Pamela Fagan Hutchins | Updates

A Family Reunion: The Story Behind the Story of Red Grade

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Fri, 26 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Talk about a slow burn... I wrote the first Jenn Herrington book during the pandemic and have only released one every 1.5 years since then. For me, that's glacial pace, but absence makes the heart grow fonder with those we love (or so they say), so for Red Grade, I decided to further that concept with a giant "family reunion."

First, I will admit I've had the concept in place for this book since the pandemic as well. Polo is a big, big deal in tiny Big Horn, Wyoming in the summer months. How could I resist setting a murder smack dab in the middle of such an intriguing community?

But how I execute the story of the characters within the plot is where the real fun is for me, and, in Red Grade, I hope for you, too.

With no further ado, I give you... plot-centric appearances from the What Doesn't You world. Katie and Nick Connell. Emily Bernal and Jack Holden. Maggie Killian and Hank Sibley. Ava Butler and Collin Kovacs. Michele Lopez Hanson and Rashidi John. Plus the usual cameos from the Patrick Flint books. PLUS plot-centric appearances by Delaney Pace and Leo Palmer from the Delaney Pace series.

It was so much fun doing this, and putting it together in a way that was realistic and necessary. With Patrick Flint and Delaney Pace, it helps that the characters exist in the same area and time frame (albeit Patrick and family have to age forward for the Jenn books). Maggie Killian —same. But Katie and the rest of the gang needed a reason to be in Wyoming, and I gave them one with an engagement party for Maggie and Hank. This also created a mention for Laura Sibley Begay, although she doesn't actually appear. I think she's waiting for her own series someday and withheld herself as leverage on me ;-)

I can't wait to hear what you thought of how all these worlds collided. Drop a line and let me know. Meanwhile, I'm already planning their next get together, because this was so much fun. Like a family reunion but without the random potluck buffet table.

Read it here:

https://amzn.to/4q7m2QN

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Everybody's Gotta Eat: The Story Behind the Story of Her Cold Heart

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Sun, 2 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I could have called this post Building up to a Big Explosion just as much as Everybody's Gotta Eat. Stick with me and I'll explain.

When writing a series with an ongoing narrative arc/crime element, inevitably there comes a time when you reach intermediate plot resolutions. Whether it is two characters initiating the long awaited relationship or the comeuppance of a deliciously evil bad guy, readers are leaning into it. Of course, these are often FALSE resolutions, but still, they give emotional satisfaction. Because this tension has been building over many books (5 previous in the case of Delaney Pace in Her Cold Heart), the buildup creates a lot of pressure that can explode delightfully across the pages. If you're a student of my books (I say that tongue in cheek), you may realize my mind works in 3-book arcs as well. Plots for individual books, of course, but narrative and character arcs over three. Readers can and should expect big things in 3, 6, 9, and so on.

And Her Cold Heart was #6.

That's where we get to the concept of everybody's gotta eat. The world of Kearny County, Wyoming has expanded to include a cast of characters more intertwined and complex with their backstories and hopes for the future in every book. Including all of them is not obligatory in a 3-6-9, but it is optimal, as long as it's in an interesting and meaningful way that brings along their past storylines and their future ones.

I had a blast with HCH because of these two concepts. For the entire series, I've been dying to use Delaney's mechanical and driving skills as a focal point in the book. That means Gabrielle, her 18-wheeler, as well as Shotgun Shelly, her beloved vintage Chevelle.

I definitely wanted to advance the idea that Delaney would have a developing relationship with a federal agency, which would give her a reason to stray beyond the borders of Kearny County.

I had resolved the murder of her father in an earlier book and we have now moved on to her mother.

She has a burgeoning relationship with Leo that is electric but still fraught with uncertainty.

We discover someone else who bears a torch for her.

Her daughters are taking steps toward maturity. Our supporting characters Skeeter and Clara are delightfully, actively present.

And Delaney's world falls apart with only herself to blame.

I love this book. I loved writing it. I think you're going to love it, too.

Please let me know what you think <3

https://amzn.to/4hGTDxZ

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No Matter What You Say, I Am

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Many of you, like me, wrestle with the question of whether you “deserve” to be something. A parent. A computer scientist. An athlete. Or in my case, a writer. Whether I am a good enough writer. Whether I am really even a writer at all or just some Karin Slaughter wannabe.

It can be exhausting, right?

But it persists. I imagine snide comments from unseen naysayers: “So where do you get off, calling yourself a writer? You write for a digital publisher. You’re not a real writer unless your books are on the shelves of Barnes & Noble/your book is adapted for film/your book reaches the New York Times bestseller list.”

But is it only reaching certain arbitrary signposts that makes one a writer? Because I believe I was a writer long before my first book came out.

I am a writer.

To read the whole essay, go to https://booksbywomen.org/no-matter-what-you-say-i-am-by-pamela-fagan-hutchins/

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9 Clues for Killing it in Crime Fiction

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Crime fiction—beloved to readers and authors alike and ever-evolving. I’ve written mystery, thriller, and suspense over the course of my career but most recently have found myself in the deep end of crime fiction. If you aspire to write the dark side yourself, here are some clues on what readers expect from killer crime fiction.

To read my 9 clues, go to https://www.writersdigest.com/killing-it-in-crime-fiction

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Life in Europe and a Fire in Wyoming Meet a Pitch Written Years Ago: The Story Behind the Story of HER BURNING LIES

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Most of you know that I create pitches for several books at a time in my series a year to three ahead of when I write the actual novels. By the time I write the books, the world has changed, my life has changed, and even the series has changed due to the books that have been finished and published in the series ahead of the one at hand.

And so it was with Her Burning Lies, in such a big, beautiful and even horrible way.

First... when I pitched, Eric had retired and we were living the majority of our time in Wyoming with a month or so a year in Maine each year. Weeks after I submitted the pitches, he had gone back to full-time-plus, but with a twist: he was working temporary assignments around the world. And I went with him. Four months in Fredericia, Denmark. Eleven months in Bakersfield, California. Then... a year on the Mediterranean coast of France.

I went from living in Delaney's world and experimenting with the types of things she does to starting Her Burning Lies while immersed in a new culture in France, a foreign language, and a landscape that looked completely different.

The most striking differences, to me as an American, was the age of structures (our own house two hundred years old; structures standing as old as 2000 years!) and the length of the written history in Europe. It made me consider the relative youth of my own country and our continent's written history and captured culture. That led to the extent to which we flirt with European customs and celebrations without understanding their significance—or having any real tie to them.

As an outsider welcomed into a tiny French village with my big furry loud American dogs where very little English was spoken, I also quickly came to appreciate how small the world has become. I pondered the ways the same thing was happening in my even smaller town back in Wyoming, albeit more slowly and to a lesser extent—it was still an unstoppable, inevitable force.

