b’cuz…werds | Buttercup of Doom ep 18

BODep18-bcuzwerds300Available FREE on: Project iRadioiTunesStitcherAndroidTune-In
This Week’s Rating: R (NSFW) — buttercup ratings system info here

In this episode… I talk about words ‘n stuff. How they’re used versus how they’re intended. Including who’s abusing them and who’s destroying them—as I 101 on contract verbiage, drop the f-bomb in a 2-1/2 minute audio of a video you should all at least watch once, vent about the tricky way people use, or don’t use, words, and wrap it up with a word we need to just get rid of. It’s a whirlwind…

Sponsors: SANTA!! And Santa says you should Xmas shop at these fine places: Gypsy Spirits | The God Beneath My Garden, by Robert Ford | JF Gonzalez’s The BelovedSunrise Soap Co. | Robert Swartwood‘s novel LAND OF THE DEAD | Shroud #10, Halloween 2010 | Kealan Patrick Burke’s SOUR CANDY | Kevin Strange’s Texas Chainsaw Mantis | Mehitobel Wilson’s Last Night at the Blue Alice | Anathema, book 1: The Evil Men Do, by Rachel Deering | Reel Splatter Productions | Lamplight Magazine

Suggestions/Requests from: not this week (to suggest/request, use the form here)

Mentions/Shoutouts: Writer’s DigestThe F Word (video) • My facebook post re: shootings, guns & hugs • Lamplight Magazine | 3 Guys with Beards

Hashtag Hell:  #gypsyspirits #robertford #jfgonzalez #robertswartwood #shroud #halloween #kealanpatrickburke #kevinstrange #mehitobelwilson #racheldeering #reelsplatter #lamplightmagazine #words #contracts #f-word #f-bomb #bbc #ancientaliens #curseofoakisland #clickbait #facebook #twitter #instagram #projectiradio #buttercupofdoom #podcast #kelliowen #santa #xmaslist #xmas

And don’t forget — for advertising inquiries, contact me at buttercup@kelliowen.com

Superstitions | Buttercup of Doom ep 13

13bod-superstitions300Available FREE on: Project iRadioiTunesStitcherAndroidTune-In

Because this is the 13th episode, I thought it would be appropriate to discuss Superstitions, and because I promised last week, Urban Legends. From Bloody Mary to the Hook Hand, from black cats to pop rocks, from the truth to internet hoaxes, we cover campfire frights and facebook fallacies… I ask a couple questions (join conversation/answer here), I offer up some readings and links, and I request something of YOU this time. I hope you had a great Halloween, now come enjoy your sugar hangover with the Buttercup of Doom!

Sponsors: The God Beneath My Garden, by Robert Ford | Shroud #10, Halloween 2010

factcheckSuggestions/Requests from: not this week (to suggest/request, use the form here)

Mentions/Shoutouts: Bloody Mary Snopes | Halloween-Website • Try Guys facebook | youtube • Kevin Lucia • Steven Gilberts • Danny Evarts • werewolf cat • Urban Legends Onlinesnopes

Robert Ford’s video readings on facebook — Georgie | Early Harvest | Samson & Denial (teaser) | Racing the Milk

This Week’s Rating: PG13

And don’t forget — for advertising inquiries, contact me at buttercup@kelliowen.com

Hashtag Hell: #robertford #bobford #amazon #bloodymary #snopes #urbanlegends #superstitions #tryguys #costumes #trickortreat #hallosmile #blackcat #werewolfcat #shroudmagazine



typewriterheadEvery writer is asked: Where do you get your ideas?
Quick answer: Everywhere…

The longer answer is: anything we may read, hear, see, a combination of them, or a completely warped version of them based on either playing the “what if” game or letting our muse naturally twist their reality into something we call fiction to keep the white coats away. *whew* (ideas and the muse are always run-on, editing fixes that in the prose!) Or just, you know, our random thoughts.

A prime example of the simple ideas: sitting in an airport for more than an hour people watching, or simply reading the news.

More complicated twists of reality come from a place deep inside us. A place the medical profession would like to dub with some terminology—if not a diagnosis—treat with drugs we can’t pronounce, and call us sick and unusual. But really? When each writer on the planet is capable of doing it, is it really all that unusual? Who’s to say we’re not the normal ones and there’s something wrong with all of you?

Nevermind. I know we’re the crazy ones. I just wanted to see if I could either a. say that with a straight face, b. get any of you to believe it.

