Living and Writing On The Road by Deb Sanders

DeadMenFinaljpegAuthors often look at the world differently. Our imaginations are seeded by things we see and hear which then germinate into a novel or short story. We don’t just people watch. We study mannerisms, physical features, and voice inflections to use in character development. We are creatures of hot and cold. When we’re “on”, we write non-stop, producing thousands of words while ingesting large amounts of caffeine and chocolate. When we’re “off”, we play online games, keep an active presence on social media, read the latest celebrity gossip, hike, craft, cook, play with the dog . . . basically anything to avoid working through a writer’s block.

And then there’s the family. A joyful camaraderie when we’re “off”. A bane when we’re “on”, and often the provocation for one word replies, icy glares and threats involving mortal injury.

It’s the same on the road. I’m an RV nomad which means I left a structured lifestyle in the rear-view mirror. Traveling across America offers amazing visual inspiration but requires massive self-discipline to plant my butt in front of the computer. I’d much rather be hiking or exploring. So I write at night. It works out well since Hubs is a morning person. I don’t like interruptions when I’m writing. He doesn’t like interruptions when he’s reading the news and drinking that first cup of coffee. We enjoy our “quiet” time while the other sleeps which means leaves our days to savor adventure. And that’s a good thing when your life involves camping in some of the most breathtaking, scenic locations imaginable.

Our travels have also spurred a secondary project – researching North American myth and lore. What started out as a fun pastime has quickly turned into an obsession . . . and a new book! I decided to write a collection of fictional short stories based on my research of local lore. Tales From The Back Roads, Vol. One, will release in late February, 2016 and features entertaining yarns about the Grey Man of Hatteras, a lost Confederate cemetery, a ghost herd of horses, Bigfoot, a spook light, stolen treasure, a witch’s curse and much more!

Want to help with Back Roads, Vol.Two? Suggest an interesting place to visit that offers a geographical oddity or paranormal lore. Nothing is off-limits. The stranger, the better. Email details to debsanders01 at gmail dot com and if I use the location, I’ll credit you for the referral in my book – unless you prefer to remain anonymous. Additional information is on my website.


Deb Sanders lives and writes on the road. As a full time RV nomad, she travels the back roads of America with her hubs, Golden Retriever and tabby cat in search of great adventures, beautiful sunsets and a good bottle of wine.

Deb is the author of seven novels, all available on Kindle. Her most recent release, DEAD MEN DON’T TALK, is the first in a cozy series featuring a sassy Southern caterer who finds herself involved in a missing person case on a Lakota reservation. The only thing worse than a Native cop dogging her every move is a ghost who refuses to shut up until she solves his murder.

Book Two, DEAD MEN CAN’T DANCE will release summer, 2016.


Facebook Page: DebSandersAuthor

Twitter: DebSanders01

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“Hello? Who’s out there?” She’d never been one to back down from a confrontation and tonight was no exception. The sound of crunching gravel alerted her to the stranger’s approach. Harry growled again, this time louder.

“Daisy Red-Tail.”

She squinted, peering into the shadows. “Yes?”

Wes Spotted Pony stepped into the dim light emanating from the window. “You used to live here. On the rez.”

She remained seated as her pulse quickened with a warning. “I did – a long time ago.”

He stepped closer. Daisy kept hold of Harry’s neck to keep the dog from lunging. “Where’s your car?”

“I had a flat. It’s been towed to town.”

“Too bad. You gotta be careful on the rez. It can be dangerous for white eyes.”

“Yeah, I know. What do you want, Wes?”

His eyes flickered, a sign he didn’t expect her to know his name. “Just checking on you. Making sure you’re safe.”

“I’m fine. Now run along home. I hear your momma callin’.”

“I like the way you talk. We don’t hear accents like yours on the rez.”

Daisy stood up. “Go home, Wes. There’s no reason to come any closer.”

“Hey, baby, you might like being close to me. I’m a real pleaser.”

As he took another step, Harry broke free from Daisy’s grasp, planting himself between her and the young Native. The distraction gave her enough time to pull Grandfather’s snub nosed .38 from her purse. She aimed it at the boy’s chest. “Honey, you don’t want to mess with Southern women. We’ll rip your heart out and bake it up in a pie quicker than you can whistle Dixie.”

He stiffened as though she had struck him. “You . . . you won’t shoot me. You probably don’t even know how to fire that thing.”

She pointed the pistol upwards, fired two shots and aimed the barrel at his forehead before he could move. “Sugah, the next round is gonna light up your head like the Fourth of July unless you start walking away right now.”

His hands flew up as he scurried backward in a panic. “Okay, okay. I didn’t mean nothin’.”

Within seconds, the night engulfed his figure but a menacing threat floated through the air. “You’re gonna be sorry about this. Mark my word.”

After a few minutes, Daisy returned to the step. She slid the gun into her purse, surprised to find her hand shaking. Harry sat beside her like a bodyguard, staring into the shadows.

“I think we just made an enemy. It might not be safe for you to sleep outside tonight.”

Amber eyes studied her with a keen sense of understanding. He lay down next to Daisy, resting his head on her knee as she wrapped her arm around his neck.

“Thanks for having my back, Harry. You’re the only male with a lick of sense around here.”

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