Fat Girls Rock

Woohoo!! The fourth book in the Redneck P.I. Twila Taunton Series is almost ready for publication. Dedicated to anyone who has ever been called ‘fat’ — you really do rock!!

Here’s the cover and a short piece from the first chapter:

The rumble of Harleys died. I caught a glimpse of the riders through the screen door as they dismounted and parked their bikes outside the Hogs Waller Saloon. I shaded my eyes against the bright security light as Big Bart stomped his feet on the mat and strode in with his two dogs, Sadie and Benjamin, at his heels. His leathers creaked, and a long braid hung down his back from the red, white and blue bandanna tied around his head. His biker boots made a loud clopping sound on the old wooden floors, which dipped under his weight with every step.

Members of his gang trudged in behind him, ‘Justice Enforcers’ inscribed in red on the backs of their leather jackets. They nodded at us and headed for the bar, the smell of cigarette smoke and engine oil following them.

My dog Scratch stood up from under my legs, and stretched.

Bart stopped at our table. “Well, if it ain’t the fat girls’ club,” he bellowed. He clamped an oversized hand on my shoulder and I stared at the cut-off black leather glove before I looked up and glared at him through narrowed eyes.

“Who are you calling fat? I’m not fat, and neither is LaMercy or Ena.” I turned my gaze to each of my companions and nodded. They both nodded back. Fat was a word that’s always pissed me off, but this was a delicate situation. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Bart Drummond.

He held up his hands in front of him, palms facing me, and my eyes followed the inked wolves climbing up his muscled arms to his shoulders. “Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong, Twila. Fat is good. What man doesn’t like a little padding? I meant it in a good way.” His gaze strayed bald-facedly from my boobs, to Ena’s and then to LaMercy’s. “You ladies all got curves where women are supposed to have ’em,” he growled in his deep baritone voice. “Fat girls rock, man.”

I was at a loss for words, which is unusual for me. Luckily, Scratch grabbed the limelight when Sadie growled and snapped at him. “Yeah, good girl. You don’t need no-one sticking their cold nose there, do you?” Bart rasped. He turned towards the bar. “What’s a man got to do to get a drink around here?” he said.

“Coming right up!” Gasser, an annoying grin on his face, slid a 24oz glass of draft beer across the pitted wooden counter top. Bart crossed the room in three strides, grabbed it and swallowed half of it down in one gulp. He swiped a hand through his beard and licked the foam from his moustache.

Despite the open ducting in the high roof, the Hogs Waller Saloon had a cozy feel about it. Stuffed animal heads and deer antlers hung on the walls, together with old photographs of Quisby, home-made wooden plaques with redneck words of wisdom on them, a couple of old guns, and other unrecognizable objects. The dusty bottles on the shelves almost hid the mirror behind the bar, and glasses hanging from their racks reflected the yellow beams from the low lights. Frying smells from the kitchen hung in the air, and the old air conditioner rasped and groaned as it struggled to cool the room in the still sweltering Alabama summer night.

As usual, Jimmie Lewis, the town’s most dedicated drunk, slouched in the corner on a bar stool, and coyote ugly Lilly Belle Groat, the town’s most recognizable working girl, stood beside him, hoping for some action.

LaMercy, Ena and I were parked at a table in the restaurant side of the wide room, our drinks in front of us on the red and white checked plastic tablecloth. We hadn’t ordered dinner yet, because we were waiting for Aunt Essie.

“Maybe we have put on some pounds,” LaMercy, always the practical one said. I didn’t like the way she was gawping at me.

“Maybe one or two,” I conceded. “But no more than that.” I frowned and looked down. My baggy navy blue T-shirt still fit comfortably, although I had to admit to myself it had been a struggle to get into some of my jeans and shorts recently. In fact, now that I thought about it, the jeans I had on were hurting my stomach. I figured they had shrunk in the wash.

I checked out LaMercy. Had she put on weight? I always thought her face was more angular, but with her big Afro hair it was difficult to be sure. She almost always wore dresses, as she was doing now, so a little extra padding wouldn’t be so easy to see.

 “Yeah, but fat. That’s a big word,” Ena said. Her boobs had definitely gotten bigger. How come I hadn’t noticed that before? They bulged out of the sides of her pink tank top. Was that all boob or could it really be fat rolls? I remember thinking she was buying her shorts a size too small, but I couldn’t confirm that while she was sitting down.

We all stared at Bart’s definitely-not-fat ass as he ambled across the room to join the others in the smoky haze that hung over the pool tables. No one was supposed to smoke in the bar, but who was gonna tell one of them to go stand outside with the humidity and bugs? It sounded like it was drizzling out there now, anyhow. Someone had closed the solid wooden door, but I could hear the clank of raindrops hitting the metal roof over the buzz of conversation.

“That is one heck of a man,” Ena, the only one of us who was truly single said. “No fat there. It’s all solid muscle. He is built.”

I knew LaMercy was thinking it too, and so was I. He surely was a delectable mountain of maleness. “Why don’t you go make a play for him?” I said to Ena. When I say Ena is ‘truly’ single, I mean although I am not married, and have no plans to ever marry, Harland O’Connor is my man. He has a special place in my heart—and other parts of me that I will not mention here. Just thinking about him makes things happen to those parts.

