The day hell froze over

Dear Dad,

You know, who decided letters have to be addressed ‘dear, whoever’? It’s stupid really, I mean you use it for people who aren’t even ‘dear’, and it always makes me think of little old ladies or stuffy bankers. I’m not even sure why you’d put someone’s name up top, isn’t that what the envelope’s for to make sure it gets to the right person? And then there’s the fact I don’t even know what to call you anymore. Anymore is actually a lie, I’ve never known what to call you. It legit took me all morning. Dad. Mickey. Father. Mr. Downey. Obviously, I settled on Dad. So now you’re either brushing snow off your Mai-Tai, because I actually wrote back to you, or have had a coronary from shock, so Mom, since you’re now reading this, I miss you and have almost forgiven you for leaving with aforementioned dead criminal.

Reference your latest post card, no, I haven’t, and sometimes, but not lately.

Reference the reason for this letter, your spies may have informed you that Ginny is expecting a baby, but I thought I’d write to break the news to you anyway in the hopes that  ‘dear, Dad’ will bribe you into arranging a visit.

Before you scream entrapment, DAD, I’m talking about just mom coming for a visit, and I have already had assurances from my supervisor that no one is particularly concerned about the aiding and abetting charges she currently faces if she were to just happen to show up in Omaha. Although, if ever there was a Most Wanted who could get away with it, it would be you. That was in no way to be construed as endorsement for any current or future illegal activity. Mom, I can’t make any promises on the feds, but I imagine your future daughter-in-law will keep the interrogation to a minimum.

Did I mention I asked her to marry me? I guess hell did freeze over, because she said yes.

June 18th Lauritzen Gardens





When I wrote First, I Love You, I didn’t have an audience in mind – didn’t even think I’d show it to anyone outside of my family and close friends. It was a liberating experience. A cathartic experience. I had a story in my soul and I told it, with no expectation or desire to please anyone but myself.

I’m finding I like writing best when I am in that zone. The minute I fall into that trap of wondering if my readers are happy enough, or trying to guess what the market “wants”, it feels like an obligation, flirting at the edges of obsession. Fellow writers will know what I mean – endlessly checking stats at Amazon, unable to read a book without examining its prose in comparison to your own, trying to correlate royalties to promotional activities, feeling pressured to join organizations… And then one day it stops being fun.

What’s helped me get back to that “writing for fun” zone is writing about Isabel (from The Good Life). I don’t know if this will amount to a story; but I like writing her. There’s something endearing about her struggle to fit in after living a clandestine life for so many years.

Here’s a bit from what I’m working on (in case you are curious):

“You don’t want to see him?” Isabel wondered.

Again, Tommy communicated with only a nonchalant shrug. The only sign of emotion on his features was a slight darkening of his eyes from a vibrant green to a more mossy hue, but otherwise his face remained impassive.

“Basically,” Kyle continued, “you keep an eye on her because she’ll expect Tommy, or me, to do it and won’t suspect you.”

Demi and Isabel exchanged a quick glance and simultaneous snorts.

This is your plan? Surely you have something a little more sophisticated than that?” Isabel voiced the question she knew Demi wouldn’t want to risk offending Kyle by asking.

“Noooo,” Kevin Anderson drawled.

Did everything out of his mouth have to sound bored and derisive?

“Our plan,” he continued, “is a bit more complicated and it’s on a need to know basis.”

“And what possible need would an Air Force IT monkey have to know, Master Sergeant Anderson?

His smile conveyed a ‘fuck you’. “More than a paper pusher at HHS would.”

She raised her eyebrows in an answering ‘fuck you right back’. “Indeed.”

Isabel liked to think she and Kevin had reached solid frenemies status. Batman vs Superman. Without the superpowers. Having reached a tentative détente from their many throw-downs, she would throat punch anyone who tried to hurt him, but on the other hand, she didn’t want to spend much time around him or she’d be the one throat punching him. She was pretty sure he felt the same about her.

Kyle cleared his throat. “Soooo…” he rocked back on his heels and wiggled his brows at Demi. “You good with that?”

“Sure! Sounds fun,” Demi chirped.