All of this played out in a slight twist in the focus of the plot in Her Burning Lies, which felt like fate. How had I anticipated this story before #ourFrenchyear had been a possibility? I had planned murders with swords, wanting to tie them in to ComicCons and cosplay. Which I still did. But now I could also link them to Renaissance Festivals, the Middle Ages, and Medieval History. My victims had similarities—I'll leave you to discover them—but I could add internationality to the list. Working these elements into my Wyoming book made writing it in Europe that much more fulfilling.

Second... when I pitched, I had to choose a season of the year in which to set the book and an attendant natural phenomenon to challenge Delaney and Leo and drive up the story tension. I pace the books in the series 3-4 months apart in their timeline, so this book was to occur in August, right before the school year was to start for Kat and Carrie. For those that are familiar with the Mountain West, this means wildfire season.

Mind you, our own house underwent a wildfire in 2006. Two barns and two cabins burned to the ground. The trees were lost, all but a handful. The main structure survived due to a gel truck operator who saw the fire and drove from the interstate and gelled most of the house. Only one corner caught fire. The owner and his son drove through the fire line to return and hold hoses on the lit section through the night, even as the fire doubled back toward the house. Luckily it died before it reached them.

Thus, fire is scary and real thing to us. Of all the disasters I've written about, this, to me, would be the worst. And it was time to include it in a book.

I began writing Her Burning Lies in August 2024 in Martigues, France. Two weeks later, the Elk Fires started in the Bighorn Mountains west of Dayton, Wyoming. Within a few days, there were Hot Shot fire workers swarming our home to prepare it for the worst and a seven-mile "last stand" fire line set up half a mile from our home to stop the 100,000-acre monster that had exploded out of control and threatened communities, ranches, homes, people, livestock, wildlife, water sources, and national forests. It was consuming timber, blackening mountainsides, sending herds of animals fleeing, creating choking clouds of smoke, and scaring the daylights out of all of us who live in or have love for the area.

I've had an irrational fear of "writing things into life" ever since I became a novelist. I know I don't have that power. Fiction is just that: fiction. Not real. It's often the reverse. I write fictional versions of things that have already happened, sometimes thinly veiled, sometimes blatant rip offs of my own life. But this time, I was wracked by guilt. I could barely admit the parallel to friends. (In a whisper, "I'm writing a book right now about this same thing happening in Delaney's world. Right here. Just like this.") I hoped when I did they'd tell me I was crazy. But secretly I feared they'd blame me. Chastise me. Hate me.

I'm still not clear which way it went.

But in the end, the fire was contained at the last stand, our house faced nothing but embers and a very thorough bushwhacking, branch trimming, and deadfall removal. The towns were saved. The fire finally burned out when the snows got serious. The grass will grow back next season. The forests... well, not in our lifetime.

As for the book, it was finished with no further real natural disasters occurring. Thank goodness!

According to all concerned (not me: I can never tell), it's my best. But reading is a subjective experience. Each reader brings their own selves and preferences to the words and there the alchemy occurs. Or it doesn't.

I would love to hear how the chemicals react for you with her HER BURNING LIES ....

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WE NEED A DISTRACTION, STAT: The Story Behind the Story of George Finds a Friend

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

How does a very active two-year-old boy react to jet lag after 2.5 days of travel and a trip to the Palace Versailles in Paris?

His parents and grandparents were dancing on the head of a pin to minimize the meltdowns, I'll you that much! And once in meltdown, boy child wanted only his mommy. What's a writing-MELA to do? Make up a story of course, and in the blink of a tear-filled eyelash and mid-scream, George the dragon was born. George was looking for a friend, his cousin Beckett... since George was my French grandson. But George was hidden because people were scared of him even though he was a nice dragon who liked to protect people. We looked for him everywhere and sang a song to coax him out. Finally, Beckett claimed he saw him, and then George even followed us back to the Cote Bleue where he slept in a tree by the front door to keep us all safe. George dominated our conversations and excursions for the next few days. Hurrah for George, the very real best friend/cousin/dragon!

But then it was time for Beckett to go home and dragons can't go on airplanes. Luckily, his eagle-eyed Mommy had seen a George stuffie. I bought it and sent it home with them. When they were back in Texas, she gave it to him, and we explained that George had gotten back to Texas by magic and could also protect him there.

George now sleeps perched over Beckett's bed, where Beckett instructed his mommy to put him.

How can you not write a little story about a dragon after that?

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Hurry Up and Wait, You Big FLOOF: The Story Behind the Story of Walker Prairie

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Way back in 2020, my agent challenged me to write the book that ultimately won me a publishing contract with Hachette UK's Bookouture ("BOT"): Big Horn. Only my editor wanted me to change it substantially or write a different book. I was happy with Big Horn just how it was. I opted to publish Big Horn myself and write Delaney Pace ("DP") for BOT.

Two things happened. The first is that Big Horn slayed and kept slaying for two solid years while I meanwhile had to write three DP books and one Patrick Flint over the first year after Big Horn came out. And move to Denmark. Then Bakersfield. Then France. Have two foot surgeries. Welcome my first two grandkids.

Ya know—life stuff.

Despite BH have the best release of any book I'd ever written (better than DP did, originally, although she has picked up a lot of steam), I did not get the follow-up book out for 18 months. In indie publishing terms, that's a century. And I had a heck of a time pulling myself out of first Delaney's and then Patrick's worlds and back into Jenn's.

But I'd outline 5 follow-up books at the time I wrote Big Horn. So the book I rolled out next was Walker Prairie. It had the planned plots and subplots and the same gritty-but-kinda-cozy feel which some people love and a few hate ;-)

The big surprise in Walker Prairie was that between when I outlined it in 2021 and when I wrote it in 2024, I had acquired two... Alaskan Malamute sled dogs, Willett and Sibley! They seemed like the perfect lighthearted addition to Jenn and Aaron's world, so I wrote them in, and just like in real life, they proceeded to WOO and HOWL and JUMP AROUND until they'd pretty much hijacked the book. The plot remained the same. But the adventure elements surrounding the climactic scenes changed to feature two beautiful, often-naughty, and occasionally terrifying FLOOFS. (My term for fluffy goofs)

So, whether you pick up Walker Prairie because you're dying to continue with Jenn, Aaron, Kid, and Jeremiah Johnson, or because you love gritty-cozy romantic legal thrillers, or Wyoming mysteries, or just love books with FLOOFS, I am delighted to tell you that the wait is over and Walker Prairie is finally here.

(And I love the book!)

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Being Married to an Arapaho Gypsy: The Story Behind the Story of Her Forgotten Shadow

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

My husband Eric’s great-great grandmother was Arapaho, adopted by his Caucasian great-great-great grandparents. There was a history at the time of children being removed from the reservations for schooling or adoption that was not always with the blessing of the birth parents. We know nothing about her before she joined their family. In fact, my husband has done DNA testing hoping to discover Arapaho relations by shared DNA. That missing chunk of her past and the possible reasons for it gnaws at her family.

Eric’s maternal grandmother migrated from Hungary to the United States alone at the age of eighteen. What courage! She self-described her upbringing as Gypsy and did not return to Hungary before the death of her own parents. The family has often wondered whether she was moving to something or away from something. She always said it was because she wanted to be an American.

