The saying goes, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” but of course like most absolutes that often turns out not to be the case. Plenty of things in this life may not kill you, but they can certainly maim your emotional structure, sometimes so much so as to turn your day to day normal relationships into a constant struggle, and your well-being into a continual search for an elusive happiness that always seems just out of reach.
Tragic incidents at a young age or suffering emotional or physical abuse can lead to debilitating consequences in our adult lives. Constant pressure and the stress of modern life can erode your outlook and chip away at your will until you feel like just giving up.
I’m tempted to say “If we let them,” but that would be an absolute and in the realm of pop psychology. I’ll leave that to Dr. Phil.
I think it’s much more complicated than that. The human psyche is not a programmable computer. It cannot be fixed with Plug-n-Play components. It requires patches and configuration, adaptation and calibration. Sometimes the way we think about things and how we perceive the world, our relationships and lives must be reassessed and redefined.
And that’s not easy. Sadly, for some, it becomes impossible. To accept a different, brighter outlook after a lifetime of abuse or hardship isn’t as easy as repeating a daily positive affirmation, though that is certainly a tool in your attitude adjustment box. Being able to recover from the negatives beaten into your emotional outlook over an extended period is problematic, and a long hard journey. Breaking down walls we build to protect ourselves so we can really experience life to its fullest, embrace happiness and develop self-esteem, however, is well worth the effort. There will come discouragement, setbacks and failures. Anyone who says everything can be solved with a magic pill is either lying or delusional. It takes work, support, perseverance, will power.
And heart.
I am reminded of that as I write this blog in the midst of Hurricane—now tropical storm—Irene as it sweeps through my area in Southern Maine. Winds shriek beyond my window and trees groan. Debris flies past like a scene out of The Wizard of Oz. The power blinked out an hour ago. I can watch the storm from the safety of my house, but it’s a lot like life. All around us the tempest rages, cycloning up from our past or from events occurring in our present. Occasionally something smashes into our emotional house, causing damage. Sometimes that damage is extreme, sometimes it’s a series of small hits that accumulate into a bigger typhoon.
But if you build your house well enough, it will withstand the barrage. The important thing is to have that protective foundation within you, that place from which you can peer out and gain perspective, realize that no matter how bad things were or may be, that special thing within you all your own can get you through, and even help you change what you wish to change.
As a fiction writer, I put my characters through hurricanes of emotion and raging storms of conflict, both external and internal. But something within their makeup presents them with a way to pull themselves through—if they are able to peer out and assess, take steps to try to change their bad situation.
They are, of course, fiction. But the principle applies. Search for your secret base, your internal shelter. Like my characters, your story may be difficult, and constructing a different, better perspective, experiencing that life-altering moment where you choose a path to overcome, or at least accept and live with the things plaguing you, may be the hardest thing you ever do. But it’s far better than the alternative, which is suffering continually in the same destructive pattern. You may not be battling a plague-spreading demon like Chloe Everson (The Chloe Files) or fending off malevolent witches like Arlo Grimm (Grimm) in my novels, but you do have their hidden strength to deal with or overcome your personal devils. I know you do.
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Perhaps not. But perhaps what doesn’t kill you CAN set you on a path to self-discovery and realizing just how incredibly strong you truly are…
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Stressed Out? The Need for Escape
Today’s world is filled with frightening things. Everywhere you turn there’s bad news. Wars rage, the economy world-wide is in the toilet and those we elect to serve and protect us in the government can’t be trusted to do more than line their own pockets. There’s rampant genocide, homicide, rioting and of course the fearsome thing that is Tinky Winky.
Closer to home, the stresses of everyday living make it hard even to crawl out of bed each morning. Bills mount, with no money to pay for the basic necessities such as food, shelter and fuel.
Life can be discouraging, even crushing; worry can be debilitating. Those who suffer from anxiety attacks, depression, migraines or any of a host of other tension activated maladies know all too well just how much stress can affect health and the quality of life.
How do you cope? I mean, really? It’s all so overwhelming. But all hope is not lost.
Sometimes we just need to escape. Take a few hours to forget our troubles and immerse ourselves in fictional worlds where folks have bigger problems than our own, are bigger than life and have ways of dealing with adversity. Characters we can ride along with and root for, care about, and experience their triumphs and joys. Maybe even pretend to be a hero with them for a short while.
As an adolescent I discovered just how important that escape was, how it allowed me to retain some grip on sanity.
My pubescent years were no picnic for many reasons. A close relative, whom I won’t reveal for obvious reasons, was most likely bipolar. I say most likely because it was not officially diagnosed as such, but all the symptoms were there, along with a host of other emotional illnesses like extreme paranoia, depression, hypochondria and others.
Things always got much worse at the holidays. This person would plunge into dark “moods,” manufacture some disruptive drama or lock herself in her room and generate general hell for the rest of us wanting to be happy. What should have been joyous occasions became something to dread. I lived on eggshells. The other shoe was always a hair away from dropping, and I usually got the brunt of it. I didn’t even have to say a word to become a target.
Mind you, it wasn’t all this person’s fault. An abused child seldom grows up without emotional schisms. But it was rough on us kids.
Things went from fairly normal to hellish in a very short space of time, and as a kid in puberty and beyond I wasn’t prepared to deal with it. I didn’t know what was going on. Only that the image of the “Happy Family” was reflected from a broken mirror. I was scared. I never knew what I was coming home to. Sometimes this person would be just gone, and we’d have to search, pull her out of somebody’s driveway or the trails in the local woods. Sometimes there would be a suicide note. Those were always pleasant to find on the pillow of this person’s bed.
I recall one particularly horrid night: I was lying in bed when this person stormed out of the house and locked herself in the car. Then fired a .38. The terror I felt at that sound is something I wouldn’t wish on an enemy. Although it turned out to be an attention ploy, for a few horrible moments I thought that person had committed suicide.
Many such painful incidents plagued my young adult life and I had only one way of dealing with them.
I escaped.
