THE CHALLENGE OF WRITING MOJAVE GREEN.

Keeping the Story Plot Invigorated and Surprising.

Cooking the sequel in a pressure cooker.

            We’re all familiar with sophomoric sequels. The author makes a great start in the first book, but then the story just coasts along with no inspiration or energy in the second book. While we all hope that the second book will be at least as good as the first, we know it must cover new territory, and there is always a risk the author will lose his or her way. The challenge is to not just keep the story alive, but to keep it growing in surprising, unanticipated, and even exciting ways.

The Brothers Washburn
with the owner of
Red Rock Books
Ridgecrest, California

            Pitch Green and Mojave Green are the first two books in the Dimensions in Death young-adult horror series.  Based on a scary story we told as kids to siblings and friends, these books combine horror, suspense and mystery in a fast-paced battle with a monstrous evil presence, hiding in an old, deserted mansion in a small mining town, located in a desolate part of the Mojave Desert near Death Valley.

            The mansion was built almost a hundred years ago by an eccentric genius, who got funding and specifications from a clandestine source of ancient knowledge and wealth. One night the genius was mysteriously slaughtered, and ever after, children and other defenseless animals in Trona and the surrounding desert have been disappearing without a trace on a regular basis.

Hot off the press.

            In the first book, Pitch Green, we meet two teenagers, Camm and Cal, who are destined by wit, pluck and luck (not always good) to become the balancing force against the unearthly predator, who calls the mansion home. Our heroes are hurled from one scene of horror to the next. Though their intentions are good, they don’t understand what they face. By the end of the first book, a door has been left open to predations on an even grander scale.

            In the second book, Mojave Green, a call from her best friend, Cal, brings news Camm had hoped never to hear. Children are again disappearing from Trona. Has the unnatural creature they killed last year returned to life or has the ancient Searles Mansion spawned a new menace? Ignoring dire warnings from federal agents, the pair take a road trip home with unsuspecting school friends in tow and discover the situation has gotten worse. With monstrous predators seemingly coming out of nowhere, enigmatic forces tear the friends apart, pulling Cal into another world, where his chances of survival are slim.

Just 25 miles from
Trona, California

            Finally coming to terms with her feelings for Cal, Camm desperately seeks help where she can, even from the dead, but can a rogue agent and other misfits help her uncover the long-lost secrets needed to rescue Cal and stop inter-dimensional attacks?

            The government will be no help. Federal agents on the case do everything they can to catch Camm and stop her. The destiny of her own world may lie solely in Camm’s young hands.

            Writing the second book was a different experience for us as co-authors than was the first. The first book was based on a childhood story that we had been telling for years, and the basic plot elements already existed. The second book is a brand new story that has never existed before. It was created from scratch in the last couple years. As co-authors, we had to agree on a whole new plot.

            In both books, we were under pressure to make the story as thrilling as possible. We didn’t think in terms of one story being better than the other, just different, but we are definitely excited with the new direction taken by the Mojave Green story. Our fans can expect a faster moving, broader ranging story in the second book, which introduces new characters and covers more territory, both in terms of the desert geography as well as in the depth of the character emotions.

            In addition to the careful research of applicable desert geography, which we try to describe as accurately as possible, we had to do in-depth research of basic principles of astro-physics and relativity theory since Mojave Green answers many of the questions of seemingly supernatural happenings raised in the first book, while at the same time raising new questions of its own. But remember, this is not a science fiction series. It is horror based on scientific principles, rather than on magic and mysticism.

Young-Adult genre is
all-age appropriate

            Some of our favorite scenes in book two take place as Camm and Cal confront the new predators spawned by the collapse of the guardian systems that were originally built into the Searles Mansion to protect the residents of planet Earth. In solving life-and-death mysteries, our heroes find that mundane pieces of furniture, like an old grandfather’s clock, take on roles of life-saving significance.

            Some of our favorite moments in writing and selling the Dimensions in Death books have come as we are able to interact with a few of our fans at book signings and other author events. Initially, we thought that writing a cohesive, compelling story would be the hardest part of the book-selling business. But, when we started trying to find an agent or publisher, who would take our manuscript, we decided that getting published was the hardest part of the business.

            After sending out more than 150 query letters, we found a great publisher, Jolly Fish Press, and began the process of trying to sell our books. Now, we’re sure that building a fan base is the hardest part of the business. It’s a good thing it is also the most rewarding part.