These women’s genes would later merge into a beautiful blend across generations. They intrigue and inspire me, as do my own forebears, among them many strong women. I hope at some point Delaney will discover a Hungarian ancestor. That would be fun to write, someday. But it is the adopted Arapaho girl who influenced my desire to write Her Forgotten Shadow.

My deepest thanks to both women. You would be very proud of the man who carries on your legacy as well as his wonderful (grown) children.

I wrote Her Forgotten Shadow write after the birth of my first granddaughter. I think as a result I was really dialed in to how hard it is to “grow up girl” and to my instinct to protect all girls. Combined with the long-term travesty of how much more dangerous it is to grow up Native girl in North America and Eric's Arapaho great grandmother, this book practically wrote itself. If this topic pulls at your heart, there are many great resources available online to read by searching on Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls. For a wonderful account of Native Americans in the modern West, I recommend the documentary White Buffalo: Voices of the West.

You can get a copy of Her Forgotten Shadow here: https://www.amazon.com/Her-Forgotten-Shadow-completely-unputdownable-ebook/dp/B0DCCB5WR9

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Climb Every Mountain: The Story Behind the Story of Skin and Bones

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

My father—the real life character Patrick Flint is based on—never met a mountain he didn't want to climb. In my childhood, he limited himself to the ones he could drag his wife and kids up with him. As we got older, those mountains got taller. His yearning grew sharper. His climbs became more ambitious.

My brother and I moved on to our adult lives, only occasionally joining him, usually for day trips up Wheeler Peak in New Mexico, although Paul aka Perry has been known to climb Wyoming's Cloud Peak a time or two.

Dad's main climbing partner became his brother, but most climbs he soloed. From a home base in Angel Fire, New Mexico, he'd make early morning day trips into Colorado, picking off the fourteeners (peaks fourteen thousand feet and higher).

His appetite for the sport grew. He climbed Kilimanjaro with my mother where he met a climbing guide named Peter Whitaker. Peter also guided a European mountain trek my parents went on.

At this point Mom opted out, and I started having babies.

My dad climbed Mt. Rainier (as did my ex and my brother) and dreamed of the seven summits, since Rainier is such a good training mountain for them, and since he'd already bagged one of the seven in Kilimanjaro. The seven summits are the seven highest peaks on each continent. A man who has had seven or eight back surgeries probably isn't the best candidate for them, unless he has a will of iron and the constitution of an ox, both of which my dad has.

He booked Aconcagua with Peter Whitaker, South America's tallest peak.

In the meantime, he flirted with rock climbing but quickly discovered on a terrifying trip to Wyoming's Tetons that vertical was not his thing.

The Aconcagua climb was a one month trip, most of which in 1985 was outside communication range with my mother. My parents have been married since they were 18 and 19. They are very close. This didn't sit well with "Susanne," but she was supportive.

Dad made the trek.

I was there for their tearful reunion in an Uncle Julio's parking lot in Fort Worth where my dad—who summited successfully—whispered in her ear "never again." Their love story trumped mountain climbing, which I guess is the real summit. The pinnacle of human experience, in my opinion: a deep, lasting love.

What, besides missing her, changed his mind?

Near death. Witnessing and partnering to prevent another person dying in a fall. And realizing that he didn't want to die and leave her alone (or miss that time with her) over a mountain.

Not every climber feels this way. Most don't. But ole Patrick Flint is a softie. Yes, he loves his hobbies. Yes, he has a lot of them. Deep down though, as we all know, he puts his family first.

And that is the story behind the story of Skin and Bones.

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The Story Behind the Story of Her Last Cry: The Tortoise Still Finishes the Race

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

It turns out that writing a new series for a new publisher messed with my mojo. On top of that, we experienced 3 close deaths in the family during this time frame, I had two surgeries, our youngest blessed us with our first two grandbabies, we got an Alaskan Malamute puppy, we had an historic winter (25-feet of snow at our house, -60 F wind chills), Eric and I spent four months to-and-from-Europe, our senior Malinois passed, we moved to Maine for the summer only to be relocated to Bakersfield, and our older Alaskan Malamute got in a death feud with our senior Boston terrier.

While normally I easily write three books a year and have had a few recent spurts of five books—this is “successful indie author pace”—I took fifteen months to write just these three Delaney Pace novels. Even if my life had allowed my 100% speed, the rhythm of working with a traditional (albeit digital) publisher was different with many parties involved and built in time lags. I had planned to work on Patrick Flint, Jenn Herrington, and some What Doesn’t Kill You novellas in those pockets, but I found it impossible to move between series. A lot of it may have been overwhelm and burnout.

So it was that I found myself staring down the barrel of Her Last Cry with barely enough time left and my brain in complete rebellion. The beginning was easy. I had a brilliant visual in my mind of the "launching crime." The weather. The weapon. The setting. But, of course, as soon as I tried to write the story, it was clear the synopses wouldn’t work. I literally did not know who the killer was until the point in the book when I had to reveal the killer, which meant a lot of rewriting. And the version I sent to my editor literally had chapters that said nothing but “insert very thrilling and extended kick ass scene here where Delaney does X and bad guy does Y – trust me on this.”

The crazy thing was, my editor did trust me. Although it was the hardest book to write so far in the series for me, my editor loved it and it was the easiest to finish. (Ain’t gonna lie: Her Silent Bones was a bitch of a rewrite. But Her Last Cry was blessed with little more than a kiss and a hug.)

With all books, I start with the premise that my characters will tell me the story as long as I put in sufficient potential bad guys with sufficient motivation. In a perfect writer’s world I want everyone to be a suspect! And that is what came to pass.

I also finished the book with two story twists that completed this three-book character arc and launch us into the next three. They were 100% unplanned. AND I HAVE NO IDEA YET WHERE THEY WILL TAKE US! But Delaney and Leo told me to include them, and, faithful scribe I—I did.

Catch Delany in Her Silent Bones, Her Hidden Grave, and Her Last Cry in ebook, audio, or print, here: https://amzn.to/3Th7dOy

p.s. We aren't going to talk here about the Patrick Flint and Jenn Herrington books that didn't get written on schedule (they're coming!) or the What Doesn't Kill You novellas that I don't know when I can write or the old Laura Sibley Begay half-written book or the romance called Polarity that I am ten percent into. For now, I'll just focus on what I can deliver while keeping my priorities and sanity. ;-)

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The Story Behind the Story of Her Hidden Grave: You Don't Have to Be Right to Write

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Funny but true: my editor gave me the titles for the books in this series before I’d written them, based on my synopses. And I—because I’m a genius—didn’t write them down and remembered the second one wrong.

When I sat down to write #2, I thought I was writing Her Silent Grave and that #3 would be Her Silent Cry. I was like, um, okay, I’ve got this, I need a grave in a very silent location.

Turns out it was Her HIDDEN Grave. My location was not hidden, although it was remote. Luckily, my editor greenlighted it.