In fiction. First comic books, then pulp heroes, especially Doc Savage, The Avenger and The Shadow. They gave me strength, a place to go to see even the worst situations could be overcome. I can credit them with saving my sanity, keeping me from finding other ways of dealing, such as drugs or alcohol. It still was not easy. Not by a long shot. But they helped me survive it. At times I dragged a lamp and some pillows in the closet, shut the door and read for hours, until the storm clouds passed, though any reprieve was temporary.
I recently came up with the phrase, “I read to escape…but I write to help others escape.” It’s more than just a phrase to me. It’s a mission. I don’t write literature. I doubt anyone will ever accuse me of doing so. And that’s peachy keen with me, because I have no desire to be Hemingway. I want to write what helped me cope, and my hope is that same escapism will help others.
I write to give folks a break from their worries, from stress, at least for an hour or two. I want my stories, even the scary ones, to bring some relief from life’s turbulence. My heroine Chloe Everson in The Chloe Files faces all manner of monsters and paranormal threats. Those threats are simply hyperbolic representations of our own real-life fears. Chloe, in her fictional world, fears, reacts and ultimately overcomes. I hope in some small way she helps readers feel they can come out the other end, escape the Big Bads of their day to day lives. I hope it shows them it’s ok to be scared, but that we don’t have to let fear and worry and stress control and ruin our lives.
Because as long as there’s fictional worlds there’s always a place to escape, a safe haven, until that day when your life will be better.
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
Closer to home, the stresses of everyday living make it hard even to crawl out of bed each morning. Bills mount, with no money to pay for the basic necessities such as food, shelter and fuel.
Life can be discouraging, even crushing; worry can be debilitating. Those who suffer from anxiety attacks, depression, migraines or any of a host of other tension activated maladies know all too well just how much stress can affect health and the quality of life.
How do you cope? I mean, really? It’s all so overwhelming. But all hope is not lost.
Sometimes we just need to escape. Take a few hours to forget our troubles and immerse ourselves in fictional worlds where folks have bigger problems than our own, are bigger than life and have ways of dealing with adversity. Characters we can ride along with and root for, care about, and experience their triumphs and joys. Maybe even pretend to be a hero with them for a short while.
As an adolescent I discovered just how important that escape was, how it allowed me to retain some grip on sanity.
My pubescent years were no picnic for many reasons. A close relative, whom I won’t reveal for obvious reasons, was most likely bipolar. I say most likely because it was not officially diagnosed as such, but all the symptoms were there, along with a host of other emotional illnesses like extreme paranoia, depression, hypochondria and others.
Things always got much worse at the holidays. This person would plunge into dark “moods,” manufacture some disruptive drama or lock herself in her room and generate general hell for the rest of us wanting to be happy. What should have been joyous occasions became something to dread. I lived on eggshells. The other shoe was always a hair away from dropping, and I usually got the brunt of it. I didn’t even have to say a word to become a target.
Mind you, it wasn’t all this person’s fault. An abused child seldom grows up without emotional schisms. But it was rough on us kids.
Things went from fairly normal to hellish in a very short space of time, and as a kid in puberty and beyond I wasn’t prepared to deal with it. I didn’t know what was going on. Only that the image of the “Happy Family” was reflected from a broken mirror. I was scared. I never knew what I was coming home to. Sometimes this person would be just gone, and we’d have to search, pull her out of somebody’s driveway or the trails in the local woods. Sometimes there would be a suicide note. Those were always pleasant to find on the pillow of this person’s bed.
I recall one particularly horrid night: I was lying in bed when this person stormed out of the house and locked herself in the car. Then fired a .38. The terror I felt at that sound is something I wouldn’t wish on an enemy. Although it turned out to be an attention ploy, for a few horrible moments I thought that person had committed suicide.
Many such painful incidents plagued my young adult life and I had only one way of dealing with them.
I escaped.
In fiction. First comic books, then pulp heroes, especially Doc Savage, The Avenger and The Shadow. They gave me strength, a place to go to see even the worst situations could be overcome. I can credit them with saving my sanity, keeping me from finding other ways of dealing, such as drugs or alcohol. It still was not easy. Not by a long shot. But they helped me survive it. At times I dragged a lamp and some pillows in the closet, shut the door and read for hours, until the storm clouds passed, though any reprieve was temporary.
I recently came up with the phrase, “I read to escape…but I write to help others escape.” It’s more than just a phrase to me. It’s a mission. I don’t write literature. I doubt anyone will ever accuse me of doing so. And that’s peachy keen with me, because I have no desire to be Hemingway. I want to write what helped me cope, and my hope is that same escapism will help others.
I write to give folks a break from their worries, from stress, at least for an hour or two. I want my stories, even the scary ones, to bring some relief from life’s turbulence. My heroine Chloe Everson in The Chloe Files faces all manner of monsters and paranormal threats. Those threats are simply hyperbolic representations of our own real-life fears. Chloe, in her fictional world, fears, reacts and ultimately overcomes. I hope in some small way she helps readers feel they can come out the other end, escape the Big Bads of their day to day lives. I hope it shows them it’s ok to be scared, but that we don’t have to let fear and worry and stress control and ruin our lives.
Because as long as there’s fictional worlds there’s always a place to escape, a safe haven, until that day when your life will be better.
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Like a Rhinestone Cowgirl (Or How Glen Campbell Inspired a Demon-Hunting Stripper)
You might not think Glen Campbell and strippers have a lot to do with each other, but exotic dancer, ghost-hunter, demon-butt-kicker Chloe Everson, the star of my paranormal/horror series The Chloe Files, could tell you different.
Chloe might not have existed if not for Glen.
I don’t know Glen Campbell. He doesn’t know me. Chances are he’ll never read one of my books, though I certainly grew up hearing a lot of his music. I was a big fan of some of his incredible guitar work; namely; his version of The William Tell Overture (better know as The Lone Ranger theme to us Western hero fans) and even his work on the bagpipes in Bonaparte’s Retreat. (Hmmm, maybe Chloe should take up the bagpipes? Nah.) I like Wichita Lineman a lot, too.
And then, of course, there was the big comeback hit in the ‘70s, Rhinestone Cowboy. I was an adolescent when that came out. Every AM station played it to death. As I got older I forgot about it, but something about the tune remained buried in my head, only to resurface years later in a peculiar way.
