Cozy mysteries are a partial reflection of the life of the author. Each person–you, I, everyone, is a part of so many other people, of our own experiences and the experiences of others, of hopes and failures, of good and bad, of the past, the present and yes, even the future. We are all that and more. When we set pen to paper and begin to write, all those things flow through the ink of and become words on paper. Cozy mysteries are a whole composed of many, many parts.
When I write, my conscious or subconscious mind swirls with family stories and the encounters, friendships, and observations of years. Doubtless, I delve into the past, even without trying to, and bring to the written page those who have made an impression on my life. A good part of my background involves family stories from Etta Bend and my mother’s childhood on the family farm at Etta.
By the time I was born, life at Etta had changed. Then, in the 1950s, Tenkiller Dam rearranged lives completely as the Corps of Engineers bought up acre upon acre which would soon be under water. This included almost all of my grandfather’s farm land. A way of life had ended. But, there are experiences and thoughts that never end, that remain embedded in hearts and minds. There’s a memory, a longing, a set of timeless values, a sort of looking forward as one looks back. How could this all be included in a cozy mystery? Well, it’s there in my mind as I write. Somehow, it seeps through in descriptions of homey times around the fireplace, it finds life in the bedrock values of the book’s characters, and reflects the belief that good will triumph and evil will go slinking off into some forgotten corner.
If I went back to the old home place at Etta, I wouldn’t find the farmhouse nor the barn. My grandfather’s blacksmith shop, the granary, and even the spring house are gone. I imagine the huge stone steps leading from road into yard are still there since they’d be pretty heavy to try to move. But, if I sat quietly on those steps and listened to the wind blowing through the sycamore and cottonwood trees, would I hear the whisper of long ago voices? Would I hear the sound of the big, brass dinner bell calling my grandfather from the fields? Would I feel the warmth of love surround me from the family that called this place home?
Even though all I have of my mother’s childhood are stories and faded pictures, I feel as if I experienced it too. It was a time rich in love and integrity and character. I wasn’t there but I feel as if I were and all that, somehow, is the background from which I write. It’s hard to explain, but that is a part of what my cozy mysteries are made of. 
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