Have you ever considered the disparity between the cost of automotive repair and what you actually get for your money?

In fairness, after unwillingly delving into the craft, I admit that playing the role of mechanic can be a daunting task: But not always. My car recently decided to give me three chances to prove this theory.

Stay tuned for the rest of the story. But first a bit of business: I now have Paypal buttons on my website. http://www.bobavey.com Customers can now use a credit card to purchase an autographed copy of Twisted Perception, or Beneath a Buried House. And the shipping is free.

And now, back to the story. It all started with spark plugs and a haphazard bathroom remodel. Those of you who read my newsletters will remember the mind numbing bathroom episode. Anyway, a few weeks after surviving the tortuous, toilet tune-up, my little red car developed a bad case of the hiccups. Riding in it, was like being strapped into one of those old time weight loss machines, which were designed to remove the unwanted pounds by shaking the living daylights out of you. As you’ve no doubt surmised, I’m no mechanic. I’m a frustrated writer, who’s forced to work eight hours a day as an accountant to make ends meet. But I sort of figured the car also needed a tune-up.

Knowing the car would only get worse, I grabbed the phone book – remember those – and leafed through its pages for repair shops. The result was eye opening. I called three different shops to make sure I was getting the proper scoop on the matter. I realize today’s cars are different now, having technological advancements, but come on. Do modern day tune-ups involve cutting edge computer physics, incorporating antimatter conversion techniques?

“What does the procedure entail?” I ask.

“Plugs and plug wires.” The answer each time.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“$350.00?”

“$350.00.”

Shaking off the shocking telephone episode, I told my wife, Kathi, the bad news.

Her answer was, “You did a good job on the bathroom, why don’t you fix it yourself?”

I tried to explain that any skills shared by mechanics and house painters are probably so miniscule in number that they would be considered non-existent. Unable to convince her of this, I went into the garage and popped open the hood. It’d been a few years, but I’d changed spark plugs before. There it was, the distributor and its wires, sitting on top of the engine, like some giant spider. I decided to give it a go. The plugs were buried three inches down a tube, so I had to piece together all of the extensions I could dig out of my toolbox, but other than that, the job turned out to be one of the easiest endeavors I’d ever tackled. The total cost: $28.00, a savings of $322.00. If you decide to try this at home, make sure to remove and replace one plug and one wire at a time. That way you won’t get the wiring order confused.

Not long after that, the car began to exhibit signs of a bad battery. However, I’d recently replaced that rascal and, therefore, didn’t believe that to be the case. I raised the hood and everything looked fine. But when I removed the clean-looking red plastic, which covered the positive terminal, I found a green glob of corrosion that had taken on a life of its own, actually appearing to pulsate, like molten lava. Having read about the trick before, I mixed up a potion of baking soda and water then, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, poured the mixture over the glob. As the wicked witch melted away, I saw that the corrosion had actually eaten through the battery terminal connector. I replaced the bad connector. Total cost: $5.29.

A few weeks later, I was driving along when a little orange icon of an engine appeared on my dashboard. Almost simultaneously, the car began to run rough again. For a moment, I thought I wasn’t going to make it home, but after coming to a near stop in traffic, I noticed that the car ran fine as long as I drove slowly. I knew it couldn’t be the plugs, or the wires, or the battery. When I got home, I told my wife the news. She logged onto the computer and asked what it meant when the Check Engine light came on in my type of car. The answer was to turn the key on and off three times, which would cause a code to appear on the dashboard. When I asked what the code meant, I got a strange reply. I needed to replace the camshaft position sensor. An expression so blank as to dwarf writer’s block spread across my face. Say what? I didn’t know the camshaft even needed one of those.

This is where I have to give the mechanics credit for having a tough job. As before, however, the cost of the procedure, coupled with my newfound skills convinced me to once again draw my sword and slay the dragon on my own. I got up early Sunday morning and put on my work clothes. But getting to this gizmo would prove to be a true test of my endurance. After locating the perilous part, no easy task in itself, I decided that I’d first try to remove it. If successful, I’d spring for the $21.95 required to acquire a suitable replacement. If not, I’d admit defeat and open a vein for the repair shop.