Flash ahead 20 odd years. I was just starting my horror novel GRIMM. I was discussing the character with a writer friend and what we had was a retired detective who had lost a son through supernatural shenanigans—oh, yes, I said shenanigans!—and official police cover-up. Arlo Grimm’s mission was to track down his son’s killers and be plunged into a career battling the supernatural Big Bad.
But Arlo, I figured, couldn’t do this alone. He was also pretty rough around the edges and needed a softer side, since his wife had been murdered years previously.
That’s when Rhinestone Cowboy started playing in my head.
Seriously.
I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps a strange new type of stroke. But as far as I knew no one had ever perished of Glen Campbell Syndrome before.
A day or two went by. The song refused to leave my head. Holy star-spangled rodeos!
Wait. Star spangled. Cowboy hats. Hmmm. Star-spangled shorts? CowGIRL hats? Blaring country music?
What the hell?
I WAS having a weird-assed stroke. A star-spangled stroke.
Ho, boy.
Well, if it was a stroke I figured I’d best put it to some use because the song wasn’t going away.
Like a Rhinestone…um, cowgirl…Arlo…cowgirl…
Ah-ha!
A dancer. A burlesque type dancer who designs her own costumes and routines. A girl unafraid of her sexuality but still soft and innocent in her own way, though maybe one who underwent loss and tragedy in her life and was forced to do what she had to do to survive. One who’d been, to paraphrase, “walkin’ those streets so long, singin’ the same old song.”
A girl who gets into plenty of paranormal trouble, like Arlo, but who softens his edges, perhaps becomes a victim and feeds his mission…
A girl who danced ot Rhinestone Cowboy!
Chloe Everson was born.
Only she didn’t become a victim. She became an equal, a strong-willed, independent woman who fights all manner of demons, ghosts, zombies and bogeymen. A force unto herself. Using any and all feminine tools at her disposal. As Chloe says, “I’m not afraid of my boobs—men are!”
She bumped and grinded her way into her own series and it’s all because of Glen Campbell.
Like I said, I don’t know Glen. But maybe I owe him a big thanks for his inspiration in creating my character because one of his songs didn’t rest gentle on my mind…
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
Grimm
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0051BUXFU
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Grimm/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012502018
Chloe might not have existed if not for Glen.
I don’t know Glen Campbell. He doesn’t know me. Chances are he’ll never read one of my books, though I certainly grew up hearing a lot of his music. I was a big fan of some of his incredible guitar work; namely; his version of The William Tell Overture (better know as The Lone Ranger theme to us Western hero fans) and even his work on the bagpipes in Bonaparte’s Retreat. (Hmmm, maybe Chloe should take up the bagpipes? Nah.) I like Wichita Lineman a lot, too.
And then, of course, there was the big comeback hit in the ‘70s, Rhinestone Cowboy. I was an adolescent when that came out. Every AM station played it to death. As I got older I forgot about it, but something about the tune remained buried in my head, only to resurface years later in a peculiar way.
Flash ahead 20 odd years. I was just starting my horror novel GRIMM. I was discussing the character with a writer friend and what we had was a retired detective who had lost a son through supernatural shenanigans—oh, yes, I said shenanigans!—and official police cover-up. Arlo Grimm’s mission was to track down his son’s killers and be plunged into a career battling the supernatural Big Bad.
But Arlo, I figured, couldn’t do this alone. He was also pretty rough around the edges and needed a softer side, since his wife had been murdered years previously.
That’s when Rhinestone Cowboy started playing in my head.
Seriously.
I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps a strange new type of stroke. But as far as I knew no one had ever perished of Glen Campbell Syndrome before.
A day or two went by. The song refused to leave my head. Holy star-spangled rodeos!
Wait. Star spangled. Cowboy hats. Hmmm. Star-spangled shorts? CowGIRL hats? Blaring country music?
What the hell?
I WAS having a weird-assed stroke. A star-spangled stroke.
Ho, boy.
Well, if it was a stroke I figured I’d best put it to some use because the song wasn’t going away.
Like a Rhinestone…um, cowgirl…Arlo…cowgirl…
Ah-ha!
A dancer. A burlesque type dancer who designs her own costumes and routines. A girl unafraid of her sexuality but still soft and innocent in her own way, though maybe one who underwent loss and tragedy in her life and was forced to do what she had to do to survive. One who’d been, to paraphrase, “walkin’ those streets so long, singin’ the same old song.”
A girl who gets into plenty of paranormal trouble, like Arlo, but who softens his edges, perhaps becomes a victim and feeds his mission…
A girl who danced ot Rhinestone Cowboy!
Chloe Everson was born.
Only she didn’t become a victim. She became an equal, a strong-willed, independent woman who fights all manner of demons, ghosts, zombies and bogeymen. A force unto herself. Using any and all feminine tools at her disposal. As Chloe says, “I’m not afraid of my boobs—men are!”
She bumped and grinded her way into her own series and it’s all because of Glen Campbell.
Like I said, I don’t know Glen. But maybe I owe him a big thanks for his inspiration in creating my character because one of his songs didn’t rest gentle on my mind…
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
Grimm
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0051BUXFU
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Grimm/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012502018
Monday, August 15, 2011
Are There Any Heroes Left? (Not All Heroes Wear Capes)
Times are far more complicated now. Few would deny that. Everything seems to be, I don’t know, darker, maybe.
Turn on the news. The economy is a mess. Politicians on both sides of the fence bicker and bitch, digging their feet in like five-year-olds refusing to share a toy—to the detriment of our country and our livelihood. Terrorists blow things up, murdering hundreds, even thousands of innocent people. Domestic lunatics rape, murder, molest. Flash mobs destroy property and personal security. Riots ravage London and the Mid-East is a powder keg.
As the heroine of my occult mystery series, The Chloe Files, Chloe Everson would say: Crap on a cracker!
