from a heart that worries for the next group of children hovering in the corner of a classroom and listening to gunshots.

As a mystery writer I read stories of murder and mayhem looking for inspiration, but these school shootings spark little more than sadness.

Thanks for reading, following and sharing.

Ham and the Meth Head

Posted on August 17, 2013 by Lori Ericson

As a reporter, I usually hated making the cop run. It’s when reporters go to the police station to gather a tally on who was arrested, what accidents occurred and what reports of interest have been filed. It’s dealing with the real underbelly of society, but at times interesting.

Years ago, I was taking notes as an officer for the Springdale Police Department was explaining why a woman had been charged with a crime for purchasing the ingredients to make meth. He listed off items she had bought at the local Wal-Mart. They included things like lighter fluid, pseudoephedrine and other ridiculous things the drug-addicted will mix together for the crazy concoction.

As he neared the end of the list, I heard from behind a shout, “Don’t forget the ham.”

I ignored it, but she said it again.

“Don’t forget the ham.”

The woman was handcuffed to the bench when I came in, but I hadn’t paid any attention, until now. As I turned and looked at her, I saw a woman with an open sore she had obviously picked at on one cheek, discolored teeth, straggly hair and grubby clothes. It couldn’t be the 26-year-old the officer had apprehended.

“I was just getting stuff for dinner, stuff for the house,” she said.

“Shut up, we know what you were getting,” the officer said.

“Well just don’t forget the ham.”

I couldn’t say a thing to her. I was shocked. She looked to be at least 40 years old. I stared.

She pulled at her handcuffed wrist and looked up at me. “Don’t forget the ham.”

I nodded and added it to the list in my reporter’s pad.

A True Encounter with a Dead Man

Posted on August 15, 2013 by Lori Ericson

I woke up to the “swish swish” sound of his arm moving against his windbreaker in the eerie green glow of the living room. His face was covered with blood, as was his chest that was exposed by the open jacket. He wore cut-off jean shorts and tennis shoes. I thought it was a dream, this stranger illuminated by the green glass lamp base. I was stretched out asleep on my stomach on the living room floor in the house next to the cemetery when I heard him. He came through the dining room and sat in my dad’s recliner a little after midnight.

He stared at me, the smeared blood making him look surreal. I put my head back down thinking I must be dreaming.

He rocked in the recliner.

Raising my head again, I could see the same image.

“Who are you,” I asked.

“I’m dead. I just crawled out of my grave.” He rocked.

“Oh, come on. Do you know my brother John?” I asked. He looked about John’s age, a few years younger than me.

“I might of, when I was alive, but I just crawled out of my grave.” He rocked again in the recliner and continued to stare.

Frozen in place on the floor in front of him, I was unsure what to do. He wasn’t a dream. I hadn’t ever seen him before. Fear caught in my throat.

His rocking stopped. He raised a hand to his face, drew it back and stared at his palm with a quizzical look on his face as if he’d never seen blood before.

Lowering his hand to his lap, he rocked and looked at me. “I’m bleeding to death.”

“You said you’re already dead. How can you be bleeding to death?” It was an obvious question, or so I thought.

“I’m bleeding to death,” he repeated in a raised voice.

That scared me. Why had I questioned this dead man, this apparition covered in blood?

I started to get up, moving backward slowly and watching him closely.

“I just crawled out of my grave,” he yelled.

I got to my feet, ran around the corner, down the hall to my parents bedroom. I heard him following. By the time my dad sat up in bed and put on his glasses, the apparition was standing in the hall. He reached into the bathroom, flipped the switch, and the light fell over this teenage boy covered in blood.

“Who the hell are you?” Dad asked.

“I just crawled out of my grave. I’m dead.”

He stared back at Dad, who repeated his question.

“I just crawled out of my grave, and I need to use your bathroom.” He stepped into the bathroom. I heard the water start in the tub.

I didn’t see him again until the police officer gently coaxed him out of the tub and escorted the boy from our home.

My dead man had apparently done a few too many drugs, entertained himself by jumping from headstone to headstone in the dark cemetery and broke his nose.

Darkness and Writing

Posted on August 12, 2013 by Lori Ericson

I grew up in a cemetery. My parents owned and managed it. The darkness of that upbringing either created or helped add to the dark thoughts and skeptical attitudes that roam around in my head. It hasn’t always been an asset, but that kind of thinking often served me well in my career as a reporter, made me frequently doubt the story I was getting on the surface, made me want to dig deeper.

It’s also an asset in my fiction writing. I like a good mystery. And I love creating a story that makes the reader guess at what will happen next, makes the reader squirm a little at the harrowing situation of a beloved character, even be creeped out by the turn of events. My favorite writers write great characters and good stories that catch me off guard.

My first mystery is again on the slice and dice table as I work through some edits and push for publication. Although it won a first place award more than a year ago in a regional contest for unpublished manuscripts, I have yet to complete the edits I know it needs to make it publishable. Keep your fingers crossed for me and watch here for updates. I have a publishing company interested. We’ll see how that comes out soon!

Thanks for reading my first blog!