            As we get ready for the third book in our series, Fatal Green, to come out later in 2015, we’re excited not just for the saga to continue, but also for the opportunity to continue learning and growing in a new business, in a dynamically changing industry, in a world with disappearing boundaries and in a universe limited only by one’s own imagination. It doesn’t get better than this!

RIDIN' THE RAILS

Creating Props with Character

The Right Props Help You Tell Your Story

            We’re still talking about drawing clear word pictures by setting the stage in your story with the right props.  The best props have their own character or personality.  So far, I’ve talked about the roles that the Bell Family pickup and my own dune buggy played in my youthful adventures in the desert and mountains between Trona, California and Death Valley.

            During the summer before my senior year in high school, my family moved from Trona to Ridgecrest, California, 25 miles away, but still deep in the Mojave Desert.  Dad said that after the summer ended, I could drive back to Trona each day during the school year to finish high school there and graduate from Trona High, but in the meantime, all my old haunts and friends were gone for the summer with only dry, mountainous desert stretching between us.  I was left with every teen’s worst nightmare, making a new group of friends.

            Ridgecrest had almost 20,000 people then and was ten times bigger than Trona.  Meeting new people there, I soon realized that new opportunities for adventure had opened up.  As I shared stories of my Trona adventures with my new Ridgecrest friends, I wondered what we could do in the nearby China Lake area.  China Lake is a dry lake bed located in a Naval weapons testing zone, so we couldn’t actually go there, but there is lots of desert around it, open to the public and just begging to be explored.

Ford Truck by creativauy
at FreeImages.com

            I knew we’d think of something, and an idea was born one blistering-hot, summer afternoon.  Sweat painted thick, dark marks on my T-shirt as I dug a trench through cement-hard Mojave Desert caliche, hiding under a thin layer of sandy topsoil.  A new friend, Barry Edwards, and I had gotten summer jobs with a local landscaper.  Digging trenches for sprinkler systems was back-breaking work, but the hourly pay was good.

            The solution to our hunger for adventure came in the form of Barry’s old pickup truck.

            That day, as we chipped our way down the trench, one of the other workers cocked his head at Barry’s 1950-something Ford pickup.  “You know, if you’re truck is the right year, the axle width is the same width as the railroad tracks.  As long as you don’t try to steer, you can drive that truck on the rails.”

            That was it.  I looked at Barry.  “We should see if your truck fits.”  He smiled.

            Our workday started around 4 am to beat the heat and often ended around 3 or 4 pm. After work, we had the afternoon free, so we drove out into the desert on a dirt road that led to an isolated railroad crossing.  We didn’t want anyone watching, and this dirt crossing sloped gradually away from the tracks.

            I jumped out, directing as Barry maneuvered the truck back and forth in the intersection until it was perpendicular to the road, heading in the same direction as the rails.  With both hands waving, I guided him, shouting, “This way.  Now that way a little, good, good ... come straight,” until all four tires had rolled onto the tracks.  The middle of each tire sat perfectly on the middle of a rail.  Success!

            Hopping inside, I said, “Remember, we’re on rails now.  You can’t steer or you’ll drive us off the tracks.”  Barry nodded, holding both hands up, off the steering wheel.  Slowly, he pushed on the gas pedal until we were going about 20 miles an hour along the tracks.  The ride was so smooth, like gliding on air.  The tracks curved gradually, and then started up a hill.  We exchanged looks as the truck started to slow, but with more gas, we purred up that hill like the truck was flying.  The feeling was exhilarating.

            We were literally on a roll, and eventually got the truck up to 55 mph!  We didn’t dare go much faster for fear we’d jump the rails, so we just cruised along, windows rolled down, radio blasting, scrolling the wind with our hands and watching the jack rabbits jump out of the desert bushes that covered both sides of the ten-foot-high berm that formed the foundation of the rail bed.

            Barry peered through the windshield, then pointed ahead.  We could see the faint trace of another dirt road cutting across the line of our tracks--another railroad crossing.  We worried the tires might pop off the rails inside the intersection, but we sailed through no problem.  By the time the next intersection loomed in the distance, however, we decided we didn’t want to push our luck any further.

            “Better get the speed down if we’re getting off,” Barry said, taking his foot off the gas, letting us coast.  The brakes on Barry’s truck pulled to one side, so we didn’t dare brake.  At the next crossing we were going slow, so with a touch of the brake, Barry slipped us off the rails onto the dirt road.

