R. H. Burkett

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned in my life is: Never say Never.
Seventeen years ago I divorced only to find myself sixteen years later, moving back in with my ex-husband. The arrangement is strictly a roommate situation. I pay him rent. I live in my half of the house, he lives in his half. I have my own living room, bedroom, bathroom, and office. The kitchen is common ground. He does most of the cooking because I can’t boil water. Never have been a good cook, never will. We usually eat supper together but as he likes different TV programs, we split after supper and go to our separate corners.

You may be thinking, why did I move back? First and foremost, MONEY. While I could pay my mortgage and all the bills, I had no money to live on. Same with him. We were discussing this problem…

In my book, Daughter of the Howling Moon, my hero, Bethany Ann is half mortal, half spirit. She is a demon fighter for God. In case you haven’t figured it out, the heroes in my books, be they from a previous life time, from another dimension, or wishful thinking on my part, are extensions of me. So does that mean I consider myself a demon fighter? Yes.

Pretty bold statement, isn’t it? Here’s another one: You are too.

The first thing a demon fighter must learn is how to recognize the enemy. Webster defines demon as an evil spirit. Mental pictures of ugly, devil-like creatures spring to mind. But I really doubt Webster was a demon fighter. Bethany Ann is. She says, “evil can twist and turn and slip through cracks and never plays fair.” Demons, therefore, take many shapes and can attack in the most deceiving, innocent ways. They’re…

This past weekend I attended the annual Oklahoma Writers Federation Inc (OWFI) writing conference in Oklahoma City. For three days writers from all over the country gathered together to share their experiences and writing expertise. Starting at 9:00 in the morning through 4:00 in the afternoon, every hour on the hour, presentations and workshops were given by authors, agents, editors, and publishers to help guide and instruct all level of writers toward better writing, speaking, and publication. A famous author banquet held on Friday night acknowledged member’s books that were published in 2015. In addition, a costume contest was held where associates came dressed as their favorite characters in either books, film, or television. Steven James, our keynote speaker stressed the importance of the small moments in life we often rush by. On Saturday night, awards were presented for various contest categories.

While the conference is geared toward education and…

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Ever read a book and hate it?

I have.
Chapter 1: I’m pretty sure the story isn’t one I want to hear. But. I stick with it. Hoping it will get better.
Chapter 2: Not much better. Kinda interested in where this is going, however. I’ll hang in there.
Chapter 3: Holy cow how much pain and suffering can one character endure? Maybe some happiness will come his way.
Chapter 4: Is there no plot here? Just eat, drink, have kids, suffer, and die? Keep an open mind, trudge on.
And so on and so on.
Last chapter: This ending sucks! No happy-ever-after. No lesson learned. NO HOPE!

As a beginning writer, and for all levels of writers for that matter, a good critique group is essential. By good, I mean a group that will give honest feedback. Not mean critique. Not ripping- the-heart-out-of-the-writer critique. Just honest feedback aimed…

In 2011 my first novel, Soldiers From the Mist was published. While the thrill of being a published writer far exceeded my dreams, I was never comfortable about the story. I rushed the ending. I didn’t stay true to the voices in my head.
For those of you who haven’t read the story, Soldiers was channeled information I received from the ghost of the main character, Charles Ely, who haunted my house. Charlie and his comrades couldn’t cross over, rest in peace, until I gave their story and message of Universal Love to the masses. I wrote Charlie’s words and stayed true to his direction right up until the end. Then, I goofed-up. I changed the ending. I did so because I was new to writing game.
Even though, deep in my gut, I knew it was wrong, I ignored higher direction because I thought I knew better. I’d pitched…

I’m in the process of moving from one town to another. This is a relief. The move cuts my expenses in half. Of course this means I’m forced to move all my stuff.
Just what is this “stuff” I speak about? Here’s the short list:

Enough shoes to start my own Payless store. Not that I ever wear them. They’re just pretty.
At least twenty jackets: sweater jackets, winter jackets, windbreakers. You think I exaggerate? Nope, they could float a battleship. I think they fornicated in that dark closet and made little wool babies that grew to adulthood on the wire hangers.
Plastic table cloths. Why? I never eat at the table. (I think the jackets lured them in.)
Paid receipts and bills from the beginning of time.
Old curtain rods.
Wrapping paper with only a few sheets left on the roll. And gift bags.
Dishes! Holy cow. It’s just…

I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately.

I’ve fallen in love with Dean Koontz’s Odd Thomas books. For those of you not familiar with Odd Thomas, here is a nutshell rendition:

Odd Thomas likes to think that he’s just a young, ordinary guy who works as a fry cook, when he works. The love of his life was a beautiful girl, Stormy. (Notice, I said, was.) However, Oddie is far from ordinary. First of all there’s his name, Odd Thomas. It was supposed to be Todd Thomas but there was a mistake made on his birth certificate where the T got dropped so his legal name is Odd. Since that name fits him better than Todd I wonder if Fate interceded in the birth certificate screw-up.(Isn’t this a wonderful creative twist that Dean Koontz thought of?) Second, Odd sees dead people. They seek him out. The ghost of Elvis…

This past weekend I attended the 28th Annual Ozark Mountain UFO conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. I took my book, Daughter of the Howling Moon to sell. I also took my tarot cards to do readings. ETs loved Daughter and my tarot reading was rad.

I’ve been reading the Tarot for over twenty years. I’ve read at numerous physic fairs, birthdays, bachelorette, girls-night-out parties, even a writing retreat. But I have never had a connection to a client so profound or rewarding as one I experienced this weekend.

Tarot readers are light workers. It is our job to bring hope, inspiration, and guidance to our customers. If you’ve ever experienced a reading that left you depressed or has scared the be-Jesus out of you, then you got a hold of a bad reader. Period. While we above-average readers won’t sugar-coat our messages received from a higher source, we will always…

Do you remember learning to read? I don’t. I do remember sitting in a circle in those little red chairs with Dick and Jane, Spot and Puff. But I don’t recall learning the words. I simply read. Same way with colors. I don’t remember ever learning the names of those waxy scented, glossy crayons in that yellow and blue box. I just knew and colored. I do have a memory of taking a ruler and putting it under the line I was reading so that it blocked out all the other lines, making it easier to concentrate on one line at a time and not lose my place. But, the words were always there.

When I was in the third grade, Mama took a trip back home to Kansas City to see her relatives. Of course, my brother and I went with her. One of the things we did was…

Daddy put-up a rope swing in the backyard for my brother and I one summer. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a rope with a board for a seat that we straddled. It was the best toy I ever had. For many summers this rope-swing was a horse. A piece of an old jump rope attached to the board morphed into leather reins. The hard seat transformed into a saddle. The back and forth swinging motion was me galloping across the prairie. I would make up stores while I rode and spoke them out loud. I was always the hero. I always caught the bad guys. Sometimes I actually wore a red-felt dime store cowboy hat and when it flew off my head, I’d swoop down and pick it up; a trick-riding stunt.

I also had a stick-horse growing up. Actually it was an old rake that the head had broken…