As it turned out, my efforts met with success, but, as the expression goes, to truly appreciate my accomplishment you’d have to have been there. This problematic plastic piece of engineering was purposely positioned to prohibit proud but poor car owners from repairing it themselves. Located behind wires, pipes, brackets and everything else the engineers could muster, the little electronic spark advance system nearly did me in. What I needed to get to this monster was a flexible extension. But it was Sunday, and I couldn’t find one. I had to settle for what the salesman at the big hardware store called a wobbler, a typical rigid extension, designed, according to the salesman, to wobble. I’m still not sure whether or not he was pulling my leg, but the wobbler seemed to work, though not without a reach-down-in-my-gut-and-pull-out-all-I-had effort on my part. In the end, I nearly threw in the towel. It was either give up and call the wrecker, or develop a sudden case of tool-time telekinesis. I opted for the latter and actually willed the greasy socket onto the elusive bolts. I even managed to finish in time to go to church.

I wish you all a merry Christmas. Please visit my website and check out the holiday specials. http://www.bobavey.com

While contemplating a clever way to remind everyone that but a shadow of 2009 remains, a strange thought occurred to me. Imagine that. However, it seems like only months ago that I attended a New Year’s Eve party, populated by, among many others, a cast of characters from my wife’s side of the family. A proposition not without fright in and of itself, but this was no ordinary end-of-the-year shindig. It was 1999, as in nearing Y2K.

During the seemingly innocuous hoopla, I noticed an atypical expression adorning the faces of both my brother-in-law and his wife. The look could only be described as something akin to worry, a concept as out of place between these two as it is with Alfred E. Newman. Feeling both curious and patriarchal, I sauntered over to get the skinny on this maligned forlornness. “What’s up?” I asked.

Wrinkles creased my sister-in-law’s face as she leaned closer and whispered, “It’s almost ..midnight...”

“Isn’t that the whole point?” I asked.

“Yes, but no one seems to be worried.”

“It’s a party, not a political convention.”

“But it’s the year 2000. What about the computers shutting down and everything?”

“Oh, that,” I said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we call someone on the east coast? They’re an hour ahead of us. The world should have already been shoved into chaos there. We can ask them what to expect.”

It took a few moments, but my scared relatives finally got the point. After that, they were laughing again. Considering how fast time goes lately, though, perhaps my in-law’s concerns were well founded after all. Perhaps Y2K did happen and we’re all caught up in some kind of space-time-continuum experiment, or maybe, without the guidance of a workable calendar, the computers went haywire and took over the world, causing us humans to succumb to their control, wired into the mainframe and rendered into dream-like states where we wander the virtual earth as Matrix-like zombies. Then again, maybe not.

However, time does pass quickly and it’s never too early to start thinking about Christmas, and those hard-to-buy-for friends and relatives. You knew this was coming, didn’t you? Well, as the Geico Gecko says, “I’m here to help.” Autographed books make great personal and unique gifts. Let me make your shopping easy. I’ll even throw in a discount and free shipping. For the mere sum of $15.00, I’ll personalize a book and send it wherever you want. You don’t even have to leave the house. What a concept. Just email me at bob@bobavey.com and we can make the arrangements, or mail a check along with instructions to

On October 17, I’ll be at the Sapulpa Public Library from 11:00 AM until 1:00 PM; October 24, Chisholm Trail Book Festival in Duncan, OK; November 6,7, Red Dirt Book Festival, Shawnee, OK; November 14, Literati Indie Book Fair, Tulsa, OK.

I want to thank everyone who has signed up for my newsletter. I hope you enjoy reading it. If you know of someone who might enjoy it, too, please email it to them. Thanks.

I also give programs for writing groups, reading groups, or any group that’s interested. If you belong to a club which needs program speakers, keep me in mind.

You have permission to reprint, forward, or use the contents of this newsletter in your newsletter or e-zine. The only requirement is the inclusion of the following footer:

This article was written by Bob Avey, author of, Twisted Perception, and Beneath a Buried House. http://www.bobavey.com.

While contemplating a clever way to remind everyone that but a shadow of 2009 remains, a strange thought occurred to me. Imagine that. However, it seems like only months ago that I attended a New Year’s Eve party, populated by, among many others, a cast of characters from my wife’s side of the family. A proposition not without fright in and of itself, but this was no ordinary end-of-the-year shindig. It was 1999, as in nearing Y2K.

More to come.

http://www.bobavey.com

Book Review - Brother Odd - Dean Koontz

Brother Odd begins well, the unusual setting contributing effectively to the mood as the hero, Odd Thomas, sits in the window of a dark monastery, watching the night, waiting to catch his first sight of snow. And Mr. Koontz doesn’t disappoint the reader by allowing the Odd one to linger in peace for too long, robbing the story of conflict. As it should, the trouble starts right away.