            Next day at work, we both agreed, “Let’s do it again!”  We spent the rest of the workday talking about ways to upgrade our rail-riding experience.

            That afternoon, with just a couple quick stops along the way for supplies, we were back at our favorite isolated railroad crossing.  Once we were rolling along the tracks again, we positioned a large, flat rock against the gas pedal with one end lying on the driveshaft hump in the middle of the truck and the other end resting on the floor below the pedal.  By scooting the rock up or back against the gas pedal, we could steady the gas flow until we had leveled our speed out at about 35 to 40 mph.

            We then scrambled out the side windows, climbing along the slick metal to sit on top of the cab.  Our legs dangled down onto the windshield as we ate our picnic of Hostess pies and soda pop.  We had our .22 rifles loaded and in hand for the shooting gallery.  We hadn’t forgotten those jack rabbits.

Train Tunnel by adamr
at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

            The breeze swept our hair back and the whole Mojave Desert stretched out on every side.  With no one working the gas, the pickup slowed down when we climbed hills and gained speed on the downward side, but otherwise drove itself.  After cruising and shooting at jack rabbits for half an hour or so, we noticed a tunnel looming up ahead.  Not thinking much about it, we rode inside.  Pitch blackness enveloped us.

            “Uh, I think we need lights,” Barry said, and inched over to climb carefully down into the cab and switch on the headlights.  Deep black stretched beyond the reach of our light beams with no end in sight.

            “So what happens if we see a train coming?” Barry asked.

            I shook my head in the dimness.  “Depends on which way the train is going, but there’s no way for us to get off the rails in here.”

            For a mile or more we rode through the tunnel, eyes and ears alert for the stabbing light and clicking sound of rails that would signal an approaching train.  Relieved, we finally saw the approaching daylight at the end of the tunnel.  Once we had barreled out into the open again, we agreed, “That was dumb.  We should check the train schedules before going through a tunnel.”

            Back in town, Barry got to work, talking with people, who worked for the railroad, getting an idea of who used the tracks and when.  Not a fail-proof plan, but good enough for our purposes.

            Our next question was, “Who do we want to invite along on the next trip?”

            We tried out several friends, and first responses were always the same.  “Are you kidding?”

            “No, we ride the rails.  It’s great.  Bring your .22 and chips or pop.  We’ll bring Hostess pies.”

            A slow smile would come with belief, telling us we had made another convert.  Not all wanted to brave the slippery path onto the cab, choosing instead to slide out the door and climb around into the back bed.  Either way, everyone enjoyed the ride, eating and shooting.  We traveled for miles with no one in the cab, no one driving.  The tunnel was always a thriller.  Fortunately, we never saw a train.

            The large, flat rock stayed permanently in Barry’s truck that summer—always ready anytime we wanted to put the truck into auto-pilot.  I don’t know when he finally threw it out, but I wish now we had thought to keep it.  After all, that rock was a special kind of prop, a non-standard part of the truck.

            Thanks to Barry’s Ford, with the right wheel gauge, I made friends in Ridgecrest that summer.

            In the Fall, my new friends went back to Burroughs High School in Ridgecrest, and I went back to Trona High, but we stayed in touch.  I saw my new friends on weekends.  At the time, I was not aware of any rivalry between the two high schools.  They were in completely different worlds.  Trona was in a totally different league, too small to even show up as a blip on the Burroughs’ radar screen.

            To this day, I still have family and friends in Ridgecrest and Trona.  I go back to visit as often as possible, and as I drive along U.S. Route 395, I look over at the railroad tracks and think of the carefree hours spent perched on the outside of a driverless truck, just cruising, talking, shooting, munching, and ridin' the rails.

            It didn’t get better than that.

RIDIN' THE RAILS

            The idea was born on a blistering hot afternoon.  Sweat painted a dark line down the back of my T-shirt as I dug a trench through the cement-hard Mojave Desert caliche hiding under the thin topsoil.  My new friend, Barry Edwards, and I had gotten a summer job with a local landscaper.  Digging trenches for sprinkler lines was back breaking work.

            That summer before my senior year of high school, my family moved from Trona, California to Ridgecrest, 25 miles away.  Dad said I could drive back to Trona during the school year to graduate from Trona High, but all my old haunts and friends were gone for the summer with only dry mountainous desert stretching between us.  I was stuck making a whole new set of friends in Ridgecrest.

            The solution came with Barry Edwards and his pickup truck.

