Writer Wednesday Musings: Jail Visits

You never forget your first time.

Yesterday, I attended a marketing workshop, and part of what the presented asked was what makes you different from your competition. I’ve had a lot to think about since he uttered those words — and in the recesses of my mind, I stumbled upon the truth of the matter — at least my truth.

What makes me different is my authenticity.

Enjoying coffee

Jails differ from prisons. A jail is a facility where either an individual is awaiting trial,  to be transferred to a prison, or serving short sentences. 

Having grown up in the inner-city of Richmond during one of the city’s most violent times, I can recall the ever police presence, drug dealers, shootings. The sight of fresh blood running down asphalt streets, while CSU tried to figure out what happened to the victim shot dead in his car.

The tragedy and trauma of it all is what I’ve been working through in my writings, and although names, ethnicities, occupations and locations have been changed, there are still parts of me that I find within my pages.

Crime and the criminal element have been a part of my life for years, and through this knowledge, I’ve come to acknowledge certain truths. Most of those that commit crimes are not bad people, just people that have done bad things.

My first time visiting a local jail, I’ll never forget the fear that seemed to beat upon me. It wasn’t just the sight of guards in their sheriff deputies in their uniforms, with their shiny badges, nor was it the throng of people who waited for their names to be called. It was the sounds of crackling walkie-talkies that mixed with hyperactive and crying toddlers, and a loud ticking clock that let me know how long I’d waited and how long the wait still might be.

Once my name was called, I walked back towards the scratched up black telephones, where the Plexiglass hasn’t been polished for a while. I wanted to take in everything, and nothing, but I couldn’t help my eyes from scanning the names that someone had carved into the glass and the paneling, as if a silent homage.

Seated on the uncomfortable chair, I waited — and still the minutes ticked by, reminding me that the visitation time isn’t limitless, but one that would speed by.

Now, as a full-time author, I often dive back into my personal history to recall the intricate things from my past — not only to add genuineness to my stories, but also to help to heal this heart.

“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” – C.G. Jung



TINA GLASNECK has learned that life is less like a ebbing and flowing ocean and more like a rousing roller coaster. A former paralegal, with almost a decade in the criminal justice field, she writes crime fiction full-time, and enjoys creating dark tales. She is currently working on her upcoming release in the Spark Before Dying Series, NUMBERS.


Monthly Give Away

image1Summer is upon us, and I am celebrating by offering my monthly THE WALKING DEAD inspired giveaway.

I am missing the show, but during the summer hiatus, you can still get your THE WALKING DEAD fix by entering the giveaway — enter for a chance to win THE WALKING DEAD comic book number 128.

One lucky winner will get something to snack on, while the rest us of wait for the show to pick back up in the fall.

The contest will end on June 8th at 12:00 A.M.

a Rafflecopter giveaway


Murderer’s Market: Death of a Feline

We all read or hear the news about the things happening around us. Last week’s hot topic was about a man who turned himself in to police for allegedly killing his imaginary friend. This week, I’ve muted the news of the nation to focus on neighborhood crime –someone seems to be killing all the stray cats.

Too many, this might not be anything to worry about, but for me, I feel like the local sleuth that needs to stop a killer before the prey is no longer of the feline persuasion.  From what I’ve gathered so far, the different cats have fallen victim to poison, all within the last six weeks.  They have been strays or mistaken for strays, and as their numbers dwindle, pet owners are holding their animals tight.



Poison is a painful and slow death. It is not instantaneous as other ways to kill. Maybe it a neighbor brought to avenge its slowly dying petunias, a tit-for-tat. Could it be that innocent? Or could it be the beginning of blood lust? Could it be a neighbor, gardener or even someone coming into the area,  who is killing to just kill?

Why would anyone want to kill a cat?

Simple. It could be about dominance, the power that one is able to exert over a smaller animal. Yet, it could also be about the nuisance that the cat is seen as being, as if the cat’s misdeeds represent a greater harm worthy of the ultimate punishment.

Neighbors are trying to piece together the  who, what, when and how, and all I can think of: who of the darkness is among them.

Rumors are running rampant, but it is safe to say: until the villain is nullified, he or she will continue to be a danger to not only the feline community, but to us all.

How do you think we can solve this real life mystery?


The Memory

155411_3429729176831_1646262297_nRecently, I’ve been asked about research, and I thought to share a little from behind the veil.

Research often takes me to deep dark places, and it is through writing that I am able to balance it all out and get some perspective. I never talk about the cases on which I’ve worked due to confidentiality. I never express the burden that I often carry home witnessing human tragedy, for this is the burden I’ve chosen to carry, in hopes of helping those without a voice. But tonight, my research has made remember the face of someone I can never seem to forget. It’s interesting how people who you never knew in life, can touch you in their death.

Years have passed and I choose to remember.

Often, during the quiet moments, I reflect and remember those long gone. I don’t focus on the trauma, or pain, but try to remember their names, and faces. To remember them and hope that now they are now at peace, and honor the memory that they left behind.

It is the least I can do . . .