This time everyone shared a look. Demetria never chirped. Ever. She breathed everything in a mysterious, ethereal, and throaty way like a grown up Luna Lovegood on a sex line.

This situation was clearly more dire than she had been letting on.

“Let’s back up a moment…” Isabel held up a finger, ignoring Kevin’s overly dramatic drawn-out sigh. “Is there an actual federal or local surveillance case open on the fugitive Downey, or is this amateur sleuth hour? If it’s the latter, I don’t want Demi involved. In fact, either way I don’t want Demi involved.”

“Uhh,” Demetria started to protest, umbrage clear in every portion of her body.

“Not your call to make,” Kyle bristled.

“Demi has other things she should focus on right now,” Isabel countered with a meaningful look at her friend. Demetria had the presence of mind to blush and shoot a guilty look at Kyle.


Excuse My Mess!


Please be patient while I re-organize this website for better navigation.

Gen! Does this mean you’re still writing?!





Wherefore art thou, Gen?

Wondering if I’ve fallen off the face of the earth? No, not just yet. I started working full time this fall instead of part-time and the first thing that fell to the back-burner was PR and blogging. But I am still writing, never fear, my small but devoted fan base!

What’s new?

  • On Saturday, November 15th at 2pm I will be at the Kearney Public Library in Kearney, Nebraska to talk about my latest, The Good Life and the writing and publishing process. If you are in the area, I’d love to see you!
  • I am writing on two stories right now, one is a full length love story, and I say love story rather than romance because it is as much a novel about healing after a trauma, about family love and forgiveness, as it is romantic love. That one is in the early stages yet. The second project I’m working on may actually shape up into being a serial, or a short story, or screen play, I’m just really not sure yet. It centers around a quirky character and is a bit of a mystery/oddball tale of intrigue.

Here is a tiny glimpse into the main character of “Win”:

Mayor Winfield bought two coffees every morning without fail, even on holidays and Sundays. It was a universally agreed upon truth in the otherwise staunchly conservative town of Smokey Hill that God was okay with his people selling coffee on holy days. Everyone knew coffee and donuts were the social glue of churches and police stations, and Lord knew without these things the ruffians would run amok. Not that there were many ruffians to speak of in Smokey Hill but such was Mayor Winfield’s stump while campaigning for allowing daily commerce.

The actual truth was that Win lobbied for and practiced this coffee-buying habit partly because he was too lazy to make coffee and felt uncomfortable asking his live-in assistant to do it no matter how much she insisted she didn’t mind, and partly because Win had a compulsion to buy from all the local businesses on a daily basis. All thirty-eight of them. Every day. Except on Sunday, in which it was just ten open storefronts, only open on account of the coffee and donut axiom.

Some folks called him odd and ‘not quite right in the head’. Others said he was throwing his money around. But as long as he and his mother knew the truth, Win didn’t care which one they decided. And regardless of their opinions regarding his sanity or lack thereof, the townspeople kept electing him ever since he put his name in on a lark at the age of twenty-two. Of course, running unopposed for the better part of the twenty years since then had always helped.

If you were to ask Win, it wasn’t due to his very mild, hardly noticeable case of obsessive-compulsive disorder that spurred this habit. You see, ever since the manufacturing company that had employed better than half the town pulled up roots and left, Smokey Hill was flat broke. The city budget ran regularly in the red, and most citizens were spending only enough money to get by, and usually spending it a town away at the Mega-Mart. To make matters worse, nearly half of the under-forty demographic had moved away to find better employment and better funded schools.

So, to Win’s way of thinking, if he didn’t regularly buy overpriced, slightly burnt coffee from Gladys’ cafe, or excessively bright paintings from Luke’s gallery, or really horrible decorations from Mabel’s curio shop, then the town might just tip on its already precarious lean towards tits up. Especially since if one were to add up the combined income of the first three thousand of the three thousand-forty-nine souls left in Smokey Hill, it would barely reach the base of the Winfield family fortune.

Consequently, buying from everyone on a daily basis had nothing to do with Win’s personal quirks or flaunting his wealth, and everything to do with a modicum of guilt-induced duty coupled with a mound of Win not wanting to be the last mayor of Smokey Hill. After all, who would want that historical onus? He’d rather go down as the forgotten mayor, or even the ignominious title of He Who Brought the Sin of Commerce to Sunday and Christmas, than to be known as the mayor that failed to stop The End.