Ultimately, this is one of my favorite books I’ve ever written. Go figure.

When Eric and I brainstormed it, we were trying to think of a great, atmospheric visual for the murder scene (which ended up being the opening chapter of the book). As soon as I had decided who the victims would be, which occurred mostly in the six months before I starting writing the series, the story wrote itself. Except for one hiccup. I had envisioned teenage boys, but my editor named the book HER Hidden Grave. So, I gender swapped one of my victims, and we were good to go.

Just goes to show that my Marine Cobra pilot brother’s old favorite expression is true: flexibility is the key to air power. Or writing crime fiction.

Catch Delany in Her Silent Bones, Her Hidden Grave, and Her Last Cry in ebook, audio, or print, here: https://amzn.to/3Th7dOy

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The Story Behind the Story of Her Silent Bones: Baby Just Say Yes

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Confession before I start writing the stories behind the stories for the Detective Delaney Pace novels: it is super hard to avoid spoilers!!! But I promise, I’ll give away less than the Amazon descriptions, so it is safe to read on.

I brainstorm stories with my creative, brilliant husband Eric. He’s not a writer, but he’s a fabulous story partner. The storyboarding process for Delaney took us about six months and included six books. But it was not straightforward, because I wanted to write Delaney as a private investigator and street fighter. Think Spenser for Hire meets Yellowstone, with Beth as the lead.

I wrote a few chapters. My editor loved everything about them… except… Delaney could not be a PI. And, oh yeah, she could be tough as nails, but no mixed martial arts or street fighting, as that was a reader turn off.

Okay, I could see that.

We retooled the original story, in which Delaney—single, childless, and restless—is pulled from ice road trucking to the hometown that haunts her to care for her tween niece Kateena, who has been orphaned. The family bar where she witness her father’s murder comes with the package. She returns to her former job as a deputy with her mentor, the sheriff, but not willingly. She’s still a badass, but not in a competitive capacity.

Green light on Delaney from my editor.

We returned to the original story, which includes a meet-cute with her “partner,” Leo Palmer, and a dead body on her first night back at work. And surprise! The deceased is her sister-in-law, who we already thought was six feet under.

That’s all I can tell you, other than it was still quite a journey learning the story structure my editor was looking for. I read books on it, I studied authors in the genre, and I charted word count percentages by climactic elements. It was interesting and painful.

Another first for me in this series is getting closer to the victim and the criminal. It was important to me that the story not glorify depravity yet satisfy readers hungry for thrills and chills. I hope I pulled back from the scene at the right moment to leave it to the imagination (or not).

This isn’t my first rodeo with trying new things. I embraced dramatic women’s fiction with Michele Lopez Hanson, sexual freedom with Ava Butler (although believe me sexy and erotica are not the same thing—there is very little actual sex or body parts in the books), and a grittier, more wounded protagonist in Maggie Killian. I tried my hand at a married partner romantic suspense in the form of a legal thriller. And most notably I dialed back to do semi-historical adventurous family drama mystery with medical twists (yeah, a lot) in Patrick Flint. You guys have stayed with me through it all. I thank you for being here now.

Get ready for some thrills, chills, twists, turns, and all the feels (you know I always have to deliver all the feels) in Her Silent Bones.

I hope you LOVE Delaney, Leo, Kateena, and the gang as much as I do.

Catch Delany in Her Silent Bones, Her Hidden Grave, and Her Last Cry in ebook, audio, or print, here: https://amzn.to/3Th7dOy

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The Story Behind the Story of Delaney Pace: My Second in a Knife Fight

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A few years ago, my husband Eric posted that we were giving away rusty, fire-damaged barbed wire. One of the takers was Daisy, who showed up with her family to claim some to use for a project. We soon learned that she’d given up oil field trucking in North Dakota—and a side gig as a reality star— for taking over the family homestead, raising her second daughter twenty years after her first, and being a service to others through philanthropy and her physical labor. She was a key player in organizing one of the largest agricultural relief efforts in the history of the United States through a huge convoy of truckers, donors, and volunteers after historic fires devastated America’s Midwest. She and her family raise (and butcher) a large flock of turkeys every year to feed 300+ people at a free community Thanksgiving dinner.

Daisy’s the one you want as your second in a knife fight, who could have been a model or actress instead of a rodeo star and extreme trucker, and she’s the friend you can knock back a cold one with or take to meet your pastor (after you’ve done your best to prepare them for the encounter). If by some small miracle you find her in a church, you won’t see her sitting in the pews... she’s the one standing in the back. She was forged in the kind of volcanic upheaval that can result in smoking rubble or beautiful rocky mountain ranges. Daisy, through character and force of will, is the latter.

If you enjoy Delaney as much as I do, it is because of my friend Daisy. Daisy, thank you for agreeing to let me reshape you in fiction. You were the perfect muse when Bookouture asked me to write detective crime fiction with a badass female protagonist with wild and wonderful Wyoming as the setting.

Catch Delany in Her Silent Bones, Her Hidden Grave, and Her Last Cry in ebook, audio, or print, here: https://amzn.to/3Th7dOy

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The Story Behind the Story of DETECTIVE Delaney Pace: Start With the Real Thing

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

When it comes to creating a fictional law enforcement world, you have to start with the real thing. Unfortunately, I have no personal experience in law enforcement, and at first I balked when Bookouture asked me to write it.

Then I phoned a friend. I am so lucky to have Police Chief Travis Koltiska of Sheridan, Wyoming in my corner for this. (Pictured above with his wife Mandy, dressed for Halloween as Yellowstone's Beth and Rip) A fourth generation native of Wyoming (with his kids the fifth generation like Delaney), Travis is a bit larger than life. I know him as the generous guy with the heart for his family and animals, a big laugh, and endless stories, but trust me that you would not want to be the perp who faces him! Which is ironic since we met him through his wife after my husband accidentally broke into a house she was listing for sale. (It’s a long story that ends in years of friendship, and I swear, it was an accident!)

I’ve included anecdotes, quotes, history, and ideas from Travis in many books. I even have a Deputy Travis who shows up from time to time in several interconnected Wyoming series. This time, he took it a step further and acted as my beta reader and coach. Any mistakes are mine alone. He improved the book immeasurably and put up with dumb questions in texts all hours of the day and night. Please email Travis some love through me as I am praying he wants to continue in this role!!

Thanks, Travis, for your friendship and your help. Without your support, I would never have had the courage to write detective Delaney Pace.

Catch Delany in Her Silent Bones, Her Hidden Grave, and Her Last Cry in ebook, audio, or print, here: https://amzn.to/3Th7dOy

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The WDKY Original Songs (Or Snippets Thereof)

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Songs. Snippets of Songs. Ideas for Songs. My characters, especially Ava and Maggie, have a lot of them. Here's a few of my favorite passages from the books.

Bombshell (Ava, from BOMBSHELL)

I relive the day, revel in it. We finished the songs for my demo, and “Bombshell” is the song I was born to sing. I swear, Kenny had tears in his eyes when I recorded the vocals. I have tears in my eyes now.

