Windmill Lakes was a real place I used to ride my BMX bike to as a teenager in the 1980s, traveling down lonely paths in search of nature. I loved that bike; it had a Redline frame stripped to chrome, a Mongoose seat and handlebars, and sky blue GT rims. I rode to the lakes a lot by myself. It was one of the few places I could be alone and think. In the suburbs, near Hobby Airport, it was about two and a half miles away from my house. I would usually roll a joint before takin

When I write, I try to imagine the environment, the time, and the place where my characters hang out. Music is important in creativity. At times I use it to psyche myself into the mood of my story, using the energy for the beats or action. Other times I need silence to focus, especially with editing. My Summer of 1973 series has a definitive playlist. Based on the true crimes of the Houston Mass Murders, I really wanted to focus on the neighborhood of the Heights and the musi

Once, if my memory serves me well— When I was young, I actively sought change. One of my favorite reprieves from my turbulent teenage years was a triangle of pines. It was in the neighborhood at Freeway Manor Park, behind a church. The field was dark, and I could sit between the pines and watch the stars. I would go there to think, hoping an alignment, a constellation, or a lunar eclipse would spark a transformation within me. Going to the pines at midnight and waiting was

The deciding factor of writing Summer 1973 was the funeral for the 29th victim of the Houston Mass Murders. On November 12th, 2009, the cold case had grown cold again, and the county was burying the last unidentified remains in a pauper’s field, a cemetery filled with the unknown.