On this particular inauspicious Tuesday, Win had just bought his usual two-coffees-to-go and a homemade scone that looked like it might actually be edible when he heard the atypical sound of door chimes signal the arrival of another customer. Curious, he stopped pretending to listen to Doris complain about the meals at Trembling Palms Retirement Home and turned to see who might have joined the usual crowd, all of whom were already seated in the same spots they had occupied for the last twenty years. As soon as he had turned around, he was greeted with a question-laden shout.

“Mayor Winfield!”

A woman bustled toward him wearing a business suit that almost looked like a school uniform; slate grey, unbroken by feminine embellishment and complete with pleated skirt, Mary Jane shoes, and a grey beret covering all of her hair. Despite her drab get-up she appeared to be quite young, mid-thirties at the most. As to anything else about her, Win couldn’t say. There was nothing else remarkable to say about her that wasn’t overwhelmed by her rapid gait and fearsome countenance.

“Yes?” he replied with a cautious and welcoming smile. Strangers were rarer than virginity in this town. Especially strangers with all of their original teeth. He didn’t want to scare her away, no matter how much she currently scared him.

–  © 2014 by Genevieve Dewey, All Rights Reserved.

It’s September! Here’s a new Letter From Mickey for my Downey Trilogy fans:

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Dear Joey,

Your last letter gave me quite the laugh! The cheek of you! Alright then, if you want me to trust you with my jet you’re going to have to tell me what the message is hidden within this tale:

Back when Finn was still the adventuring sort and fond of women and drink — well, more so than he was at the time of this tale, in any case — he came across a young scamp. This boy said he’d take care of Finn’s horse in exchange for a few coins. Now, Finn had already spent the coin he had on the aforementioned activities, but he knew the horse was in need of care.

So, he says to the lad, “Tis true the horse needs attending but I’ve a more pressing matter that’ll earn you double the coin… if you’re interested.”

The boy’s eyes lit up at the opportunity,  for he was hungrier than a louse on a bald man, and at least three times more clever than hungry. “Oh, tell me, please,” the boy pleaded.

“Take the horse down the lane, past old man McIntyre’s, then take a right turn by the old oak and another by the raspberry thicket. There you’ll see a farm of some size. Knock on the door and say you’re delivering a message from Finnegan.”

“And what’s the message, sir?” the boy asked.

“That is the message, lad.”

The boy furrowed his brows, but agreed to take the horse. When he arrived at the place, he was greeted by an old hag rather fearsome in visage.

“Oh, ho, so Finnegan’s finally been gotten the better of, eh?” the old woman asked.

The boy opened his mouth to say something, but she waggled a wizened finger at him, “And don’t be thinkin’ I’ll be paying a thief who got the better of another thief, boyo!” Then she grabbed the horse’s reins and pulled him inside.

Realizing he had been had, the boy shouted, “Wait! I found the horse and I was just returning it. I don’t know this Finnegan. I was only hoping for a bit of bread and a place to stay. Perhaps if I clean the stall, I could rest with the horse for the night?”

The old woman paused and contemplated the offer. The boy did look rather peckish and he reminded her of her son at that age. “Alright, lad. I’ll have Moira bring you some bread and goat’s milk. Ye’ll be off at morning’s light.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he assured her.

And come the morning, her stalls shined as if they’d been built yesterday. And they were just as empty. When she returned to the kitchen, Moira asked her why she was smiling so.

“Why, because I’ve finally gotten rid of all my son’s stolen horses without having to answer any questions! What a good boy, my Finnegan is.”


I love you, Joey. Do try and be good in as much as that’s possible for any Downey.

Your loving father, Mickey.

Read the rest of the letters here: Letters From Mickey Downey

REBLOG #review via @CFFBooks: “The Good Life” by Genevieve Dewey

ICYMI: Christoph Fischer’s review of The Good Life.