            That day, as we chipped our way down the trench, one of the other workers cocked his head at Barry’s 1960 something Ford pickup that we used to travel back and forth between jobs.  

            “You know, if you got the right year of truck, the width of the axle is the exact same width as the railroad tracks.  If you do it right, you can drive on the rails.”

            That’s all it took.  Barry and I looked at each other.  “Let’s go see if your truck fits,” I said.  He smiled, and we pushed the guy for any additional information we could get.

            Our work day started around 4 am to beat the heat and often ended around 3 or 4 pm. After work we had the afternoon free, so we drove out into the desert on a dirt road we knew led to an isolated railroad crossing.  We didn’t want anyone watching and the dirt crossings had more gradual drop-offs.  I jumped out and Barry maneuvered the truck back and forth in the intersection until it was perpendicular to the road, heading in the same direction as the rails.  With both hands waving, I guided him in, shouting, “This way, no that way a little, good, good ... come straight,” until all 4 tires had rolled out onto the tracks, the middle of each tire settling perfectly on the middle of a rail.  Success!

            Hopping inside, I said, “Remember, once we’re on the rails, you can’t steer or you’ll drive us off the tracks.”  Barry nodded, hands off the steering wheel, and slowly pushed down on the gas pedal until we were going about 20 miles an hour.  The tracks curved gradually and then started up a hill.  We exchanged looks, but with a little more gas we purred up that hill like we were riding on glass.  We were literally on a roll, and got that buggy up to 55 mph!  We didn’t dare go faster.  We cruised along, windows rolled down, radio blasting, scrolling the wind with our hands and watching the jack rabbits jump out of the bushes that covered both sides of the 10 foot high mound of the rail bed.

            Barry peered through the windshield, then pointed.  We could see the faint trace of another dirt road cutting across the line of our tracks.  Another railroad crossing.  We worried the tires would pop off the rails inside the intersection, but we sailed on through.  By the time the next intersection loomed in the distance, however, we decided we didn’t want to push our luck.

            “Better get the speed down,” Barry said, and took his foot off the gas.  The brakes on Barry’s truck were old and pulled to one side, so we didn’t dare brake.  By the time we got to the crossing we were going pretty slow, and with a touch of the brake and a careful steer Barry slipped us off those rails onto the dirt road.

            Next day at work, we both agreed, “Let’s do it again!”  This time we positioned a big flat rock against the gas pedal with one end resting on the hump in the middle of the truck floor and the other lying on the floor below the pedal.  By scooting the rock further up onto the gas pedal, we could control the gas.  Once we’d leveled our speed out at about 35 mph, we scrambled out the side windows, climbing carefully on the slick metal to sit on the roof of the cab, our legs dangling down on the windshield, our .22 rifles beside us.  We hadn’t forgotten those jack rabbits.

cc doug wertman/flickr

            The breeze swept our hair back and the whole Mojave Desert stretched on every side.  With no one working the gas, the pickup slowed down when we climbed hills and gained speed on the downward side, but otherwise drove itself.  After cruising and shooting at jack rabbits for about an hour, we noticed a tunnel looming up ahead.  Not thinking much about it, we rode inside.  Pitch blackness enveloped us.

            “Uhh, we need lights,” Barry said, and inched over to carefully climb inside the cab and switch on the headlights.  Deep black stretched beyond the reach of our light beams with no end in sight.

            “So what happens if we meet a train?” Barry asked. 

            I shook my head in the dimness.  “Don’t know.  No way off in here.”

            For a couple miles we rode the tunnel, eyes and ears alert for the stabbing light and clicking of rails that would signal an approaching train.  The only thing we could agree upon when we barreled out into the light was, “That was dumb.”

            Barry got to work and talked to people he knew around town who worked with the railroad, getting an idea of schedules and when trains wouldn’t be running on the tracks.  Not fail proof, but good enough for our purposes.

            Our next question was, “Who do we want to invite?”

            Their first responses were always the same.

            “Are you kidding?”

            “No, we ride the rails all the time.  It’s great.  Bring your .22 and some chips or pop.”

            A slow smile would come with belief, telling us we had another convert.

            The big flat rock stayed permanently in Barry’s truck that summer.  I don’t know when he finally threw it out.

            I made great friends in Ridgecrest.  Not all wanted to brave the slippery path to the top of the cab, choosing instead to slide out the door and climb around into the truck bed.  We spent many hours perched on the outside of the driverless truck, shooting, munching, and ridin' the rails.