Good story tellers don't follow "good rules for story telling," or at least I don't know any that do. They just know how to paint pictures with words, words and phrasing that keeps their listeners wanting more. So why are some writers so hung up on the rules? While its good to know the rules and what helps move a story forward and keeping it interesting, to adhere to rules over substance and word painting will prevent the story from doing exactly what you want, as an author -- holding the reader in your palm and taking them wherever they want to go. Just a thought.

It took longer than I expected, but I have finally finished "American Lightning" by Howard Blum. It is an interesting read in that it combines a bit of history with a bit of mystery. The book is not one that I would say is a "grabber" but it did hold my attention as it takes the reader back to a much different time in our country; one that tied unions with film-making and with people like Clarence Darrow. If you like historical novels with a bit of intrigue, you should find this one right up your alley.

I am continuing to read Howard Blum's turn of the 20th century true mystery novel. While it continues to have interesting information about a particular mystery and how several famous characters became involved, the read is difficult at times as it plods along at several points. Interesting, still, but not a quick read -- or at least not for me.

"The Talisman"

Excerpt from Chapter 1

Jace Neffi watched as the little man carefully worked. He appeared in no hurry; the small trowel moved lightly against the earth, scraping a fraction of soil, one pass and then another until the trowel caught ever so slightly, causing the man to hesitate a split second before lifting the trowel to scrape against the obstruction – a bone or something else? He was like a surgeon performing a very delicate operation – on a body long dead.

Voices chattered all around, being picked up by the microphone embedded in the camera. The little man’s voice quietly droned on – the surgeon of archaeology, explaining each move and its resultant effect, speaking loud enough so that his voice masked the cacophony of noises coming from the groups off to his left on the sun-baked burial mound in the background.

Jace intently watched the video as the little man began the delicate task of lifting the obstacle from around the neck of the skeleton; most likely one of Jace’ long ago relatives – a giant Susquehannock Indian. Jace could almost feel his DNA straining inside his body, reaching out to the dead warrior who stared out through his large, dark eye sockets on the monitor. Sacred ground, but who would sound the alarm when all his ancestors supposedly disappeared so many years ago? Jace certainly couldn’t, unless he wanted to announce that the line had not died out, that he may be the lone survivor to that once proud and fierce tribe.

He continued to watch, for the . . . how many times had it been now that he watched this same video, over and over again? He had lost track and he’d only had the video for a few hours. But each time he watched, he felt it told him more about what the finding of the object meant, what it was that he had to do to discover more about what the object could tell him – an object that appeared to be a medallion of sorts.

“Are you going to watch that all night or are you going to come to bed?” Angie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and that look of “are you at it again?” in her eyes.

“Yeh. I’ll be right there. Still can’t figure out why he sent me this without letting me know it was coming.” Jace’ eyes never left the screen; watching the little man, Professor Frank O’Malley, slowly remove the amulet from around the warrior’s boney neck.

“Or why he just didn’t bring it over or have me come over there.” Jace’ eyes remained glued to the flickering screen.

“Well, you aren’t going to find out tonight, unless you want to go over there and wake the poor man up – if he is even there.” Angie walked into the room and stood behind Jace, putting her hand on his shoulder, watching the Professor hold the medallion up as he told the camera what he saw and what he thought he could be holding.

“Can’t understand why he didn’t answer when I called earlier. Since his Maggie died, he doesn’t sleep much, so if he didn’t answer, he had to be out – but Frank just doesn’t go out at night anymore. Strange.” Jace took the disc from the computer and started the Shut-down process as he reached up with his left hand to touch Angie’s hand, now resting lightly against his neck.

“Other than the possibility of the burial mound being Susquehannock, I can’t figure why he sent it. I guess it will have to wait, as you said, until tomorrow.”

Jace got up from the computer, slipping the disc into its plastic case and turned off the desk lamp. He looked down at the disc before putting it up on the top shelf of the computer desk.

“Until tomorrow,” he said as he turned and followed Angie off toward the bedroom. He loved watching her walk, especially when she was naked – that little butt, so perfect, and her back, oh how he loved her back – smooth, delicately curved and inviting. Sleek was all he could think, almost like a lioness – femininely muscular, yet so soft and smooth, something only a God could create. One of these days, he thought, we just have to get married.

I have just finished reading the first few chapters of "American Lightning" by Howard Blum. Not my normal read but interesting just the same. The story, a true crime novel, takes place at the turn of the 20th century and links Clarence Darrow, with William Burns of the famous Burns Detective Agency, and D.W. Griffith, the man who revolutionized the film industry -- all brought together by the bombing of the Los Angeles Times building by union anarchists. The story meanders at times, but the history and similarities to other incidents in our Nations life are remarkable.