“Money, baby. Money,” he’d said.

I sing it, my breath hitching as my imagination shifts. Now Collin’s teasing me with the pressure of his hand.

“Bitch a bombshell, blowing up on me. You the ignition to her TNT. Mortar flying, I the enemy. Bitch a bombshell, but she ain’t the half of me.” A heavy crash of instrumentation and percussion in the chorus on the word bombshell: “Bitch a bombshell, baby. Bitch a bombshell, baby.”

Stranger (Ava, from STUNNER)

Stranger, stranger, here you linger, stranger, stranger, full’a danger, who are you to me, why cannot you let me be, stranger.

Stunner (Ava, from STUNNER)

I count a beat in four-four time against my leg then start to sing. Maxine is first to join me, on the snare drum. Joe follows quickly. The crowd quiets until you can hear a pin drop in the auditorium. The Five Cs. That’s what this song is about, without putting it in exactly those words. The things that impact me most, the body blows, the highs, the lows, the love, my home, the missing pieces of myself, all of it.

Things get hazy

Head goes under

Fight it baby

You’re the stunner

I miss Collin as I sing, and I can hear the poignancy of my need for him coming out in my voice. Goddess of the morning after. Yes, that’s true. But I’m so much more than that, and with him I can be all of Ava. I adopt a totally different attitude in Stunner, a woman who feels the pain of the morning after, and isn’t afraid to let it show.

Are you ready for some Maggie in LIVE WIRE, SICK PUPPY, and DEAD PILE?

Maggie imbibes ~ Maggie radiates ~ Maggie transforms

Speaking of imbibing, we'll be lifting a glass along with her in a giveaway of a big ole gift basket of Koltiska Distillery merchandise (liqueur-infused coffee, mugs, and more). The winning readers in my Reader Appreciation Retreat Contest will attend a Maggie Trilogy Celebration at Koltiska in Sheridan, Wyoming, as well!

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Unreality (Ava, from STUNNER)

Chen rescued my puffy eyes and I survived my interviews, but they were even more excruciating than usual. I denied, denied, denied. When they were over, Louella suggested we channel my pain into music.

I hesitate. I want to beg off to wallow, but Louella cuts that avenue of escape off.

“You think right now this press is bad, and it’s not fun, but the good thing is that it’s protecting who you really are. Let them print the unreal stuff, and you keep the real you private.”

My jaw falls. “That it.”

“What’s it?”

“We write about the unreal.”

So it turned out we actually had a productive writing afternoon—Unreality is the tentative title of the song we roughed out—until I begged off for a nap. I sobbed myself to sleep, only to toss and turn with a nightmare that restarted every time I closed my eyes. In it, a zombie ripped my breast off with his teeth. It was gory, disturbing, and not too hard to understand.

Gone (Ava and Katie, from KNOCKOUT)

I float a lyric out on the wind, one from “Done Gone,” a song Katie helped write. “I was there, but now I’m not.”

Katie turns back to me and sings the next line in her high, twangy voice. “Done gone, done gone.”

“I’m the one who won’t be caught.” My hands get into the action, my long nails carving a hole in the sky as I automatically perform the number.

“Done gone, done gone.”

We harmonize on the chorus. “I’m done gone, done gone. Done gone, done gone. Baby I’m good and done gone, done gone.” The air between us vibrates as our voices weave together. They create something bigger and better than either alone, and something I’ve never found with another singer. My heart soars.

Pretty Is (Ava, from KNOCKOUT)

The longer I sit, the more paranoid I become, until I’ve had enough. I have to give my mind something else to do. I force myself to sing through my entire tour set list, softly, under my breath, and when I’ve worked my way through it, I start on the songs for the upcoming album. I pause as new lyrics interrupt the words flowing from my mouth by memory.

I type them into a memo on my phone as I say them. “Pretty is, as pretty does, throwing punches, just because.” I hum a few notes. I can send it to Louella later, see what she can do with it. I hit save and start singing again.

I am the Fire (Ava, from KNOCKOUT)

I need to work on the songs for next week, but as soon as I step into the dark studio, all bets are off. I flick on a soft lamp, light up some incense, and activate a water feature. “I am the fire, the fire on the mountain,” I whisper. I remember that feeling of escape and freedom on the trail when I danced past the sugar mill. I start scribbling and humming, my imagination fueled by Taylor and his ’Lise.

***

For three hours, the show goes off with barely a hitch. I’m a bundle of nerves as I take the stage for “I Am the Fire.” Not only is it a new song so the crowd won’t know it, which is always tough, but it’s the number Karen and Chen have dubbed “the redefinition of Ava’s goddess.” We’ve added some orchestral studio musicians to deepen the emotional power of the statement the song makes. My heart swells as the band plays the intro. I walk to the center of the stage on bare feet in an angelic white Roman goddess gown. I am Vesta. Gold cuffs ring my arms from wrist to elbows, with a matching necklace on my collarbone. A gold braided belt nips in my waist. My curls are piled high and spill down my back out a crown of golden leaves.

The crowd gasps and murmurs. By now, they know me well enough as a performer that this is not the Morning After Ava they expect to see. The stage lights shine down on me like moonglow. My crown is a halo. The music lifts me like I have wings, and the words begin to soar from my mouth.

When I sing the chorus, orange, yellow, and red lights bathe my white gown.

I am the fire, the fire on the mountain

Let me rage, let me burn

Can’t be caged

It’s my turn

Just as I reach the last chorus, I see Collin appear in the wings. I put my hand over my chest, and I change the words for him.

I am the fire, the fire on the mountain

For your love, let me burn

Can’t be caged

It’s our turn

When I finish, the theater is so quiet I think for a moment I’m lost in time, by myself in a summer meadow, singing like a druid to a moon. Then the place explodes. The crowd surges upward. The ovation goes on so long, I finally just leave the stage to keep the show on schedule.

Whiskey Sour (Davo, from BUCKLE BUNNY)

He unpacks his guitar and tunes it. He clears his throat a few times. He has a serviceable voice. Not enough to carry a band, but he’s a good backing vocalist.

“Does it have a name?”

“I call it ‘Whiskey Sour.’” He strums the intro chords, then launches into his song.

Maggie keeps her face neutral. It’s a nice song. Catchy lyrics with a beat that makes you want to move your feet. But it’s straight-up country pop.

When he’s done, he puts the guitar on his lap. “What do you think?”

“It’s good.”

“Would you play it?”

“It’s not my vibe.”

“But did you listen to the words?”

“Whiskey sour, harsh and sweet?”

“Yes. You’re the Whiskey Sour in the song. It’s about a woman who’s been hurt, but she’s tough.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Davo puts the guitar on the bed and makes a move toward her.

She backs up a step, but the other bed stops her.

“Can’t you see, Maggie? I’m crazy about you.”

She places a palm on his chest, with the slightest backward pressure. He doesn’t budge. “Davo, stop. That’s not who we are.”

“I know, but it’s who I’d like us to be. We could be great together.”

