Author: ldboodworth

The Greatest Strength

Text placeholder (3)I want to tell you that you are going to make it through the rough times. Bad shit happens. There’s no way around it, might as well call a spade a spade. I’m not sure who started the rumor that life is perfect every single second, but it ain’t. It’s not a Facebook or Insta photoshopped layout, it’s up and down and around and getting your head wrung out. Remember that you are not alone in it. Somewhere, someone is going through bad times, too. We all do. And somewhere, someone cares that you are suffering. There is still good out there! Good, great, beautiful also happens. Every. Single. Day. Everybody has scars. Scars heal and fade away, but remain visible as a reminder that you are strong enough to make it through to see the good times again.

 

Psst…I Want to Touch You

Text placeholder (2)Now before you go and insert some kind of subtext into that, let me explain. As a writer, my whole goal is to reach inside your mind, your heart, your soul…and touch you.

I want to make you love and hate. I want you to be afraid and escape with your life. Nothing makes me happier than for your heart to race, wondering what’s coming next, and then take you to places you might not go on your own.

Trust me! I don’t want to hurt you…I only want to make you afraid that I will break your heart into little bitty bits and walk away, leaving you breathless and alone. But, I wouldn’t do that. Would I?

Fear Can Suck the Life Out of You

Text placeholder (1)I would recommend writing to anybody and everybody. It provides a way to deal with things that we sometimes don’t like to think about as being directly related to ourselves. I have found that if you write about it, you can remove yourself from it and look at it in a more objective way.

Sometimes, in order to be able to deal with things, we just need to see them in a different light. You don’t have to write a novel, unless you want to. Journaling or keeping a note app on your phone for thoughts that come to you when you’re doing other things can work great. I derive some kind of inner strength from this exercise.

It’s like you can create your own personal dragon in the story world and then slay it, even if you can’t necessarily do that in the real world yet. And that can sometimes give you that little ounce of courage to try it for real.

The Rise of the Introvert (Or Circumventing the Meth-Head Apocalypse)

Text placeholder (15)Amazon now delivers groceries. I already have Prime for dog food, coffee, and shampoo, so with Amazon partnering with Whole Foods, I shouldn’t have to leave the house for like, a year. Even if I do, Wal-Mart now has curbside service and we all know that Wal-mart is the portal to hell. Who’d wanna go inside? Curbside is close enough, thanks.

Netflix and CNN are there to remind me of some of the reasons why I’m an introvert. I mean, with meth-head zombies roaming and having visions of the dark lord, who needs to go out? It’s another Wal-Mart situation.

So, my question is this: if I can work online, shop online, and socialize online, why the hell would I even approach the door? I mean, I can see from my doorbell cam that it’s like an all out apocalypse out there.

Sure, Fed Ex and UPS may have to be militarized, but hey, being an introvert isn’t for everybody.

So why would I go out? Why would I go all Mad Max and venture out into the wasteland?

I can tell you why: to take the dogs out.

That Time I Saw THEM

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That Time I Saw THEM

I have always had strange things happen to me. Maybe I’m a magnet of some kind, I don’t know.

What I’m about to tell you is not something I have told even my closest family or friends. It’s the reason that you’ll find so many references to Native Americans in my work. I’m minorly obsessed with them.

My great-grandmother was a Blackfoot Indian. I remember her coal black eyes and her waist-length hair. She always wore it in a bun, tucked up on top of her head with two large bone combs. Grandma Kate, we called her. I’m told they gave her that name when they found her, an orphaned child alone and dirty, cast aside by the movements of the Indian removals through our area.

There was a silent grief she carried, and I was fascinated by her. That was what started my obsession with them. When I was nineteen, I had an experience that would forever change the way I see the world, the way I see them.

˜

High up on the bluff above the wilds of a river bottom, there was a clearing where the trees gave way leaving the stony ground flat and barren.

It was a cold November morning when a photographer friend asked me to accompany him to the shadowy bluff. He had positioned a tree stand at the top of one of the gnarled oak trees at the edge of a ravine he found and would perch himself up there, taking shots of the sunrise and the various creatures that inhabited the woods there.

When we first arrived, it was with all the gloom and chill of a typical November day, the light of the dawn only beginning to flow over the horizon and spill out onto the tops of the trees. One red squirrel followed us as we navigated the paths to the hollow in the bottom of the ravine. He had one eye. One overlarge, watchful eye. It seemed to us he was the guardian of those woods and had taken it upon himself to keep his one bulging eye upon us.

The sun shone spokes through the grim forest and there was a chatter among the animals as the warmth stirred them. Not having the inclination to climb to the tree stand nor to spend the day sitting so high above the forest floor, I left my friend to his work and climbed the hill to the top of the bluff to watch the sunrise.

I situated myself on a stump that overlooked the clearing. I sat drinking coffee from a thermos and enjoying the time away from pavement and cars and civilization in general.

I had been there an hour or so when a small fox trotted across the meadow and then made her way to me, stopping directly in front of me. Her red fur fiery against the grey of dead grasses and pale stone, she looked at me for several seconds with her strange cat-eyes, and then moved along.

The same thing happened a few minutes later with two does. While I thought the behavior of the animals odd, I did not connect it with any danger or disturbance, and went about my revelries in the bright, clear sunshine.

I had gotten warm and still and, despite the coffee, sleepy. My head was nodding, and I contemplated lying on the ground and taking a nap. There was a moment when I thought I may have been dreaming.