Before the social upheaval of the ‘60s, things seemed so much more black and white. Superman stood for truth, justice and the American way. You could, pretty much, trust and depend on your neighbor, and leave your doors unlocked without worrying about somebody stealing you blind or worse. Your kids could play in the streets (at times, some of us with parents having a peculiar sense of humor were even encouraged to do just that!) The milkman delivered milk you could actually drink without dropping dead of Chuckling Cow Disease
Maybe some of that was a case of viewing the world through rose-colored, glasses, because certainly bad things existed. Children still vanished and we were warned not to get into cars with strangers. Serial killers still claimed lives and maniac dictators still threatened our freedom.
But it felt…different, somehow. The Big Bad less ubiquitous.
And we had heroes. Ordinary everyday people to look up to and step in when needed, maybe even politicians we could trust (yeah, I know, that’s a stretch…)
Somewhere along the way maybe we as a human race lost focus on that. Lost respect for heroes. They went out of vogue, and to believe in them was to be ridiculed. It became a world of “I don’t want to get involved” or, “Hey, man, it’s not my problem.”
Heroes were The Man, man. You couldn’t trust those un-groovy Herberts.
The world nowadays seems pretty hopeless, doesn’t it? No one to believe in, no safe haven.
But I submit, heroes never really went away; they just went quiet. I submit there are still plenty of them out there today.
Oh, I’m not referring to Superman or Batman, though, of course, they are still around, if a bit morally ambiguous sometimes.
But regular heroes. Heroes who don’t wear bright costumes and capes. Ones who have always been there, but perhaps went and still go unrecognized.
When I was a kid, the house in which we lived was flanked at the back by some pretty thick woods. Sometimes dark, dingy and maybe a wee bit scary woods (and folks wonder why I write spooky stuff—I could imagine all sorts of terrifying things slinking out of those woods at night. I refused to sleep in the back bedroom, which had a window facing them. Shiver.)
A ways into the woods was a little stream and teeny tiny pond, where on my braver and brighter days I liked to go with this beat-up, red plastic boat I had found somewhere.
Or course, a special place like that just had to be shared. I mean, right?
Oh, yeah. I got the none-too-clever idea to do just that with my sister and the neighbor kid. That’s right, heap brave, comic-book-reading tracker boy led his rag-tag party deep into the dark Maine woodland (while Marlin Perkins waited in the cozy tent and narrated—those of you not old enough to catch the Wild Kingdom allusion, please Google. I swear I was two…)
And promptly got us all lost.
I was scared enough to pee my pants, which would not have been cool at all. Somehow, in the excitement of having minions, I lost my bearings and we wandered for hours. Summer day, hot enough to burn the mole off a lawn gnome’s ass, humid, swarms of those damn biting horse flies, skeeters. And crawly things. Lots of crawly things.
Again, crap on a cracker.
It was a pretty unnerving experience for a seven-year-old. My sister and neighbor boy weren’t going to nominate me for Bawana of the Year, either.
Well, we trudged through brush and branches, sweating and swatting for what felt like an eternity. I thought we might be lost forever. My sister started screaming. Screaming’s infectious. Neighbor boy bellowed right behind her.
What choice did I have? I shrieked like a little girl.
I had pipes in those days.
That caterwauling (yeah, I know, who the heck says “caterwauling” anymore?) attracted attention.
We heard a shout, and worries over talking to strangers seemed to pale compared to the alternatives of being devoured by ravenous flies and spending the night in the woods with the freakin’ creepy crawlies.
We were lucky, though we didn’t realize just how much so at the time. We’d walked, directionless, nearly two miles, to where an old man (his name was Mills, I recall) was fishing in a stream out in the woods behind his house.
He gathered us up, led us out of the woods and drove us home. We tried to persuade him to drop us off at the end of the street so we could tell our mothers we’d merely been out playing and lost track of time.
No such cookies.
You might be wondering what the point of that meandering is. It’s this: despite the fact I got the whupping of all whuppings for my little excursion after Mr. Mills brought us to my doorstep and talked to my mother for a good fifteen minutes, that old man was a hero to me. I thought we were going to be eaten by a bear or something. I don’t know for certain that he saved our lives, but I think he just might have. He asked nothing in return. He cared about the safety of three bone-headed kids, led by yours truly, not smart enough to mark a trail.
That’s a hero. Maybe not Superman or Captain America obvious hero. But a real unrecognized hero of everyday. The type of hero who is like a pebble dropped into a still pond. The ripples spread far, affecting other lives, in this case mine, my sister and neighbor boy’s. The Hero Effect, if you will.
I believe they still exist and it should be brought back in fashion to honor them. I believe there’s hope for mankind as long as these heroes do exist. I believe they are everywhere, though you don’t often hear tell of them, the way we do the bad folks, and sometimes, in this litigious society, they fear acting.
It’s one of the reasons I often like to include a characters who act with a bit of unrecognized heroism. Chloe is a hero (heroine) in her way. She deals with things unseen by most of society, and gets no real credit for protecting them at risk to her person. The ghost-chasing kids of The Nightmare Club, while a bit off center, are heroes, essentially for the same reason. Being a hero isn’t about adulation; it’s about acting because it is the right thing to do.
There’s probably a quiet hero living next to you or working at the local market or service station. I have to believe there are heroes waiting to burst forth everywhere in this troubled world just at the moment of greatest need. You might even be one yourself—and if you’re reading this, I’m thinking you’re certainly cool enough to be one.
In my case, thank you, Mr. Mills. I know you passed away many years ago, but I remember what you did for a scared little boy and appreciate it. Your ripple washed out over a lifetime. You were a hero to me. The type we still desperately need
We just have to stop letting the Big Bad have the spotlight. Step up when needed.
So are there any heroes left?
You tell me…
(Addendum: This post was written a couple days prior to the horrendous stage collapse at the Indiana State Fair a few minutes prior to the group Sugarland performing. My sympathies go out to those killed and injured, and my deepest gratitude to those exact unsung heroes I was talking about who rushed in and helped pull the injured from the wreckage. There ARE still heroes, and these folks proved it.)
“I read to escape…I write to help others escape…” –HH
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
The Nightmare Club #1: The Headless Paperboy
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052O5AIQ
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Nightmare-Club/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012574978
Turn on the news. The economy is a mess. Politicians on both sides of the fence bicker and bitch, digging their feet in like five-year-olds refusing to share a toy—to the detriment of our country and our livelihood. Terrorists blow things up, murdering hundreds, even thousands of innocent people. Domestic lunatics rape, murder, molest. Flash mobs destroy property and personal security. Riots ravage London and the Mid-East is a powder keg.