For me, however, as the book eased into the middle, the story became somewhat diluted, not enough for me to lose interest, but enough for me to wonder if Koontz had not lost his rhythm for a moment. He began to delve into the humor side of his writing style, something he typically does with a near genius touch, but here he tips the balance too far. I began to suspect he wasn’t sure where he was going with the story at this point.

Near the ending, the story again begins to build up steam, but the final action scene is rendered somewhat ineffective when the writer decides to do things a little differently. Throughout the book a mysterious character keeps both the reader and the hero on edge, wondering just what his true nature is. During the climactic scene, however, this character takes charge, overshadowing the hero. I’m surprised the editors did not catch this. Whether the day is saved, ruined or rendered indifferent, it should be the hero who effects this change.

For me, after the climactic scene, my interest was revived as we are once again solidly with Odd Thomas as the story segues nicely into the next Odd adventure.

                                                              – Bob Avey, author of Beneath a Buried House

I’ve been rather busy lately with non-writing related items. My wife, Kathi, and son, David, have been putting pressure on me for the last few months – or is that years – in an effort to coerce me to remodel one of the bathrooms in our house. A few weeks ago, during a weak moment, I agreed to tackle the task. Big mistake. I don’t know if there is a word, which has a meaning that would be the exact opposite of “Handyman” but if there is, then that would describe me. I have no talent in that area; the build-it gene did not make it through the birthing stage.

Located in a totally inconspicuous area of the room, in a corner high above the tub, an innocuous piece of torn wallpaper perpetrated the coup. How it managed to get torn, I’ll never know, because removing the rest of it was like removing the H from H2O with hopes of still having water. It can’t be done. Halfway through the job, I wondered just who invented the stuff in the first place. They should be punished. The original culprit probably being long gone, their heirs should be doused with the same sticky scourge from hell and stuck to a piece of sheetrock to be put on public display where children from homes broken apart by the colorful wall-covering could hurl eggs at them.

Perhaps the stress of the situation rendered me in a dream-like state where I cannot see reality, but somehow, like Conan the Librarian, I finally conquered my foe. It took a lot of a substance the guy at the home improvement store called “spackle” and a lot of sanding to repair the damage, but a few days later I emerged the victor. I had walls without wallpaper. If you’ve never tried this then don’t, but only after such an ordeal will you truly appreciate the beauty of bare sheetrock.

My basking in vanquish of patterned paper was short lived. Kathi handed me a bucket of primer and stuck a paintbrush in my hand. Afterward she wondered why there existed so many uncovered areas. That was an easy one. The missing paint was on my shoes and in my hair. 

Now the bathroom door won’t fit. I have no idea why. It’s the same door I took off to avoid getting dusty aqua paint on it. From the air outside the bathroom, it drew sustenance and grew.

In between home repairs, on August 11, from noon until 1:00 PM, I’ll be speaking at the Comedy of Errors Book Club, which meets at the public library in Collinsville, OK.

August 26, from ..noon.. until ..1:00 PM.., I’ll be reviewing my book, Beneath a Buried House, at the public library in ....Muskogee.., ..OK.....

Autographed books make great gifts. If you would like an autographed copy of Twisted Perception, or Beneath a Buried House sent to someone, just email me at bob@bobavey.com and we can make arrangements, or mail a check for $17.00 to

Sheri from ....North Carolina.... won the autographed book giveaway for the 1st quarter of 2009. Congratulations, Sheri.

I want to thank everyone who has signed up for my newsletter. I hope you enjoy reading it. If you know of someone who might enjoy it, too, please email it to them. Thanks.

I also give programs for writing groups, reading groups, or any group that’s interested. If you belong to a club which needs program speakers, keep me in mind.

You have permission to reprint, forward, or use the contents of this newsletter in your newsletter or e-zine. The only requirement is the inclusion of the following footer:

This article was written by Bob Avey, author of, Twisted Perception. http://www.bobavey.com.

Along those same lines, only in reverse, I was watching television one night when I saw something, or rather someone that gave me quite a shock. Some of my characters endear themselves to me a little more strongly than others, and it’s not always the hero of the story. I created such a character while writing, Beneath a Buried House, the second book in the Detective Elliot series. She only makes a cameo appearance in the book before being murdered, but she stayed with me throughout the writing of the novel and continues to haunt me to this day. I guess I’ll have to do something with her. Could this be a paranormal book in the making? Anyway, having noticed my lack of color, my wife, Kathi, asked me if there was anything wrong.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s (I can’t give the name for fear that it might ruin the story.) She’s a character in my book. I created her. This can’t be happening.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re just tired.”

