Don’t Forget to be Brave

A scorpion story

Scorpions loved our house in Central America. Tails curled with spiky malice and clad in brown armor, they made soft rustling sounds as they scuttled along the tile floor in search of shoes and draperies and other enticing hide-and-seek spots.

Our housekeeper, whom I’ll call Doris, called my attention to the first one by screaming.

I raced into the living room to see her empty a can of Raid at the thing. The scorpion slurped its way through the noxious puddle of bug spray and continued purposefully toward the sofa.

Now, I was not unprepared for what lay ahead. I’d researched the best way to kill scorpions.

Google cheerfully advised that the exoskeleton must be pierced in order to cause death. Pictures showed the tip of a knife inserted with pinpoint accuracy behind the creature’s eyes.

Such a surgical strike called for both time and skill. I had neither, only the prospect of a deadly sting the next time someone sat down to watch television.

I grabbed my biggest chef’s knife from the kitchen, ran back to the living room, swung my blade and chopped that sucker and its exoskeleton in two.

Doris never stopped screaming.

One-woman army

As time went on, I became a one-woman army against this prehistoric home invasion. Armed with a kitchen knife, and on one memorable occasion a chopping board, I could dispatch them quickly.

To my grim delight, the creatures weren’t all that fast on their feet. I was much faster.

One or two chops and their earthly remains were flushed away.

Doris continued to sound the alert whenever she saw a scorpion.

Bonus mom points

Two years later, we were back in the United States. My tall blonde daughter, having survived high school in Central America, happily went off to college.

She came home with a tattoo on her calf. A scorpion cut in two by a knife.

“Why did you get a tattoo of that?” I asked.

“Because it’s the bravest thing I ever saw anybody do,” she replied.

Her words surprised me. I’d never thought of myself as particularly brave. I was just doing what needed to be done, using the tools at my disposal, in the most efficient way possible.

While not screaming.

My daughter saw the episode as a woman taking on a challenge and figuring out how to conquer both fear and threat. She’s a fairly fearless woman herself now.

I like to think those scorpions had something to do with it.

Fast forward to today

After 30 years with the Central Intelligence Agency, I am a full-time mystery author, best known for the Detective Emilia Cruz police procedural series. Emilia Cruz is the first female police detective in Acapulco. Starting with Cliff Diver, she confronts drug cartels, official corruption and Mexico’s machismo.

Yes, some bits are taken from my career experiences, although Emilia has yet to chop a scorpion in two.

During the height of COVID, I needed a break from cartels and corruption. A new project based on my grandfather’s stories from when he was a deputy sheriff in the 1920’s became the Galliano Club historical fiction thriller series.

I hoped that my carefully cultivated readership, primed for murder and mayhem in today’s Mexico, would follow me into historical fiction set in upstate New York.

Not so much

Murder at the Galliano Club and the other books in the series didn’t get the big rush that greeted the last few Detective Emilia Cruz books.

I realized that a new genre required reaching out to a whole new readership that loves historical fiction like The Godfather and shows like Boardwalk Empire or have a thing for craft beer that makes them want to read about Chicago gangsters trying to build a bootlegging empire in upstate New York in 1926.

A new challenge

Yet I ducked the challenge. Instead of tackling the hard but profitable audience building tasks that were successful for the Detective Emilia Cruz series (segmentation, email magnets, etc) I signed up for an online writer’s conference about building networks.

To my surprise, the other conference attendees were at the beginning of their author career. In every breakout session, I was far and away the most seasoned author, answering questions and passing along useful tips and points of contact.

Despite inexperience, these new authors were excited to talk about their books. Books that weren’t yet published or were newly released. Books that had neither readers nor reviews.

Their enthusiasm and energy made me realize that I’d stopped being brave.

The Cookie Jar

In his book Can’t Hurt Me, former Navy SEAL, endurance athlete, and best-selling author David Goggins introduced the concept of a mental Cookie Jar. It’s a place to store past successes so that the next time we are faced with a challenge, we can take out a cookie that reminds us of what we are capable of doing.

Look at how you did that tough thing. You can do this tough thing, too.

What if each of us had a real Cookie Jar?

Imagine a jar full of slips of paper listing personal victories, milestones, and successes. Now think of the power in those reminders. We’d never forget to be brave.

And if a scorpion gets in your cookie jar, chop that sucker in two.

A version of this essay appeared in booksbywomen.org