The Good Life

Detective Kyle Anderson is a man of simple tastes and reasonably low expectations. Give him a juicy steak and no homicides, and he’d call it good. When his sister Katelyn got engaged to his best friend Dominic, he’d figured the worst of the unnecessary drama in his life was over. But that was before Dom’s free-spirited, twig-eating, exasperating sister Demetria came back to Nebraska and completely hijacked the planning of the wedding, starting with inviting Dom’s ex-wife Isabel. Now Kate’s so determined to prove Isabel is up to no good that she insists Kyle date her to keep her away from Dom. Soon Kyle is so knee deep in Anderson-Valentini dramatics, he’s thinking of changing his name and moving to Tibet. If he could just get Demi the impossibly sexy granola-flake off his mind long enough to do it…

My review:

“The Good Life” by Genevieve Dewey…

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Subscribe to Gen’s Fan Newsletter for sneak peeks & special promotions!

Ok, so, this will probably not be news to some of you, but Facebook filters out posts. The truth is, only about 10-20% of you are deemed worthy by them of seeing my updates. That’s probably being generous.

Anyhoo, my point, yes!

Here it is: Due to the filter-unless-you-pay-us shakedown of Facebook, and the incredibly fast moving nature of Twitter, and my bad habit of forgetting other social media outlets exist, the ABSOLUTE BEST WAY for you to not miss out on any special sales, free giveaways, or advance peeks is to sign up for my new fan newsletter! Brand spankin’ new, peeps!

We are talking free stuff from me to you, the BEST fans in the universe. I may not have a huge fan base, but if I have a thousand true fans, that’s better than a fickle fifteen minutes of fame. (Not that I would say no to both, haha!)

So, subscribe to my Newsletter to receive these special alerts, promotions, and deals! Those of you who know me know that you will actually NOT hear from me all that often. No spammy, no spammy, just fan love from me!

All it requires is an email, you don’t even have to fill out your name (though that helps when your email program filters junk mail).



This Blog Sucks

OMG! This man said exactly everything I feel. So um, yeah, what he said. *muah*

The Ravings of a Sick Mind

I’m going to be brutally honest here: I don’t really get blogs.


I’m only doing this because I want to sell you books. According to popular wisdom, blogs create a platform, which supposedly translates into sales. I’m not quite sure I buy that. Most of my friends and family who really know me and care about me don’t buy my books, so why should I expect you to just because I wrote some snappy article and posted it on a blog?

Blogs are supposed to let readers get to know you and feel a connection, but that doesn’t always make sense to me either. I read Stephen King, Jim Butcher, P.N. Elrod and others because I love their stories and characters. I don’t give a shit what Stephen King bought at the grocery store today or any of the other random garbage that pops up in blogs. I’ve never understood…

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Goodbye hearts, hello shamrocks. I’m ready to let my inner Irish out.

There are lots of parts to me (and my family), but I’ve always been proud of the Irish bits and pieces. Why? Because I associate these parts with laughter, love, loyalty and perseverance. Is this exclusive to Irish folk? Nah, of course not. But every March when everyone becomes a wee bit Irish for a day, I smile and think it’s funny people think of drinking and parades. Because to me it’s always been about family and faith… that wee part of me.

Alright, enough of the pointless blither blather. I’m dusting off a Letter From Mickey that contains the sort of wisdom my grandpa was fond of sending me in HIS letters:


Dear Tommy,

First, I love you and I hope you are well!