Why do I know we’re (or at least me) the crazy ones? Because this happened:

I talk to myself. All the time. Always have. I don’t know if it’s part of my writer mind or just my own personal psychosis, but I do. A lot. This morning, as I rambled on about nothing while getting ready for the dayjob, an innocent (sort of) comment from my own mouth twisted on the way out and hung in the air around me. But let me back up and let you watch it happen…

First, I talked myself through several outfit changes (convincing myself I looked great in something, only to change out of it). I babbled to no one but the girl in the mirror (who in all seriousness really makes me angry some days, but that’s a different blog) while I attempted to tame the locks I consider unruly but many girls actually pay to perm just this way. And then I kept myself verbal company while doing my makeup. Now I don’t wear a lot of makeup, so as you can imagine, that was a pretty short conversation. But that’s where the magical spark happened.

“Hmmm… pale lips. Always with the pale pathetic stupid colorless lips. Need color. What shade? Something light. Not actual ‘look at me’ whore red or anything, just a little bump of color. Enough for the coroner to notice.”

Really? Where’d that last part come from? What the hell happened to me that made that a completely natural thing to say? Mom? Is there something I’m not remembering?!

I accepted the comment as normal for me and went on about my morning with a strange smile—almost pleased with my crazy. I put on the silver pieces, grabbed lunch & the laptop, and hit the road. But before I reached my exit, thirteen minutes later, I realized I hadn’t heard a single thing on the radio during the drive. I was too busy letting the muse twist that comment into an entire storyline. Poor Maggie. She’s not necessarily blue* and she’s definitely not out of lipstick*… but she’s got a path coming into view through the trees that will not be any fun at all…

THAT is where story ideas come from =)


* and that is how you sneak in a few pimps for other writers =) Go ahead, mouse over the links, click, check ’em out!

Adventures in Time

mammoth2Faith and doubt both are needed—not as antagonists, but working side by side to take us around the unknown curve.
~Lillian Smith

I clearly remember waking up freezing under, not one but, three heavy quilts on that fateful December morning in Wisconsin and mentally saying shouting, “Enough!” But, being the over-analyzing soul I am, I asked my parents to be my rock, my logic, and tell me why I shouldn’t move. They said no such thing. Instead, mom said, “Go! Go while you have the fire. Go before you wake up at sixty-five, still live here, and still hate it.”

Five years ago today I shoved everything I owned, two kids, and a cat into a huge u-haul with a mammoth on the side of it. I turned in my apartment keys, and handed the keys of the mammoth to my best friend (volunteered to drive the u-haul). I watched the sun set at a gas station near Ed Gein’s, said good-bye to my Wisconsin residency, and began the next adventure…

It’s been an interesting five years.

My kids have grown and flown the coop. The best cat ever, Chaos, ran away. I’ve loved and lost. I’ve made new friends and lost old. I’ve hit writing deadlines and missed life goals. I’ve learned. I’ve grown. I’ve aged. I’ve changed.

Life has offered challenges and provided pitfalls. Time has both slowed and sped up. The universe has played yo-yo with my emotions, suggesting I run while begging me to stay. I’ve seen divorces and marriages, births and funerals. I gained a new title, wear a new hat, gotten new ink, earned new scars—physical and emotional. And in the end, I’m glad I listened to my mom and took the plunge.

Because life is an adventure. All of it. Period.

Whether it’s going to the grocery store, or sitting on the porch, or hopping in the car and driving until you find a beach. It’s all unwritten. Merely outlined. And attitude is half the battle. I was raised by a crazy woman who blessed me with the right attitude—enjoy the little things, make memories, accept the adventure, and make it in the mundane.

So, happy anniversary Pennsylvania. Thank you for the much warmer winters, four actual seasons, and flowers on my birthdays instead of blizzards. I’ve finally realigned my brain to your night sky and get that even if he’s in the wrong spot, Orion is still Orion. I’ve loathed and loved, laughed and cried, but it all goes into who I am and who I become and how well I pack for the next adventure.

Though I really do miss that cat.

Midnight Symphony


Ten masters of horror and suspense have teamed up to present ten bone-chilling novellas that will keep you reading late into the night. With over 200,000 words, MIDNIGHT SYMPHONY is an experience like none other … and available only for a limited time.

Available at: Kindle US, Kindle UK, Nook, and Ganxy for readers who don’t have Kindles or Nooks and want to buy direct. And when you’re done reading, leave a note on any of those places or on the book’s page at Goodreads.

THE TENT, by Kealan Patrick Burke — A family, rent asunder by estrangement and lost in the woods, discover a lone yellow tent which promises a safe haven from the storm … but they would have been better staying lost.

