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Writing Is My Pleasure
Rie McGaha

I'm a writer. It's not what I do, it's who I am. Yes, I am out of the closet and admitting it freely. I was born this way and I can't help it. I am a writer.

I began telling stories long before I could write, but as soon as I learned how to put letters together to make words, I was off and writing. I never wanted to do anything else. When I grew up I wanted to write books. I also wanted to teach school so I could teach other people to write.

I began writing little stories for my cousins and friends. I also read everything I could get me hands on. When I started kindergarten the teacher gave me a reader that I had already read and I told her so. In fact, I had read every book she had in her class and had to get me a first grade reader instead.

By the time I was in the eighth grade I was teaching the fifth grade writing class. I went to a very small school and the teachers thought peer teaching was beneficial to everyone. There were twenty-four kids in the eighth grade and I think I also wrote half of the final papers that year! I also wrote my first full-length novel.

I no longer have it but I wish I did. It was a story about a young woman from Boston who came to the wild, Wild West to teach school. She wound up falling in love with the town sheriff. I'm sure they lived happily ever after but I really don't remember. That was many, many, many years ago.

As I went on to high school, I wrote morose poetry and song lyrics. It was the early '70's and the hippy movement hadn't ended yet. We were still in Vietnam and the peace, love and drop acid movement hadn't ended either. And I lived in California. The perfect breeding ground for a teenager to rebel.

When I became a mother I wrote stories for my kids. As I had more and more kids though, I became too involved with work to support my kids, and working at home to care for my kids. Unfortunately, writing then took a backseat to life. It wasn't until most of the kids had moved out and the ones that were still at home had become teens that I had time to write again.

I didn't begin with the idea of writing for publication. I wrote for the joy and pleasure writing gave me. For the first time in what seemed like eons, I was finally able to do something just for me and it was something I loved. I spent several hours a day tapping away at the keyboard, ignoring everyone, lost in my own little writing world and it was heaven.

Even if I had never become a published author, I would still be tapping away, writing for myself. Perhaps I'd be writing more stories for my grandchildren if I hadn't been published, or perhaps I'd just be writing nonsensical stories that only I understand. Whatever the case, I know I would be writing no matter what else may be going on around me.


Blurb to Closure-
High in the hills above Albuquerque, New Mexico Detective Zachariah Ellison arrives at the scene of a murder, and not just any murder, but one that definitely falls into the “gruesome” category even for a seasoned cop like Zach. When another body is found murdered in much the same fashion, Zach knows he’s got a serial killer on his hands, and to top it off he’s got an assistant district attorney hounding him about the case. As Zach tries to investigate the crimes while sidestepping nosey Amy Logan, a third body is found and Zach hasn’t a clue as to whom the perpetrator might be.

Amy Logan has worked hard to put herself through school and pay for law school on her own and now that she’s secured a position as assistant district attorney in Albuquerque, she’s determined to do everything she can to be the best prosecutor this office has ever seen. And as if luck was following her, she’s been assigned to the biggest homicide case the city has ever seen. The only problem she’s having is the homicide detective who’s leading the investigation—Zach Ellison.


Excerpt-
Zachariah Ellison ducked under the yellow crime scene tape that surrounded the area where the victim had been found. He shook his head as he saw a rookie cop run behind one of the police vehicles and puke. Zach had puked at a crime scene once or twice as well, but it had been a long time ago, and he thought now that nothing bothered him anymore. He couldn't afford for it to. He'd always known he'd be a homicide detective, even before he'd become a cop, although he wasn’t sure if he'd chosen it or if it had chosen him. Either way, he didn't think too much about it anymore.

He just did his job.

No attempt had been made to hide the body, even though it had been left in a remote area of the mountains east of Albuquerque, New Mexico. The area was sparsely populated. The trees weren't dense in this particular part of the high desert, but hikers often trekked up this way.
Whoever had left the body here obviously wanted it to be found, but they'd been careful about it. The group of hikers that had found the dead man was still shaken by the sight, and a couple of them looked pretty green as officers took their statements.

Zach walked around the body, looking it over with experienced eyes. He'd been a cop for twenty years, fifteen spent in homicide, and he'd seen everything there was to see. Or so he believed most of the time. Though it still never failed to amaze Zach at how depraved human beings truly were. He'd seen some crime scenes that made him shake his head, wondering just how someone had even thought up such ways to commit murder. And this crime scene was one of them.

The cops at the scene gave Zach a wide berth while he continued his slow perusal of the corpse. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head tilted to one side as if the angle would give him an advantage. He was impressed with this murder. He'd seen a lot of messy crime scenes that immediately told him if the murder had been committed in the heat of the moment, a crime of passion, a crime of hate, or a drug deal gone bad. But this scene was almost a pleasure to work as far as Zach was concerned. It was nice and tidy in spite of the hideous method used to kill the man.

This murder had not been committed in the heat of the moment—it had been planned to the tiniest detail. There was no heated rage in this one—no, this was cold rage that had deadly, calculated results. This was personal. The killer had known his victim, had planned the murder, probably for years before actually carrying out the plan. There would be no regret, no remorse on the part of whoever had committed the crime.

No—Zach shook his head and smiled almost imperceptibly—whoever killed this man was proud of their work.

Zach wasn't a profiler, but he'd been on the job long enough to be able to figure out a few things on his own, without bringing in a psychologist to do it for him. Whoever had killed this man was making a point, and the hatred he felt for the victim was a palpable entity hanging on the air.
The nude body had been hung spread eagle between two small but sturdy pine trees. Nylon ropes had left deep cuts in the wrists and ankles where the victim had struggled against them.

The body had been disemboweled, probably while the victim was still alive. The neck was swollen with an ugly purplish-blue tint to it. Embedded in the folds of skin was a narrow leather band, and there were bruises and singed skin over the torso that looked as if a stun gun had been used. But the icing on this cake, the thing that really told Zach what the killer thought of his victim, was the man's penis protruding from his mouth. The skin had been peeled and was hanging below it, stiffening in the hot desert air.

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