As the heroine of my occult mystery series, The Chloe Files, Chloe Everson would say: Crap on a cracker!
Before the social upheaval of the ‘60s, things seemed so much more black and white. Superman stood for truth, justice and the American way. You could, pretty much, trust and depend on your neighbor, and leave your doors unlocked without worrying about somebody stealing you blind or worse. Your kids could play in the streets (at times, some of us with parents having a peculiar sense of humor were even encouraged to do just that!) The milkman delivered milk you could actually drink without dropping dead of Chuckling Cow Disease
Maybe some of that was a case of viewing the world through rose-colored, glasses, because certainly bad things existed. Children still vanished and we were warned not to get into cars with strangers. Serial killers still claimed lives and maniac dictators still threatened our freedom.
But it felt…different, somehow. The Big Bad less ubiquitous.
And we had heroes. Ordinary everyday people to look up to and step in when needed, maybe even politicians we could trust (yeah, I know, that’s a stretch…)
Somewhere along the way maybe we as a human race lost focus on that. Lost respect for heroes. They went out of vogue, and to believe in them was to be ridiculed. It became a world of “I don’t want to get involved” or, “Hey, man, it’s not my problem.”
Heroes were The Man, man. You couldn’t trust those un-groovy Herberts.
The world nowadays seems pretty hopeless, doesn’t it? No one to believe in, no safe haven.
But I submit, heroes never really went away; they just went quiet. I submit there are still plenty of them out there today.
Oh, I’m not referring to Superman or Batman, though, of course, they are still around, if a bit morally ambiguous sometimes.
But regular heroes. Heroes who don’t wear bright costumes and capes. Ones who have always been there, but perhaps went and still go unrecognized.
When I was a kid, the house in which we lived was flanked at the back by some pretty thick woods. Sometimes dark, dingy and maybe a wee bit scary woods (and folks wonder why I write spooky stuff—I could imagine all sorts of terrifying things slinking out of those woods at night. I refused to sleep in the back bedroom, which had a window facing them. Shiver.)
A ways into the woods was a little stream and teeny tiny pond, where on my braver and brighter days I liked to go with this beat-up, red plastic boat I had found somewhere.
Or course, a special place like that just had to be shared. I mean, right?
Oh, yeah. I got the none-too-clever idea to do just that with my sister and the neighbor kid. That’s right, heap brave, comic-book-reading tracker boy led his rag-tag party deep into the dark Maine woodland (while Marlin Perkins waited in the cozy tent and narrated—those of you not old enough to catch the Wild Kingdom allusion, please Google. I swear I was two…)
And promptly got us all lost.
I was scared enough to pee my pants, which would not have been cool at all. Somehow, in the excitement of having minions, I lost my bearings and we wandered for hours. Summer day, hot enough to burn the mole off a lawn gnome’s ass, humid, swarms of those damn biting horse flies, skeeters. And crawly things. Lots of crawly things.
Again, crap on a cracker.
It was a pretty unnerving experience for a seven-year-old. My sister and neighbor boy weren’t going to nominate me for Bawana of the Year, either.
Well, we trudged through brush and branches, sweating and swatting for what felt like an eternity. I thought we might be lost forever. My sister started screaming. Screaming’s infectious. Neighbor boy bellowed right behind her.
What choice did I have? I shrieked like a little girl.
I had pipes in those days.
That caterwauling (yeah, I know, who the heck says “caterwauling” anymore?) attracted attention.
We heard a shout, and worries over talking to strangers seemed to pale compared to the alternatives of being devoured by ravenous flies and spending the night in the woods with the freakin’ creepy crawlies.
We were lucky, though we didn’t realize just how much so at the time. We’d walked, directionless, nearly two miles, to where an old man (his name was Mills, I recall) was fishing in a stream out in the woods behind his house.
He gathered us up, led us out of the woods and drove us home. We tried to persuade him to drop us off at the end of the street so we could tell our mothers we’d merely been out playing and lost track of time.
No such cookies.
You might be wondering what the point of that meandering is. It’s this: despite the fact I got the whupping of all whuppings for my little excursion after Mr. Mills brought us to my doorstep and talked to my mother for a good fifteen minutes, that old man was a hero to me. I thought we were going to be eaten by a bear or something. I don’t know for certain that he saved our lives, but I think he just might have. He asked nothing in return. He cared about the safety of three bone-headed kids, led by yours truly, not smart enough to mark a trail.
That’s a hero. Maybe not Superman or Captain America obvious hero. But a real unrecognized hero of everyday. The type of hero who is like a pebble dropped into a still pond. The ripples spread far, affecting other lives, in this case mine, my sister and neighbor boy’s. The Hero Effect, if you will.
I believe they still exist and it should be brought back in fashion to honor them. I believe there’s hope for mankind as long as these heroes do exist. I believe they are everywhere, though you don’t often hear tell of them, the way we do the bad folks, and sometimes, in this litigious society, they fear acting.
It’s one of the reasons I often like to include a characters who act with a bit of unrecognized heroism. Chloe is a hero (heroine) in her way. She deals with things unseen by most of society, and gets no real credit for protecting them at risk to her person. The ghost-chasing kids of The Nightmare Club, while a bit off center, are heroes, essentially for the same reason. Being a hero isn’t about adulation; it’s about acting because it is the right thing to do.
There’s probably a quiet hero living next to you or working at the local market or service station. I have to believe there are heroes waiting to burst forth everywhere in this troubled world just at the moment of greatest need. You might even be one yourself—and if you’re reading this, I’m thinking you’re certainly cool enough to be one.
In my case, thank you, Mr. Mills. I know you passed away many years ago, but I remember what you did for a scared little boy and appreciate it. Your ripple washed out over a lifetime. You were a hero to me. The type we still desperately need
We just have to stop letting the Big Bad have the spotlight. Step up when needed.
So are there any heroes left?
