Inside the Mind - Frank Talaber

“So how do you know you’re an author?” The question has been asked of me many times. “In my soul,” is always my answer. But no one has yet asked “When did you know you were an author?” To answer the question that no one has yet asked I would say “I guess in Grade Three”. The project that day was to write about a recent field trip. I won’t go into detail but my memoires had everyone in stitches laughing; a couple of my classmates said later that they’d never laughed so hard. Somewhere inside of me that little muse grinned from ear-to-ear and very quietly began to poke away at my sanity. Muses do that, you know. Later, in High School, is when my muse woke up. She hasn’t shut up ever since. The first day of a creative writing course our assignment was to write half-an-hour non-stop on anything and everything. Staring at the blank, lined, pages I could only ask “I have to write for half-an-hour non-stop? About what????” The teacher replied, “About anything and everything.” So used to being told what to do in school in those days, the idea that I could just do something on my own and be let loose, seemed beyond bizarre. “I’ll give you a zero if you don’t fill the page,” was his response. Incentive, then. The muse wrung her hands in mirthful glee. I simply stared in bewilderment at the blank page and wondered what kind of easy five-credit course did I think I had signed up for in a moment of insanity? My hand shook as I held the pencil to the paper and very thoughtfully put down, ‘the walls are beige; the girl in front of me is a blonde; I wonder how old the gum stuck under my desk is; and I am so frigging bored. (I thought if I can put anything down, then the odd cuss word should be acceptable). But at some point, after about a week, the muse lost patience and snapped. She (I know it’s a woman), whacked me upside the head and took over, controlling bitch. The flow began, just as the teacher had said it would. By the end of the day I’d filled four to six pages, my pencil a blur trying to keep up with the whirling dervish inside my subconscious. She hasn’t shut up since, and I don’t intend to have her stop either. You’ll probably find me on my deathbed, pencil in hand, a hundred and three years old, and there will be a long jagged line scribbling down the page, stating… …To Be Continued. Because some stories never end.

This is Book Three in the Ainsworth Chronicles: Into Dark Side. What if all the thousands of drug related deaths each year are not drug overdoses? This dark and gritty psychological paranormal thriller explores the depths of human despair and darkness as Carol Ainsworth tracks and is tracked by a cunning serial killer disguising murders as drug deaths. Along side her psychic Ms. Teak and her former shamanic ally, Charlie Stillwaters, face off against the enigmatic Martin Crowe aka Raven, as the team confronts a vigilante who is also targeting drug dealers while supernatural forces watch from the shadows. Reviews If you are expecting Harry Potter, read JK Rowling. However, if you are expecting Shaman and mysticism and spirit animals mixed up with Hercule Poirot, then Frank Talaber is who you should read. This is a stand-alone novel that draws on characters introduced in the other Ainsworth Chronicles books. The plot twists neatly and different situations are woven into a dramatic finale. What a great read! Paddy K. I just finished your book. I am floored! Your thought processes are way beyond my skills. But you did it again. I read your book while taking a bath, water was getting cold and my body was like a prune, but I had to finish it. You got me hooked and I couldn't put it down. Sandy Strebe “In the thick undergrowth the thump of padded feet echo to a full bloated moon as it cries out to the dark. Whisps of cold misting breath disturbs the stillness.” And with these few lines, Frank Talaber has me hooked again. All my favourite characters are back. While Carol Ainsworth, must solve a mystery of who is killing women and making it look like drug overdoses. The reading was so easy and riveting. I had to keep reading just to find out how the mystery gets solved. Oh, and Robin Hood?? Damn you, you’re still a bastard, Frank! Barry Harris It also features the return of one of my crazy characters, Charlie Stillwaters, from another series of mine. Stillwaters Runs Deep. I am also close to releasing my first sword and sorcery novel as well.

Many are from people I meet. So many interesting people and I usually weave in my favorite thought, which is "What If". My mind begins thinking from there and creates this unusual person.

I usually write first thing in the am and just before I go to sleep.