I heard its loud breath, it could not have been more than a few feet from me. Coming to, I opened my eyes wide and saw the large rack of a buck just in front of me. He snorted and pawed at the ground like they sometimes do when challenged or frightened.

Having no place to go, I sat frozen on the stump, hoping he might get wind of the does and move along. His head swung the half-velveted antlers, along with bloody peels of tissue, back and forth in front of me. I could not understand why he was trying to intimidate me. Whiteless eyes bore down on me and I realized that I might be in real danger of getting gored with the tips of those bloody, peeling antlers.

The deer slung his head around, watching for something behind him which I could not see, and taking advantage of his momentary distraction, I slid off the stump and moved to the relative safety of a tree. He soon spun back around, and running toward me, dug his hooves in, and charged.

Wild-eyed and running at full speed, the buck passed me by and charged ahead down the hill away from the clearing. I breathed a silent sigh of relief and resolved to find my friend.

I made it to the center of the clearing before I noticed them. The old chief went before all of them. He was adorned with breastplate and headdress, walking out to meet me before his tribe.

Stunned, I watched as the rest made their way up the hill to the bluff. There were braves with leather breeches, women in their dresses, children, dogs, painted horses. There were so many. The woods were filled as far as I could see. Every eye was on me.

No bird chirped, no squirrel chattered.

Irrevocably tied to the past, they appeared as real as anything living in those woods. Their silence was profound. Though there were no words, an exchange of understanding passed between us, and my heart felt fuller having been in their presence. We stood facing each other for ten minutes or more before I decided to leave them be.

Now, each time I go out to the woods, I scan the trees knowing that they’re out there, somewhere.

 

The Dark Side of Valentine’s Day

Text placeholder (12)What they don’t tell you about Valentine’s Day

  1. It’s not all hearts and roses-it marks the execution of Valentine; a priest who performed marriages against the Roman Emperor’s order during times of war.
  2. It started as a Roman holiday where the men would hit women with bloody strips of animal hide made from sacrificial animals to bring about fertility and play “love games” in front of the crowd.
  3. Chocolate was prescribed to ease certain “pinings” for love by doctors in the 1800s; it is now a billion dollar holiday for the chocolate industry, which also has a dark history including child slavery.
  4. Most people view Cupid as a matchmaker, but he is the son of Venus, goddess of love, and Mars, god of war. Could explain some things? Just sayin.
  5. You don’t need a holiday to tell people you love them.

If you’re into dark romance or romantic thrillers, check out my book on Amazon.

Book Review

make your bones_ a thriller

The Prairies Book Review

A speedy, dark romantic thriller with a suitably chilling ending…

Wren Bouchard arrives in scenic mountain town of Valley Spring, Colorado after fleeing a life of abuse and torture and found herself instantly drawn to mysterious and handsome, Croy Parker. As she starts to envision a life full of love and safety, her past returns to haunt her. From the very first page, the tension subtly rises as Wren’s life with notorious hitman, Aidan Luciano unravels, revealing an abusive relationship rooted in deeply sadistic practices. Bloodworth takes a fresh outlook on an old, tried formula and successfully pens down an emotionally resonant story of love, loss, grief, and renewal.

 

NOT DEAD YET

Don’t just approach the hill, climb that f**ker and bail off the other side. Click on the graphic for the Spotify list. Go!

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  1. Thunderkiss ’65 (White Zombie)
  2. Boogieman (Rob Zombie)
  3. More Human Than Human (White Zombie)
  4. Supercharger Heaven (Rob Zombie)
  5. The One (Danzig)
  6. Mother (Danzig)
  7. Iron Man (Black Sabbath)
  8. Crazy Train (Ozzy Osbourne)
  9. The Hand That Feeds (Nine Inch Nails)
  10. Ace of Spades (Motorhead)

 

Love Thyself

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Self Care

If you really want to write a book, there must be a time when you put your foot down and say, “This is what I want.” This is particularly true if you are still writing as a side hustle. If you continue to try and please everyone else, you will never make or take the time you need to write that book, which is what will make you happy as a writer. It’s not being selfish. If you are unhappy because you are too busy trying to make other people happy, then you are going to feel unfulfilled and frustrated. Negative vibes! If you are happy, then you naturally feed positive energy that radiates to everyone around you. Bonus: it comes back to you, too.

Some people are energy vampires! (And not the kind you find in abandoned castles!) Think I’m kidding? Ever been around someone that just drains you emotionally and you can’t put your finger on the reason why? It’s not fantasy, they exist. If someone takes the good energy from you and doesn’t reciprocate by being a friend to you when you need them, then they are emotionally draining. Proceed with caution!

Sometimes, it’s hard to love people and do what you need to do for yourself, but you have to learn to practice self care. Nobody says you can’t do it in a nice way. You can stick up for yourself and say what you want and need. It is not mean or selfish or unkind to keep yourself healthy and happy (or to be able to pay the rent).

“Don’t dream it, be it.” -Dr. Frank N. Furter (Guilty! I love that movie!)

Weird S**t I Do As A Writer

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  1. Constantly clear search history so no one will think you’re a psychopath.
  2. Don’t wear real clothes.
  3. Coffee is life.
  4. Get depressed because of what’s happening or going to happen to the characters in my book.
  5. Listen to the secrets of the characters in my head.
  6. Feel bad for telling the secrets of the characters in my head.
  7. Mourn the company of the characters once a book is finished.
  8. God complex. (In denial.)
  9. Insomniatic god, though. Refer to #3.
  10. Food? What’s food?