Being tired or not, there was no denying what I was seeing. My character was on television. I got up from my chair and ran to my office. Once there, I found my research notes, such as they are – sticky notes and scraps of paper – and that’s where I found my answer. It was a page from a magazine. I remembered it then, having gone through the magazine and seeing a picture that made me exclaim, “That’s (Can’t say the name).”

What this amounted to was that either before, or after taking a minor part in a minor movie, the actress had been a model who had posed for a picture in a magazine, a photo which created a perfect likeness of (Can’t say the name). The model / actress bears an uncanny resemblance to my character, but I’m sure they are nothing alike, in real life.

I can’t say that I’ve never before gone through magazines, hoping to find some inspiration in their pages, but I can say that was the first time – and so far the last time – that I’d flipped through one where I saw a character I’d already created. I recognized her immediately. That’s why I tore her from the pages. It still gives me goose bumps when I think about it.

Autographed books make great gifts. If you would like an autographed copy of Twisted Perception, or Beneath a Buried House sent to someone, just email me at bob@bobavey.com and we can make arrangements, or mail a check for $17.00 to P.O. Box 535, Broken Arrow, OK  74013 with instructions on how to personalize the book, and I’ll do the rest.

People go missing. Llewellyn knew that as well as anyone but when a whole family fell victim to such a fate that tended to get his attention. It had the interest of someone else as well. Threats had been made. But the way he saw it, with Millie gone, he didn't have all that much to lose anyway.

Llewellyn watched his step as he moved from the sidewalk to the street, for it was dark, the sun skimming the bottom of the sky in a thin, red line, the color of embers clinging to life in a dying campfire. A disturbing thought—a deep suspicion that had grown to such proportion that he feared it might twist his reasoning—snaked through him. He'd previously abandoned the project with good reason.

At times like this, he would think back to when he was a boy, visiting his mother. Her house sat on a small hill and behind it was a pond with huge willow trees growing from its banks. It always struck him as odd that the surface of the water remained calm and never rippled, as if it were not real at all, but a painting, an artificial backdrop put there for the effect.

Llewellyn had resolved that he too would be like the waters of the pond, unmovable, unflappable, and later, during his adult life, he would call on that image, not every time the going got tough, but when life got particularly hard.                                    -- Beneath a Buried House, Chapter 1.http://www.bobavey.com/house1.html

With the exception of the Colorado Kid, I have to confess to having not read Stephen King in awhile. I’d become disappointed in some of his efforts.

By chance, through the winning of a raffle, which awarded a bundle of books, I came into possession of a copy of Duma Key. Even then I did not read the book right away, choosing a few of the other books in the stack instead. When I did get around to it, I first examined the cover, realizing that I liked that much of it. I cracked the book open and began to read. A few hours later, I knew that I had once again become entranced by the work of Mr. King.

If you’re a fan of Stephen King, especially one who has been away for a while, you should pick up a copy of Duma Key. Stephen is definitely back on track with this one.

                                           -- Bob Avey, author of the Detective Elliot mystery series

My Writer’s Prayer

On those nights

when the time is right

and I’ve a story

that’s wound up tight

I whisper an urgent prayer

that before I let go

and rest my head

I might lay down some words

that deserve to be read.

The fun was just beginning. I pulled into town where a Brink’s armored truck was parked conspicuously in front of a Salvation Army thrift store. I realize that money changes hands there and that the SA has a need to transfer the funds to a safe haven, but the sight of the truck diminished the store’s not-for-profit image. I mean, couldn’t they have parked in the back or something?

Finally reaching the store, I glanced at the time and temperature displayed by a local bank. However, as I opened the door to the bookstore, something told me to check it again. From the time it took me to walk from my car to the store, the temperature had dropped eight degrees. Either the sign was malfunctioning, or it would be snowing by the time I finished the signing. Of course other possibilities existed, but we won’t go there.

I entered the store and walked across the floor toward the table the staff had provided for me, and as I sat down one of the store’s customers caught my attention. She sported the type of green, pajama like clothing worn by hospital employees. Completing her ensemble, she wore, over her shoes, matching paper dustcovers, designed to minimize the tracking of outside dirt and bacteria into the healthcare facility. I’m no expert on the matter, but it seems to me, to avoid defeating your purpose, one would slip such accoutrements on before walking into the hospital.