A little birdie told me your hockey team didn’t make it to the finals. I am sorry to hear this and I know it is not from any lack on your part. You are quite talented, I am sure. Defeats are a part of life’s lessons for us I am afraid. Sadly they only get harsher as life moves on. But it is how you handle these disappointments that makes the mettle of a man. But I have no worries there, even as a young child you always brushed off disappointments with only a minimal fuss. A trait you get from your mother, no doubt, as it couldn’t have been easy raising you alone but she never complained. Even in the end shortly before she left, for as many arguments as we had she still was as loving and patient as ever. Every day I was able to spend with you, she always had a smile on her face and no matter the struggles she had, she could always find a way to spin a positive out of it. I remember one time when you were only about 2 years old, she had been ill all week with the Flu and had lost her waitressing job from the missed work. I brought her roses and the rent for the remainder of the year expecting to have to comfort her. But you know what she did? She smiled wide, handed you to me, and said, ‘I’m only sad I can’t smell these roses.’ I fed you dinner (spaghetti-os were your favorite) and I even got to give you your bath, something your mother usually did herself as I apparently made too much of a mess playing battleship with you. It was my habit each night I got to spend with you to rock you to sleep telling you stories your great grandfather, Seamus O’Malley, had passed on to me. Now, there is a man whose veins run with pure steel–he never met a disappointment he couldn’t turn into a blessing! He is a full 45 years older than I, yet he can still run circles around me in a spirited argument and still carves every day. If I possess even half of his vigor at his age I will truly be blessed. Anyway, this story was one of your favorites, or I should say, sent you to sleep the fastest, which in retrospect might be saying the opposite. You’ll have to tell me which case it is upon hearing it at an older age: 

Finnegan had been a hard working man, if the work you were speaking about was finding ways to do the least amount of work to gain the most. One of his favorite things to do was trick people in to buying his tales of magical healing wells. Now back then people had heard of Brigid’s Well but few knew where to find it. Finnegan would spin a yarn about how he had thrice been cured by it himself and he knew the secret path to get there. They would pay him in food and shelter and other such comforts to show them where the well existed. But wily Finnegan would lead them around in circles until they were good and dizzy then leave them off at the nearest spring he could find. By the time they discovered the water was just ordinary water, he would be long gone. One night he was sleeping in a barn and a Wee One appeared before him.

“Finnegan,” she said. “It just so happens there is such a well in Kildare as to make a sick man healed. Would you like to know how to find it?”

“Oh, yes, very much,” Finnegan replied, thanking his good fortune, but suspicious of it just the same. “What is it you would want in exchange?”

“You must agree never to trick others again. And, I must warn you, you can only drink the water if you truly seek healing.”

“Of course,” Finnegan agreed, while crossing his finger behind him.

The Wee One told him the well’s location and Finnegan began searching for it, out of curiosity and avarice. But every time he would get near where the well was supposed to be, he would find he was right back where he had started. But he would always begin again thinking this would be the time he would find it. He began to waste away from obsession and lack of food. One day as he was resting on a low wall along came a fair maiden. She gave him some warm bread and he told her of his quest. He figured he had been tricked by the Wee One just as he had tricked others because even now, when he was truly sick, he still could not find the water.

“You poor dear,” the girl said. “I’m afraid Morrigan left out the most important part. You must truly want to get well to find the water in the first place.”

“What foolishness is this?” Finnegan asked. “Of course I want to get well!” And he did, for she was quite beautiful and he could see himself raising goats and children with her as a good and honest man.

“Then drink,” Brigid said and waved her hand. Behind her apace was a small circle of stones with a bucket suspended atop. He drank the cool, mossy water and suddenly felt no desire to wander anymore.

He settled down and made a good life with her. But one day his past came to haunt him as these things tend to do. One of the people he had tricked in the past came seeking justice. When Finnegan offered to let him drink from their well, the man thought he was being tricked yet again and absconded with Finnegan’s bride. Enraged, Finnegan armed himself and his children and swore vengeance upon the man and all who would aid him, vowing he would not stop until he was reunited with his fair love. But he did not know Brigid had sacrificed herself rather than be used by his enemies. So, endlessly he searched, killing all those who dared try and stop him. After each battle, those who would come to claim the bodies of their kin would swear Brigid’s ghost would wander about the dead, crying for their souls, and singing: ‘Until we meet again, my love, until we meet again’.

Then one day, wearied unto his soul from his searching, Finnegan laid down his weapons and gathered his children and grandchildren near and said, ‘enough’ and breathed his last breath, thus finally being reunited with his eternal bride. But his children did not weep, for there is nothing so perfect as a thing with no ending and no beginning, such as a family of souls intertwined.

My dear boy, I think of this story often when I think of you and your mother, not just because it reminds me of when we were together, but because it gives me comfort knowing that eventually, we will be a family again.

Your loving father,


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“Alma Mater Vol. 1: The Midwest” #poetry from @RPRPPoetry (Coming Soon)