You tell me…
(Addendum: This post was written a couple days prior to the horrendous stage collapse at the Indiana State Fair a few minutes prior to the group Sugarland performing. My sympathies go out to those killed and injured, and my deepest gratitude to those exact unsung heroes I was talking about who rushed in and helped pull the injured from the wreckage. There ARE still heroes, and these folks proved it.)
“I read to escape…I write to help others escape…” –HH
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
The Nightmare Club #1: The Headless Paperboy
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052O5AIQ
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Nightmare-Club/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012574978
Monday, August 08, 2011
Overwhelmed Much?
“Sometimes I feel like I wake up afraid of everything,” I said to a gym buddy who knows I write about things that go bump in the day. I was sitting on the end of a weight bench, a glum look on my face and a bar with 225 pounds waiting on me for bench pressing reps. The bar suddenly looked scary to me, too. I had no faith I could hoist it off my chest once I lowered it—which would have thrilled the gym owners not at all.
“What are you talking about—the weight?” he asked, appearing a bit puzzled.
“I guess,” I said. “But not just that. I feel like Charlie Brown in the Christmas special when Lucy asks him if he has pantophobia, the fear of everything, and he screams: ‘That’s it!’”
“What?” The puzzled look got deeper.
“No, it’s not the weight, really. I wake up to the news the economy’s worse and the country is going to hell. Lunatics blow up buildings and planes and too many innocent people die. I keep thinking, ‘What else will go wrong today?’ 'What other terrible thing will happen?' I want ot just pull up the covers and stay in bed.”
“Dude, this stuff has always happened,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’ve just got a thousand ways of hearing about it now. Everything’s viral.”
“I wish I was a kid again. Things didn’t seem so…I dunno, overwhelming.”
Big laugh from buddy. Funny stares from gym rats. Annoyed look from me.
“Oh, ho,” he said. “You were just too young to let it bother you. It still happened. There were still wars and gas lines and terrorists in the ‘70s.”
“Yeah, but I had my comic books and action figures. I had my escape.”
“Isn’t that why you write that creepy stuff now?”
“What do you mean?”
“You write that Chloe character. She fights all those demons and strange stuff, like ghosts.”
“Chloe’s not real,” I insisted.
“She ain’t real, dude, but you make her real for people reading her. She has all these crazy-assed things happen and she’s always getting scared and overwhlemed, but she still faces it and wins in the end.”
“Um, what part of not real did you miss?” I asked him.
“Dude, she’s you with boobs. She faces the bad and still keeps thinking in the end it’s all good, everything is going to work out and the bad stuff won’t get her or the people she cares about. She’s got balls.”
“Uh-huh, she’s got balls and I’ve got boobs—something’s wrong there.”
The annoyed look switched faces. He folded his arms. “You know what I mean. You got a look on your face but you still know you can lift that weight.”
“Actually I’m thinking I can’t lift that weight,” I countered.
“Yeah? Then why you got it up there, dude?”
“Shut up.”
Another annoyed look. But he was right and that was even more annoying. I never thought my characters might be used against me. Last time I let him read my stuff. My character Chloe is often overwhelmed by scary supernatural and personal things in her life, the fear of losing what she has. She has lost a lot in her life—but she still carries on and spits in the Devil’s face. She retains her childlike quality, something I realize I do in some ways, but not often enough in others. That’s why I write about a woman who overcomes exceptional odds, despite being slapped down constantly with a barrage of worries and loss, to help deal with the monsters in our lives.
“Like I said, fiction.” I am also pretty stubborn, just like Chloe.
“Lift that weight, dude,” he said.
I looked at the weight. It looked…bigger. Heavier.
“C’mon, dude, bring it on, as Chloe would say.” He grinned.
“Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Quoting my characters back at me.”
I frowned, then laid back under the weight.
“You know,” I said, “I wish I had boobs. Then the bar wouldn’t have to go down so far.”
“That’s creepy, dude.”
“A little. Spot me.”
I lowered the weight…
Ah, well…I guess Chloe and I do have some things in common: we both win some small battles and go on to fight bigger ones.
Chloe Everson knows tragedy and loss. She's lived it, both personal and paranormal. And she's had enough. It's time to fight back. It's time to kick Evil right where it counts. Demons, ghosts, vampires and black witches--you're on notice. New Salem is off limits. It's 300-year-old-curse will come to an end. It's dark secrets will be brought to light. The war has begun...
THE CHLOE FILES by Howard Hopkins. $2.99 kindle and Nook.
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
“What are you talking about—the weight?” he asked, appearing a bit puzzled.
“I guess,” I said. “But not just that. I feel like Charlie Brown in the Christmas special when Lucy asks him if he has pantophobia, the fear of everything, and he screams: ‘That’s it!’”
“What?” The puzzled look got deeper.
“No, it’s not the weight, really. I wake up to the news the economy’s worse and the country is going to hell. Lunatics blow up buildings and planes and too many innocent people die. I keep thinking, ‘What else will go wrong today?’ 'What other terrible thing will happen?' I want ot just pull up the covers and stay in bed.”
“Dude, this stuff has always happened,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’ve just got a thousand ways of hearing about it now. Everything’s viral.”
“I wish I was a kid again. Things didn’t seem so…I dunno, overwhelming.”
Big laugh from buddy. Funny stares from gym rats. Annoyed look from me.
“Oh, ho,” he said. “You were just too young to let it bother you. It still happened. There were still wars and gas lines and terrorists in the ‘70s.”
“Yeah, but I had my comic books and action figures. I had my escape.”
“Isn’t that why you write that creepy stuff now?”
“What do you mean?”
“You write that Chloe character. She fights all those demons and strange stuff, like ghosts.”
“Chloe’s not real,” I insisted.
“She ain’t real, dude, but you make her real for people reading her. She has all these crazy-assed things happen and she’s always getting scared and overwhlemed, but she still faces it and wins in the end.”
“Um, what part of not real did you miss?” I asked him.
“Dude, she’s you with boobs. She faces the bad and still keeps thinking in the end it’s all good, everything is going to work out and the bad stuff won’t get her or the people she cares about. She’s got balls.”
“Uh-huh, she’s got balls and I’ve got boobs—something’s wrong there.”