Ena’s eyes went wide and she fanned herself with a napkin. “I am in the market for a man. I’m totally, epically ready, and just thinking about doing it with him is making me all hot and bothered. Do you think he’s as big there as everywhere else?”

Available soon on Amazon. Meanwhile, check out the others in the series: 

Redneck P.I. 

Kick Assitude

Backwoods Boogie

Is it Really Necessary to Create an Outline for Your Novel?

James Patterson, most successful author of our time is so struck on outlines that he devotes two chapters to them in his online writing class.

The problem is, I’m a pantser. I write by the seat of my pants. In other words, I sit down at a computer and start writing, and the characters tell me the story.

I do not plot and I do not outline.

But James Patterson. He’s not someone one should ignore, right? After listening to what he had to say, I went back to my novel, Virgo’s Vice,  which was in the editing phase with my publisher, and created a belated outline. Surprisingly (to me), it helped me see more than one flaw with my story and I was able to make big improvements.

I stopped working on the next novel, Scorpio’s Sting, which was in my pre-submission editing phase, and went back and created an outline. It helped me to see several problem areas. In particular, the timeline. The outline made it easy to find events that were in the wrong order.  It also helped me to identify (and delete) chapters that did not move the story forward, because we all know every chapter must do that or it isn’t needed.

Next, I started writing “Fat Girls Rock,” the fourth book in my Redneck P.I. Mystery Series. I tried to start with an outline. I swear I gave it a lot of thought, but nothing came. No inspiration. Zilch. It stayed unwritten. I ended up writing a one-page synopsis, and allowed myself to start writing the story. The lack of an outline nagged at me, and the writing dragged. The dreaded unmentionable thing loomed. Writer’s Block.

This past Monday I had some time on my hands and I told myself “To hell with it, I’m just gonna write.” And guess what? The story was all there in my head and today, Friday, the entire first draft is completed. Now I can create an outline.

I guess we’re all different and what works for one, just doesn’t do anything for another. That’s what I tell myself, anyhow.

Here’s the rough draft of my first few paragraphs. I still have to go back and make changes, add more emotion, and enhance the descriptions, but it is such a blast to write this kind of stuff.

FAT GIRLS ROCK

Trish Jackson

CHAPTER 1

Big Bart stomped his feet on the mat and strode in through the door with his brindle Pitbull, Sadie, and Benjamin, the dog he rescued from the dog fighting ring. He wore leathers, and a red, white and blue bandanna wrapped around his head. His biker boots made a loud clipping sound on the old wooden floors.

Several of his biker gang members trudged in behind him, all wearing their leather jackets with ‘Justice Enforcers’ on the back. They nodded at us and headed for the bar.

My dog Stretch stood up from under my legs, stretched, and stuck his nose into Sadie’s ass.

Bart stopped at our table. “Well, if it ain’t the fat girls’ club.” He clamped an oversized hand on my shoulder and I stared at the cut-off black leather glove before I glared at him through narrowed eyes.

“Who are you calling fat? I’m not fat, and neither is LaMercy or Ena.” Fat is a word that’s always made me bristle, and if it was anyone other than Bart, I would probably have done something physical to him.

He held up his hands, palms facing me. “Oh, no. Don’t get me wrong, Twila. Fat is good. What man doesn’t like a little padding? I meant it in a good way.” His gaze strayed from my boobs, to Ena’s and then to LaMercy’s. “You ladies all got curves where women are supposed to have ’em,” he growled in his deep bass voice. “Fat girls rock, man.”

I was at a loss for words. Luckily, Stretch took the attention away from us when Sadie snapped at him and he whined and licked her face.

“Yeah, good girl. You don’t need anyone sticking their cold nose there, do you?” Bart rasped. He turned toward the bar. “What’s a man got to do to get a drink around here?” he said to Gasser, who was standing behind the counter serving the others, with an annoying grin on his face.

“Coming right up,” he said, and slid a 24 oz glass of draft beer across the pitted wooden counter top. Bart grabbed it and swallowed half of it down in one gulp. 

As usual, Jimmie Lewis, the town drunk stood in the corner propping up the bar, and Lilly Belle Groat, the town mattress, who looks like the back side of a bus, sat beside him.

“Maybe we have put on some pounds,” LaMercy, always the practical one said. She was staring at me.

“Yeah, but fat. That’s a big word,” Ena said. 

I took a hard look at my two companions. They actually had put on some weight, and I hadn’t really noticed before.

We all stared at Bart’s ass as he crossed the room to join the others at the pool tables.

“That is one heck of a man,” Ena, the only one of us who was truly single said. “No fat there.”

I knew LaMercy was thinking it too, and so was I. He was one hell of a piece of male flesh.

Gasser, with his coffee-colored skin and dreads stepped around from behind the bar, pulled out a chair at our table, and dropped into it. He still had that irritating grin on his face that meant one of two things. Either he had just farted or he thought something was amusing.

I sniffed, and didn’t detect anything. “What do you think is so funny?” I asked.

“Fat girls’ club,” he glanced across at Bart to make certain he couldn’t hear, and burst out laughing.