“We are great together, just like this. Only a little less.”

Plastic Cowgirl (Maggie, from BUCKLE BUNNY)

She doesn’t have time to ruminate on the state of affairs, because at that moment she sees Kaylee Storm walk in.

She looks at Brent. “Son of a bitch.”

Brent follows her gaze and plucks the Jaws theme.

Maggie met Kaylee earlier in the summer, at a different event, and she’s not a fan. Kaylee’s just had a song break into the country charts this month. People cheer for her as she parades around the saloon. Grimacing, Maggie cues the band to play her original, “Plastic Cowgirl.”

Into the mic, she introduces it. “Something makes me want to play this one. Hope you appreciate ‘Plastic Cowgirl.’”

Kaylee’s hugging and high-fiving and doesn’t seem to notice Maggie’s cutting song choice.

Tread Marks (Maggie, from BUCKLE BUNNY)

Maggie dips the fingers of her left hand into the Vaseline she keeps at her feet, then wipes the excess off on a hand towel. She calls out the name of a song from her first album. “‘Tread Marks’ on three.”

Quickly, Davo says, “No, that will break the vibe. Let’s do a few covers while we’ve got the crowd with us.”

Maggie gets the mandolin, calls out the count, picks the opening, and launches into “Tread Marks.” When it’s over, there’s a smattering of halfhearted applause, and the floor has emptied. Cristiano brings the shots.

Maggie says, “Goody. Plenty for me.” She does two.

I Hate Cowboys (Maggie, from SHOCK JOCK)

Maggie pats a four-count against her leg, her toe and head matching time. To the tune of “I Hate Cowboys,” she launches into the lyrics she’d written during the commercial break.

He sends me Jack,

He sends me blow

To get me ready for his show,

Then treats me like a truck stop ho.

As in her single, she speaks the next line, but with her new words. “But do his wife and daughters know? Seriously, somebody call ’em, y’all.” Then she breaks into the chorus.

I hate DJs—none more than Aaron Cryor—I hate DJs.

He won’t play my song

Til I suck his dong.

She switches back into the real words of her song.

I hate cowboys—especially bull riders—I hate cowboys.

Their buckles look funny,

And they call their girls bunnies.

I hate cowboys. And DJs.

And cowboys.

Maggie strums an imaginary chord and holds it with her note, shaking the guitar that’s not there for the last sweet remnants of sound. “I hate cowboys.”

Damn, that felt good.

Troublemaker (Maggie, from LIVE WIRE)

He waits, holding eye contact. Maggie takes in his red flannel shirt and overalls. He’s nearly as wide as he is tall, but not fat. Stocky. Muscular. Boulder-like.

She sips the Koltiska. It’s good. Different from Balcones, but she’s suddenly ready for things in her life to change. She imagines this is what it would taste like to drink out of a cold, clear mountain stream. “Thank you,” she says to the drink buyer.

“I’d know you anywhere.” His eyes grow squinty. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Maggie shakes her head. “I’m sorry—should I?”

“I met you in Minot. At the North Dakota State Fair. Back in 2002. My name is Rudy Simon.”

“Hello, Rudy. Wow, a long time ago.”

“You said you’d play a song for me. ‘Troublemaker.’ Then you didn’t.”

His words don’t stir any recollections, but she doesn’t doubt him. She played a lot of shows in 2002. She also drank a lot of Jack and Coke. “I’m sorry.”

Stranded (Maggie, from LIVE WIRE)

When he left, Maggie had poured herself another drink and done something she hadn’t done in ten years: written music. The song that came to her is far from complete, but she’s calling the work-in-progress “Stranded.”

Double (Maggie, from LIVE WIRE)

After dinner, Andy leaves. His revelation about a bloody Hank has Maggie wound up. She crawls in bed with her guitar and songwriting notebook. Sipping Koltiska on ice, she hums a melody to match her mood, then picks it on the guitar in G minor with augmented chords, which Louise sings along with.

When you tell your truth

It comes in twos

That way you

Don’t have to choose

Now your double

Is my trouble

Make it go, make it go away

She jots down the words then writes “Double” by Maggie Killian at the top of the page. By the time she finishes roughing out the song, she’s deliciously, gloriously, totally drunk. The empty Koltiska bottle sits on the bed beside her. Even in her inebriated state, though, she knows when she’s on to something, and this song is something. It’s moodier than most of what she used to write. Hell, she’s moodier than she used to be. She’s a closing-in-on-middle-age woman with a life that’s gone off the rails. She’s earned her moody creds. Fuck happy. Fuck ironic. Fuck everything.

Too Much Koltiska Last Night (Maggie, from LIVE WIRE)

“Maggie Killian.” Maggie sets up a cup and a hazelnut cream pod, and starts the Keurig. She’s starting to drag. Too much Koltiska last night. The beginning of a song.

Never mind Don't Call (Maggie, from LIVE WIRE)

Maggie smiles, despite her day and her own damn self. Most nineteen-year-old boys don’t ask formerly famous musicians to play “Amazing Grace.” They ask for her big hits. “Buckle Bunny.” “I Hate Cowboys.” “Never mind, Don’t Call.”

Or Miranda frickin’ Lambert.

I Hate Cowboys (Maggie, from DEAD PILE)

Wally claps her on the shoulder. “You’re amongst new friends. And I’m not sure you have much cover to blow. Now, give us a treat.”

She makes eye contact with Andy and nods at him. Into the mic, she says, “I Hate Cowboys, key of E. This one is for my friend, Andy.”

Just as she launches into the music as familiar to her as her own breath, she sees Andy isn’t looking at her. He’s looking past her. She glances back and catches Penny’s gaze locked on Andy. A chuckle escapes her, but she ends it in time to sing the lyrics Hank inspired so many years ago. She strums and sings along to the accompaniment of the blue grass musicians, aware a buzz is growing in the room. How long has it been since she sang this song in front of humans? Ten years? Twelve? When she reaches the ending, she sings the chorus one last time.

I hate cowboys—especially bull riders—I hate cowboys.

Their buckles look funny,

And they call their girls bunnies.

I hate cowboys. I hate bull-ridin’ cowboys.

She shakes the guitar gently, drawing out the sound of the last note.

The saloon patrons are on their feet, cheering. Calling her name. The gig is definitely up, her secret out. Andy basks in the glow and nods at her. Wally claps her on the back so hard she falls forward from the stool.

Oh, my gosh, how I love my musical women. I hope you do, too.

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Redneck Writer Road Trip Book Tour

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

After four-weeks together exploring the greatness that is the Northwestern US for our Redneck Writer Road Trip Book Tour and being together 24/7 and my plan to remain in Dallas with Eric for a week at the end of it, returning as a a duo to Houston late, late Friday, things had changed. I had to go all the way back to Houston on MONDAY night.

Teenagers. Waddya gonna do?

Well, I did miss them, a little, and Layla too, and Petey most of all. So . . . we're motoring into the DFW-area as I type this, to pick up hundreds and hundreds of Preventing Workplace Harassment books for me to give away at some of the Human Resources conferences I am speaking at this fall. I'll drop Eric at his hotel, wait for traffic to die off, and drive away, without him.