The annoyed look switched faces. He folded his arms. “You know what I mean. You got a look on your face but you still know you can lift that weight.”
“Actually I’m thinking I can’t lift that weight,” I countered.
“Yeah? Then why you got it up there, dude?”
“Shut up.”
Another annoyed look. But he was right and that was even more annoying. I never thought my characters might be used against me. Last time I let him read my stuff. My character Chloe is often overwhelmed by scary supernatural and personal things in her life, the fear of losing what she has. She has lost a lot in her life—but she still carries on and spits in the Devil’s face. She retains her childlike quality, something I realize I do in some ways, but not often enough in others. That’s why I write about a woman who overcomes exceptional odds, despite being slapped down constantly with a barrage of worries and loss, to help deal with the monsters in our lives.
“Like I said, fiction.” I am also pretty stubborn, just like Chloe.
“Lift that weight, dude,” he said.
I looked at the weight. It looked…bigger. Heavier.
“C’mon, dude, bring it on, as Chloe would say.” He grinned.
“Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Quoting my characters back at me.”
I frowned, then laid back under the weight.
“You know,” I said, “I wish I had boobs. Then the bar wouldn’t have to go down so far.”
“That’s creepy, dude.”
“A little. Spot me.”
I lowered the weight…
Ah, well…I guess Chloe and I do have some things in common: we both win some small battles and go on to fight bigger ones.
Chloe Everson knows tragedy and loss. She's lived it, both personal and paranormal. And she's had enough. It's time to fight back. It's time to kick Evil right where it counts. Demons, ghosts, vampires and black witches--you're on notice. New Salem is off limits. It's 300-year-old-curse will come to an end. It's dark secrets will be brought to light. The war has begun...
THE CHLOE FILES by Howard Hopkins. $2.99 kindle and Nook.
The monkey thanks you...
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Losing Scooby Doo
It was a bright Saturday morning when I lost Scooby Doo and, for a while, part of the child within me who looked with wide-eyed wonder at the world and its mysteries. I was eleven or maybe twelve. The delighted boy inside me was jumping up and down because Saturday morning cartoons were on and all my animated friends would be there waiting for me.
Especially the Scooby Gang.
I went everywhere with the Scooby Gang. We chased ghosts, vampires and werewolves, always unmasking them in the end. Nothing was too spooky or didn’t fit melodically into an Austin Roberts sung tune (oh, you didn’t know the singer/songwriter of the ‘70s hits Something’s Wrong with Me and Rocky was responsible for Scooby’s music? See the cool things you can learn rummaging around in my quirky mind?)
I remember one of my favorite episodes teamed the gang with another great joy of my young life, superheroes, in the persons of Batman and Robin. Do you recall the one with the ghost in the old-fashioned diving suit? Dripping with seaweed? How ‘bout the werewolf? Or the ghostly knight?
Great spooky stuff. FUN spooky stuff, always with a clever cool ending. And I loved every minute of it. Pretty Daphne, supper smart Velma, groovy Shaggy and, well, Freddy (an ascot, guy? Really? Are ghosts intimidated by ascots? I know I am.) And of course the star of the show, Scooby-snackin’, tag-waggin’, shiverin’ Scooby Doo.
But on this particular morning the sun might have stopped shining.
Oh, it began like any other. Me, not a morning person, staggering out of bed and up the stairs to the living room, with only a brief stop for a bowl of Lucky Charms. Lucky Charms just naturally went with Scooby Doo for me. Both were magically delicious.
Turn on the TV. Theme song thrills, as always. I don’t recall the episode that day, only that it was a summer repeat. Didn’t matter. I could watch them 20 times and not get sick of them.
Then, at mid commercial break…it happened.
The front doorbell rang.
I ignored it. Parents and sister were still asleep and they didn’t stir, so I didn’t move. I knew who it was.
And he didn’t give up.
Banging on the door. This was surely going to wake somebody. I had no choice.
I set down my Lucky Charms and answered it.
Oh, yeah. Charlie.
“What do you want?” I asked him, forgetting I had any manners. Charlie lived around the corner and was a constant source of annoyance. He was a mosquito of a kid, always buzzing around your head, looking to take a nip. He stood on the steps thucking a baseball into a glove. He was one of those kids who seemed to think Saturdays were for getting out of the house and playing ball or sneaking up to the threehouse with a swiped copy of his father’s Playboy.
Ok, I kinda liked the Playboy part. Daphne always did keep her clothes on and I WAS in puberty.
“You comin’ out?” Charlie said. He was also one of those kids who always spit when he talked. I backed up.
“Um, no, I got chores to do.” Yeah, even I realized immediately how lame that sounded and no kid my age used the word “chores” in this area who didn’t live on a farm.
“Huh?” Charlie wasn’t the brightest chimp in the banana house.
“I’ll be out later.”
In the background a Scooby ghost-chase song suddenly started pumping from the TV.
Roh roh.
Charlie’s head cocked. His eyes narrowed.
“You’re watchin’ cartoons!”
Damn. It was like the finger of accusation had just been jabbed into my eye.
“No, no,” I said, not sounding at all convincing.
“Yes you are! You’re watchin’ cartoons.” He said it like a big scarlet C had just burst out on my forehead.
“No, I’m not!” I insisted, wanting to slam the door in his face and run. I could feel my face heat up and my heart pound. Nobody my age watched cartoons, or at least admitted to watching them. “I had them on for my little sister.” I quickly added. She was only 20 months younger but I liked to blame her for things.
“Then come out and play. We need one more.”
I saw no way out of it. If I didn’t I would be the object of taunts from my peers and be branded a “baby.” They’d use other less-flattering words, but you get the idea. Given my experience with bullies, I didn’t need that.
Scooby Doo had just become a liability.
Charlie waited like a hawk eyeing a rabbit.
“OK,” I said. “Gimme a minute. I’ll get my glove.”
So I closed the door, having one of those moments where I just gave up and tried to fit in.
I looked at the TV. The gang was just about to unveil the villain.
I turned it off. And said goodbye. To Scooby Doo. And to a bit of my childhood. After that, life lost some of its mystery and wonder.