THE PAINTED DARKNESS, by Brian James Freeman — There’s something hiding in the cramped cellar of the old farmhouse Henry calls home, and as a winter storm cuts off all contact with the outside world, this something is going to force Henry to confront the demons of his past … or die trying.

SAMSON AND DENIAL, by Robert Ford — When a junkie walks into Samson Gallows’ pawn shop with a mummified head, Samson is thrown into a downward spiral through the streets of Philadelphia …

DO UNTO OTHERS, by J.F. Gonzalez — When things in his life go from bad to worse, Jim Cornell unwillingly becomes involved with a shadowy group of people who claim allegiance to demonic forces.

IN PERPETUITY, by Tim Lebbon — When your son is taken from you, what will you do to get him back?

WAITING OUT WINTER, by Kelli Owen — An apocalyptic tale of survival against a very tiny beast, which turns the hunters into the hunted.

FOR EMMY, by Mary SanGiovanni — Sometimes, there is no way to keep your loved ones safe …

THE DIABOLICAL CONSPIRACY, by Brian Smyth — An infatuation with an alluring and mysterious co-worker leads Mike Bradley into a web of Satanic madness.

THE MAN ON THE BENCH, by Robert Swartwood — In the summer of 1922, a mysterious man appears in town … a man only children can see.

MIDNIGHT MASS, by F. Paul Wilson — In a town on the New Jersey shore, the vampires have just arrived …

Again… available at Kindle US, Kindle UK, Nook, and Ganxy. Go shop safely online and away from the craziness of Black Friday and the hangover weekend of insane holiday shopping… and then retweet, share, etc. Thank you, and happy holidays!

Forgotten Sunsets

Memory… is the diary that we
all carry about with us.
~ Oscar Wilde

As I wrapped up final edits and turned in Buried Memories (the novella formerly known by the working title Headlights), and quickly approach the anniversary of a memory I’d rather not have, I find myself thinking about memories. Not the actual events and people themselves, but rather, the phenomenon known as memory.

If there’s one thing we all share regarding these silly little morsels, it’s the fact that we are not in control. Or sure, you can study for a test and memorize something. You can repeat something until it’s become seared into your banks. But you cannot truly choose which strange little moments your brain decides to store away for a rainy day, or which it will dump because it has randomly decided you either don’t need it or won’t miss it.

Or will you?

I can’t remember what my Nana got me for my 14th birthday, but I can remember all the words to a song I hated from that same year. I wish I could remember the present.

Importance isn’t the key. It was really important to remember those things for history tests… never could. It was really unimportant to remember the strange little details of a paper menu place mat I could still draw to this day. Desire has nothing to do with it. I really want to remember that great idea I had for my novel storyline, you know the one, that popped into my head right before I fell asleep. I have no desire to recall the smell of the strange man that sat next to me on that plane trip. And neither trauma nor drama are catalysts either. I have equally remembered and forgotten both good and bad things. My memories are not weighted either direction.

I’ve always tried to play with this… ability, for lack of a better word. For as long as I can remember. I’ve tried both studying every little detail to never forget something, and glancing broadly. I still have no control over which stay and which disappear. I’ve tried tying moments to a time or other sense—smell, taste, whatever. I still have no control.

As I watched the sunset last night, for the four millionth time, I realized I’ve watched four million sunsets (oh just let me exaggerate!). And while I can remember watching a handful of them—the events around it, reason, time, place, whatever—I don’t remember exactly what they looked like. I don’t remember the shades or bands of color. I don’t remember the shape the clouds took, or if there were clouds. I remember, or rather “know” I watched the sunset. But just as I’ve stared at the moon on countless nights, repetition doesn’t always work for making a memory. Of course, there’s also the difference between a true memory and a memory of a memory, which is really just an echo and has no real details, but like the knowledge of four million sunsets rather than the detailed memories.

There are things I have forgotten I wish I could tap into, and perhaps some day something will trigger them and just like that I’ll remember. There are other things I really really really wish I could forget as if they’d never happened. There are sweeping generalities I’d like to recall because it would bring the feel of what I’m trying to remember regarding this or that. And there are tiny little details that refuse to blur, and as such, keep unwanted memories intact like a waterproof photograph that you can’t even burn.

Memories are strange. Or rather, the phenomenon is amazing, but the subconscious, unconscious, little twerp living in my brain, in charge of filing this one and tossing that one, is a strange creature indeed. A creature I wish I could cage… and occasionally beat.



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