NO! I'm not known for emotionality, but I suspect I'm going to shed a few tears.

Meanwhile, I have this tour to reflect on, and all that has happened since I went on the road last year. Here's what two summers looks like:

60-cities-in-60 days: In the summer of 2013, we drove 17,000-miles across 37-states in 68-days to 60-cities in which we had 60-book signings, 30-interviews, and a handful of speaking engagements as well. We focused on chain stores, and, over the summer, we sold 3000-books. Leaving Annalise and What Kind of Loser Indie Publishes, and How Can I Be One, Too? came out by summer's end. It was exhausting and very difficult to recover.
- In August I took over the Houston Writers Guild as President. Saving Grace went to #7 on Nook and #34 on Kindle in November of 2013. In February of 2014, Finding Harmony came out, Leaving Annalise hit #134 on Kindle, and the Houston Press named me to Houston's Top 100 Creatives of 2014. By April, Finding Harmony had been dubbed a Quarter-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, and the Houston Press honored me as one of Houston's Top 10 Authors of 2014.
Redneck Writer Road Trip: In the summer of 2014, we drove 7000-miles over 18-states to 14-cities/towns in 28-days for 14-events, focusing on on the Northwest and going where my readers are: libraries, indie book stores, coffee shops, bakeries, and even RV parks. While we were on the road, Saving Grace went "perma-free" and in one month 200,000 free copies were downloaded. Meanwhile, my respectable sales of my full-price books went from less than 50 a day to over 300 per day in the next four weeks, with some days nearer to 600; we sold 9000 books in four-weeks. Both Leaving Annalise and Finding Harmony moved into the top 1000 on Kindle, COMPLETELY UNPROMOTED, and stayed there. Saving Grace went from 200-reviews to 400+, and kept its 4.5-star rating; Leaving Annalise went to over 100, with a 4.7-star rating, and Finding Harmony went to over 80 with a crazy-high 4.9-star rating. My only regret during this heady time was that I didn't already have my next series of novels out, although Going for Kona was available for pre-order and even had its own fully-funded Kickstarter campaign. The Redneck Writer Road Trip was a blast, and I came back bouncing up and down on my tippy toes, ready to write.
- So what will the next nine months bring? The release of Going for Kona, and the writing of my next series, which I hope to launch before Thanksgiving holidays next year.

Phew.

That's all I've got.

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60-Cities-in-60-Days Book Tour Wrap-Up

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

60 cities.

60 days, plus a few driving and mental health days, for a total of 68.

38 states.

17,012 miles.

Events: 63.

Events missed: 0.

Event tardies: 0.

Event reschedules: 0.

One author.

Five full-time humans to make it happen (1 Pamela, 1 Marie, 1/2 Eric, 1/3 Stephanie, 1/3 Allie, 1/3 Heidi, and 1/2 other human consisting of stints by Susie, Clark, Susanne, and Liz :-D).

Revolving companions: seven (Liz, Eric, Marie, Susie, Clark, Stephanie, Susanne).

Full-time companion: one . . . Petey!

One Bookmobile. One car rental for one day while Bookmobile was NOT getting repaired.

45 RV parks. Four hotels. Seven home stays.

Five traffic stops and warnings, and ZERO tickets!

Parts broken on RV: 1 toilet, 1 water pump, 1 generator, 1 water heater cover, 1 water pump cover, 1 ladder (before we ever left), 1 rear view camera, 1 microwave, 1 cabinet/counter set broken free from moorings, all rear lights.

Caps lost from RV: 2 gas, 2 water tank.

Books sold in stores: ~3,000 paperback.

Books sold in ecommerce during same period: 1,000+.

Media: 6 TV, 8 radio, countless web and print (We're still trying to track them all down).

Speeches: six.

Clean gut cleanse diets completed on the road: four (Eric, Pamela, Marie, and Susanne).

Wackos: innumerable.

Awesome people = 100 x the number of wackos ;-)

Subscribers added to new release 2x yearly eblast: 1000.

Books written on the road: 2 (Loser and the Summer 2014 release Redneck Writer Road Trip ;-D).

Books released while on the road: two (Leaving Annalise and Loser).

Book Tour Blogs: 28 (nearly 40,000 words).

Other writing done on road: nine September Leaving Annalise blog tour posts.

Ugly mood swings: fewer than expected.

Absolute Pamelot breakdowns: two, but I rallied and had my family around me, so all was well.

Hours slept: the DPS would not want me to admit this.

Accomplishments: survival. Stay tuned as we figure out this fall whether we will achieve some of our goals as a result of this massive endeavor.

It was the experience of a lifetime! Enjoy some of my favorite photos from the journey, and thanks for following along.

Before :)

Victoria!

Waco!

Abilene!

The Scarlet Ibis!

Carlsbad!

Albuquerque!

Santa Fe!

Hutchinson, KS!

Manhattan, KS

The Bookmobile!

Everywhere!

Kansas City/Overland Park!

Des Moines!

The photographer loves us.

Minneapolis/Eagan!

Racine/Milwaukee!

My darlin' :)

Chicago!

Carmel/Indy!

Columbus!

Pittsburgh!

Syracuse!

Launched on the road.

Boston!

Hartford!

Lake Eerie...

Cleveland!

Clinton, NJ!

Clinton

Baltimore!

Woopsie in Wheeling WV

Philly!

Cincinnati!

Lexington!

Murfreesboro/Nashville!

A hard act to follow on TV.

Atlanta/Roswell!

Charlotte!

3 Plus You (WCRB Chattanooga)

My sweet niece

My mommy, and savior during 1st meltdown (on the rt)

Raleigh!

The talented Happy Mama Tanji Dewberry.

Charleston!

The Low Country and my Tarzan

Savannah Writers Group

Born on the road.

Jacksonville!

You may also like, Barnes and Noble, to stock these books :)

With friends like these...

Auburn!

:-) Open a can of some.

Birmingham!

Jonesboro, AR!

First non-rain in 7 weeks: Joplin.

Cassandra in Springfield!

Clark Kent and his admiring St. Louis public.

Sisters in crime, St. Louis.

Tulsa!

OKC, right before Clark Kent corrected me.

Benton/Little Rock!

Shreveport!

The meth lab RV park in East TX, Allie & Petey.

Tyler!

Houston!

The infamous Camilla flowers.

Laughing about the Camilla flowers.

Wichita Falls!

OLD friends ;-)

Moms and daughters.

The Hastings Georgia staff came to PARTY :)

Besties (open your eyes, Eric)

[

Colorado Springs!

Steph and Petey, camo twins.

Boulder/Denver!

Reno!

Salt Lake City!

Ah, in Salt Lake City!

Driver change/photo opp.

San Fran.

San Mateo!

San Fran/San Mateo!

Irvine!

Irvine: B&N, and WEW

Yay, Eric is smiling!

Cousins-in-law. in San Diego!