Now, these many years later, I write supernatural series like The Chloe Files for adults and The Nightmare Club for kids for that reason. With them I hope to reclaim a bit of wonder and mystery I felt as a kid, and give some back to others who’d like to relive a bit of their youth, or create some for kids who will one day look back on their childhood entertainment with fondness.
Occasionally, I slip a DVD into the player and watch Scooby and the gang again with my 12-year-old niece, she whose own Charlies have convinced her she’s “too old for that kind of stuff.” I pretend it’s for me and it partly is. But I see her smile and I know childhood never completely goes away. It just waits for you to recognize and invite it back.
I hope you’ll consider downloading one of my series books, Chloe for yourself or Nightmare Club for your kids. I think you and they will like them. I think you’ll enjoy the escape from your everyday worries, at least for a few hours. Perhaps your inner child will smile, and perhaps your children will one day thank you for the memory.
Here are the links. Click them before Charlie shows up at your door…
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
The Nightmare Club #1: The Headless Paperboy
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052O5AIQ
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Nightmare-Club/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012574978
Especially the Scooby Gang.
I went everywhere with the Scooby Gang. We chased ghosts, vampires and werewolves, always unmasking them in the end. Nothing was too spooky or didn’t fit melodically into an Austin Roberts sung tune (oh, you didn’t know the singer/songwriter of the ‘70s hits Something’s Wrong with Me and Rocky was responsible for Scooby’s music? See the cool things you can learn rummaging around in my quirky mind?)
I remember one of my favorite episodes teamed the gang with another great joy of my young life, superheroes, in the persons of Batman and Robin. Do you recall the one with the ghost in the old-fashioned diving suit? Dripping with seaweed? How ‘bout the werewolf? Or the ghostly knight?
Great spooky stuff. FUN spooky stuff, always with a clever cool ending. And I loved every minute of it. Pretty Daphne, supper smart Velma, groovy Shaggy and, well, Freddy (an ascot, guy? Really? Are ghosts intimidated by ascots? I know I am.) And of course the star of the show, Scooby-snackin’, tag-waggin’, shiverin’ Scooby Doo.
But on this particular morning the sun might have stopped shining.
Oh, it began like any other. Me, not a morning person, staggering out of bed and up the stairs to the living room, with only a brief stop for a bowl of Lucky Charms. Lucky Charms just naturally went with Scooby Doo for me. Both were magically delicious.
Turn on the TV. Theme song thrills, as always. I don’t recall the episode that day, only that it was a summer repeat. Didn’t matter. I could watch them 20 times and not get sick of them.
Then, at mid commercial break…it happened.
The front doorbell rang.
I ignored it. Parents and sister were still asleep and they didn’t stir, so I didn’t move. I knew who it was.
And he didn’t give up.
Banging on the door. This was surely going to wake somebody. I had no choice.
I set down my Lucky Charms and answered it.
Oh, yeah. Charlie.
“What do you want?” I asked him, forgetting I had any manners. Charlie lived around the corner and was a constant source of annoyance. He was a mosquito of a kid, always buzzing around your head, looking to take a nip. He stood on the steps thucking a baseball into a glove. He was one of those kids who seemed to think Saturdays were for getting out of the house and playing ball or sneaking up to the threehouse with a swiped copy of his father’s Playboy.
Ok, I kinda liked the Playboy part. Daphne always did keep her clothes on and I WAS in puberty.
“You comin’ out?” Charlie said. He was also one of those kids who always spit when he talked. I backed up.
“Um, no, I got chores to do.” Yeah, even I realized immediately how lame that sounded and no kid my age used the word “chores” in this area who didn’t live on a farm.
“Huh?” Charlie wasn’t the brightest chimp in the banana house.
“I’ll be out later.”
In the background a Scooby ghost-chase song suddenly started pumping from the TV.
Roh roh.
Charlie’s head cocked. His eyes narrowed.
“You’re watchin’ cartoons!”
Damn. It was like the finger of accusation had just been jabbed into my eye.
“No, no,” I said, not sounding at all convincing.
“Yes you are! You’re watchin’ cartoons.” He said it like a big scarlet C had just burst out on my forehead.
“No, I’m not!” I insisted, wanting to slam the door in his face and run. I could feel my face heat up and my heart pound. Nobody my age watched cartoons, or at least admitted to watching them. “I had them on for my little sister.” I quickly added. She was only 20 months younger but I liked to blame her for things.
“Then come out and play. We need one more.”
I saw no way out of it. If I didn’t I would be the object of taunts from my peers and be branded a “baby.” They’d use other less-flattering words, but you get the idea. Given my experience with bullies, I didn’t need that.
Scooby Doo had just become a liability.
Charlie waited like a hawk eyeing a rabbit.
“OK,” I said. “Gimme a minute. I’ll get my glove.”
So I closed the door, having one of those moments where I just gave up and tried to fit in.
I looked at the TV. The gang was just about to unveil the villain.
I turned it off. And said goodbye. To Scooby Doo. And to a bit of my childhood. After that, life lost some of its mystery and wonder.
Now, these many years later, I write supernatural series like The Chloe Files for adults and The Nightmare Club for kids for that reason. With them I hope to reclaim a bit of wonder and mystery I felt as a kid, and give some back to others who’d like to relive a bit of their youth, or create some for kids who will one day look back on their childhood entertainment with fondness.
Occasionally, I slip a DVD into the player and watch Scooby and the gang again with my 12-year-old niece, she whose own Charlies have convinced her she’s “too old for that kind of stuff.” I pretend it’s for me and it partly is. But I see her smile and I know childhood never completely goes away. It just waits for you to recognize and invite it back.
I hope you’ll consider downloading one of my series books, Chloe for yourself or Nightmare Club for your kids. I think you and they will like them. I think you’ll enjoy the escape from your everyday worries, at least for a few hours. Perhaps your inner child will smile, and perhaps your children will one day thank you for the memory.
Here are the links. Click them before Charlie shows up at your door…
The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004WLCRYK
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Chloe-Files-1/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012513571
The Nightmare Club #1: The Headless Paperboy
Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0052O5AIQ
Nook: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Nightmare-Club/Howard-Hopkins/e/2940012574978
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