Meeting people who are drawn into my novels and left spellbound. Like this my best review I've ever had from someone that came to one of my events and said this to my face. You’re a bastard!! My wife bought Raven’s Lament from you and while I don’t like your genre or your style of writing, she was totally engrossed. All this woo woo stuff and moving underground through the root systems, it’s not for me, I thought. Until I read the first chapter and couldn’t put it down. Damn! The other night I was been reading this book for three frigging hours, can't put it down, thinking I have to get up for work in the morning. Your writing flows so well, I’m drawn completely into your novels while time goes by effortlessly reading them. I met you at another event last week and bought another four books. Now, I can’t wait for your next books to come out. You have hooked me! Did I mention you’re a bastard?! Barry Harris And I have many reviews like this one.

Getting my novels made into films. I have many people say to me your writing is so visual, I can put myself write into that scene as I've been to that location and see this as a movie.

My pencil and my muse, like this for an example. Muse Unforgiving Staccato clicks of a cat’s claws on tiled floors. Silver glints steal at darknesses heart and scatters. Fear treads on foreboding currents of intangibility. While time compresses into illusions of thoughts pounding to a thousand deaths unseen as fear sinks its long slivers of insecurity deep and twists. Cutting tendons of reason along channels of long buried remembrances while playing with phobias shrill voice. Sending hearts electric pulses racing into panics grasp. “Time to play,” she whispers. Another click of feline talons on ceramic sends long slicing knives a thrust through my nerves. Let it pass, let it go. I lie so morbidly still, swearing to all the unholy saints in every sacred tome ever written. Whispers of lavender, sandalwood and steel shreds the sterility of the room. The slide of claws rip the dark as childhood memories of bogeymen, nightmares cast from old horror films again resides in my mind. I breath in, revealing my presence. Her soft hand touches the heady sweat on my brow. “Delicious.” The future unwritten crawls over my face in her breath, washing over me like thousands of ants marching, searching. “Not tonight,” I gasp, needing my mother’s comfort that can’t, won’t come. Not tonight. “We begin darling.” A tall singular harp plunks chords as ice cream drips into my face. The spell is complete. My muse returns. A pencil draws itself to my fingers. Trembles like drugs needed fulfillments fills the vacuum and sucks away the diet of reality. Once again, so natural, so complete. No sleep tonight. I know as her cursed hand sinks into my flesh, slicing through skin into the marrow of my mind caressing tingles into the souls embrace springing chants like nursery rhymes to innocent days cast in echoes strung into the madness of a circle complete. Stalking past the corridors of my mind’s dreams seeking the locked cells of imaginations dwelling. Pencil begins caressing fingers on a diet of psychotic madness as the muse staggers, meandering drunkenly along creativities corridors stoned on lead scratching away, singing to sheets of white cellulose craving sustenance. “The spell is complete.” She sings in mirth licking the sweat from my brow and her fingers, devouring once again my possessed soul. You are mine again tonight.

Don't, don't give up. Do what your soul possessess you to do. Write. I have met many friends who gave up on themselves and what they had written was amazing.

Mostly on videos on various social media sites I'm on, like Facebook, Instagram, Tiktok, Youtube to name a few. Check them out. Instagram https://www.instagram.com/franktalaber58 My Youtube Channel. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCx5ki4gpdokN-9KAIZzu53w tictoc https://www.tiktok.com/@franktalaber

Yes, I'm working on two books right now. Book Four in The Ainsworth Chronicles, Babes In The Woods, involving Vancouvers longest unsolved murder mystery. Also The Ghosts Of Hauntings Past, which will be my first Sword and Sorcery novel.

Frank Talaber is a traditional and self-published author who has lived in Chilliwack for the last twenty years. He has over one hundred and twenty short stories, sixty blog posts, twenty live interviews and fifteen novels published. Frank Talaber has been nominated in The Culture Diversity Awards last year for his involvement in promoting First Nations Traditions, Legends and Beliefs in his three-book series, Stillwaters Runs Deep. He is currently also been nominated as Top Writer in the 2026 Chillie Awards. His novel, The Joining, was a top three finalist of the Canadian Book Awards. Raven’s Lament semi-finalist of the Chapters Novel Contest and Runner up in the New Zealand Writers Contest. His short story, Sylvia’s Suncatchers, was voted #1 by the readers in a anthology of over three hundred entries. His newest short story, Were-Lovers Of The Ethereal, just won second place in New Canadian Magazine’s Spooky Tales Contest. People who have read Frank’s books describe him as a natural storyteller who writes like his soul is on fire and his pencil is his voice crying out.