San Diego!

Surprise/Phoenix!

Tucson: spa, ah. With Susanne.

El Paso!

NEW BRAUNFELS!!!!!!

Done!

Welcome waggin'

After.

<3 <3 <3

Pamelot

p.s. Out of all these cities, we ended up with no pictures of only Jackson, MS and High Point, NC. Not too bad!

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Give 'Em What They Ask For: Ava Butler's Painkillers plus Virgin Islands Fish and Fungi

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Ava’s Painkillers

Mix 2 parts orange juice, 2 parts pineapple juice, 1 part Coco Lopez, and 1 part rum in a blender. Serve over ice sprinkled with nutmeg. Drink at your own risk. You welcome.

Virgin Islands Fish and Fungi

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Big Sky, Magic Fire

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I’m often asked where I write and what inspires me. My answer has always been that I like to write outside. Pedantic, though true enough. But that isn’t the complete answer. As a writer, becoming really clear about what results in the creation of my best work requires inner transparency, clarity, and honesty. It begs experimentation. It demands I listen.

I write “outside” in a variety of spaces because in order for me to release—or even find—the words from inside me, I need inner space, away from my Type A self and the myriad reasons/stressors that I can find, gather, or manufacture as an excuse not to write. So the question of where and how I am most creative, and its honest answer, is important.

I’m going to try to answer it.

Today I am awake in a completely dark house. It’s 10 degrees outside and snowy. With the windows around me, curtains back, and no houses in my vantage point, I feel as though I am out there, even though I am toasty warm inside on the couch by an old stove.

The sun is about to rise.

The badlands to the east are a dark heartline against the lightening sky. There’s an ohm-like hum as pink and orange seep upward, infusing the underbelly of barely blue clouds and splashing out over the snow-swept slopes of the Bighorns. The hum rises in pitch and intensity. Slowly, the Big Sky catches fire in a ring around the Earth. Deer rise in a graceful dance, tails and ears twitching as they listen, button noses high, seeking messages from the Wind. The hum reaches its crescendo, a hallelujah chorus to the morning, and the colors thin out, melting into a liquid gold that trickles overhead. The Fireball rises over the horizon, and the grateful world kneels at its feet. A chimera shimmers and I catch it in my startled chest. The exultant chorus gives over to the sweet morning song of the prairie birds. The day has begun.

My day has begun, and by participating in this timeless ritual, my heart has been laid open, my mind cleared, and my core exposed to the essence of Place. In the span of this sunrise, the chimera—the collective histories of all that was before me—has seeped into me. Because of this place and its miracle, what was empty in me is filled. I’ve stolen a piece of magic from the sky.

So it turns out that I need the outdoors for my writing because it fills me with iridescent magic before the everyday can mire me down. That magic becomes words on a page if I move quickly enough to capture it before it fades away. I may be writing about Texas or the Virgin Islands or New Mexico, but this time spent in the great outdoors of Wyoming will move through me long after I leave. It’s not a coincidence that I was able to finish the revision of Hell to Pay or that the outline for Fighting for Anna and that the brainstorming for the Ava trilogy and writing of the Maggie books went so well in Snowheresville, WY.

And that is my answer. That is where I write, how, and why.

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Not for Sissies

Pamela Fagan Hutchins — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Imagine a woman who knows she enjoys this soft friendly dog who likes to get in cars, even though she can’t remember its name or gender (you can bet she never blanks out when it comes to #TeamPetey, ha!), but that’s okay because she doesn’t always remember who our kids’ parents are, just that she loves all of them, and us. Emotional memory is powerful like that, seeming to outlast even memories of youth and jingles and nursery rhymes and the re-discovered joy of playing with sticks and leaves when she sits outside and of fiddling with trash from the console of the car (ignoring someone directly talking to her by name in her wonder over an empty Gu package), until eventually those all leak away, too.

But not yet for her. She is still very aware she likes to ride with the sun on her face and that she prefers to do it with a hat (which was confiscated on the day of this picture when she’d filled it full of foul armadillo shell pieces and stinky deer bones to ask what they were), so our ORV/Razr was a lovely surprise every day. And horses. Every day she became braver and more in love with horses and was elated to learn we had some! At the end of two weeks she had an epiphany, that once she had a horse (two in fact) and it was a beautiful moment for her, and bittersweet for us as she wondered if there was ever a way to see a picture of the horse again (there is, her son included Peanut Butter in a slide show a few years ago, one she used play incessantly on her computer, running through the hundreds of images and cherishing the memories they evoked, while they were still clear to her).

Imagine, if you dare, imagine the courage it takes to face each new day like this, with most current things new and scary again, like 50 First Dates, but without Adam Sandler’s helpful video for Drew Barrymore’s character to get you up to speed. Imagine the leap of faith and trust every morning, the pretending and hoping no one notices. We helped her keep a diary each day, although it was a) mostly oh-so-slowly dictated by us to her to write down because she couldn’t recall her day and b) augmented by us before she left to make sure the things she enjoyed all made it in. We pasted in and captioned pictures. Each day she read haltingly from the beginning all the way through before she would attempt the current day, and each time, she expressed shock (and asked the same questions about) the things in it. Even on the plane ride home, Eric once again took her through it over and over. I doubt she’ll open it again unless someone picks it up and shows it to her—the near past is *past* (bits and pieces come in and out of focus) and she doesn’t notice much around her unless someone gets her specifically onto something—but maybe I’m wrong.

On the last night of her visit, we reminded her she’d spent a few weeks in St. Croix before she came to visit us. “I did? When? I really did?” she asked, and burst into tears. The anxiety of traveling home, even with Eric, was crippling and in those moments she blurts out anything. Like, “how can I be sure I won’t starve while I’m here?” Or “I don’t know why no one believes I didn’t go on a church mission to Haiti last year, even the people at church don’t believe me, which is so embarrassing, because I DID (She didn’t, sadly).” Or “but I can’t wear these socks they have holes, and no I didn’t bring other black ones and they have to be black and no I can’t borrow yours” until Eric becomes the parent and has to say firmly, “Mom, I’m putting these socks and shoes on your feet right now and then we’re getting in the car,” because there’s a plane to catch, and no time for the senior-to-toddler moment. It’s when she is talking to your son’s new fiancée who she has only met once before and saying, “But I don’t understand why they won’t let me live here, I would cook and clean and help out and wouldn’t be any trouble, I promise. Why doesn’t anyone *want* me?”

And what is left in those moments is the holding of hands, the sudden smiles, letting her sing the nursery rhymes and agreeing that yes it is amazing she can remember the words to so many, the knowing you can make it happier and easier, for a time, and accepting that you can’t turn back the clock and restore her ability to remember. But you can remember. You can remember all the things she forgot, like the times it was your hand she held and your nursery rhymes she listened to, your socks she put on your struggling feet, and your tears she wiped away. You can remember it all for her, as your kids will for you someday.

Aging is not for sissies, I tell you, not for sissies at all.

(The inspiration for Evangeline Sibley in Live Wire)

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