ComiCon Report

by Marsha Ward  @MarshaWard

As I mentioned two weeks ago, I recently shared a booth at Phoenix ComiCon. I had an interesting four days.

I could tell you about the gunman who got in on Thursday, but I was unaware of the event until I read about it on Facebook. Fortunately, Phoenix police officers took the fellow into custody without incident.

That caused much discomfort for fans on Friday, though, as they had to wait in the sun for a couple of hours while staff and security searched all backpacks, large purses, etc., for any contraband. Prop weapons were banned, weapon sellers were obliged to put purchases into opaque bags (that is, black garbage bags), and one vendor created such a stink that he was told to pack up and leave.

But you probably want to know about my experience. I met two of my booth-mates for the first time. I learned that I probably want a table-front banner of some kind and/or book cover posters if I do something like this again. I did decide to emulate something another author did in our booth. You'll see what that plan is when you come to the Payson Book Festival on July 22.

But as I said above, I had an interesting four days. Costumes abounded, some incredibly detailed, some pretty basic, some outlandish, some lacking much substance. I was amazed, however, at how easily I let go of the need to judge all manner of people and their fascinations. That's not my job, anyway. I simply enjoyed the spectacle and the homemade ice cream.

I sold a handful of books. I didn't expect to sell loads of books. In fact, I scaled back my inventory from tons of books to five of each, because I knew I would not sell many books (plus, I didn't want to undergo the dock loading process).

For one thing, I'm not a well-known, super-star author.

For another, I was offering historical novels for sale at a convention more into sci-fi, fantasy, gaming, and popular TV shows and movies of those cultures. But I did give away my handouts, which have QR codes on the back for people curious about what I was doing there. That is a part of my brand awareness advertising plan.

I enjoyed looking at the costumes, but I could not tell you who about 90 percent of them represented.

I did get a Whovian thrill, though.

BBC America had a Dr. Who booth at which one could have free photos taken: outside with your own camera/phone,

and inside, with a photo emailed to you. By the way, the TARDIS really is bigger on the inside!

Will I do ComiCon as a vendor again? The verdict isn't in yet. If I ever write a book in a genre more in line with the spirit of the Con, perhaps yes. If I don't I can always go as an attendee. That will probably give me less stress and fewer hours of after-event decompressing.

Have you ever been to an event like a ComiCon? Were you an attendee or a vendor? What did you experience?

ComiCon and Me

by Marsha Ward  @MarshaWard

Several months ago, I was invited to share a booth with a friend at Phoenix ComiCon. I went back and forth before I decided to give it a go. Now there are four of us authors in the booth.

ComiCon begins Thursday, May 25, and runs through Sunday, May 28.

I'm not positive whether or not I'm a good fit for the event. I write Westerns. ComiCon celebrates popular culture, particularly in the fields of SciFi & Fantasy. But before Firefly, there were Westerns, right?

If nothing else, I can take the expenses off my income taxes in several categories, including Advertising and Fees.

Although ComiCon is not strictly a book event, authors do participate, in both booths and at "Artist Alley" tables. For me, this will be an adventure in marketing, putting my author brand out there, conquering fear and anxiety, and trying to be an extrovert for four days.

I've been working on what books to take, how many copies of each book, how to display the books, how to decorate the booth, and other details. I've sent a ton of questions to my friend, read the policies of the show innumerable times (and I'm sure I missed something!), and even had nightmares.

Yes, nightmares. Horrible, vivid nightmares of having my car stolen from downtown Phoenix, thus stranding me 150 miles from home. Once I got my parking secured, though, the nightmares went away.

The last couple of days, I've been working on handouts. One handout showcases my major series, "The Owen Family Saga," and the other has a headline of "WESTERNS, America's Timeless Fiction," with photos of nine of my works, plus fifteen QR code links to various sites on the reverse.

I also made a ring-bound set of cards with large QR codes for those who wish to go purchase ebooks on the spot. Or just look at one of the books at Amazon.

Why all the QR codes?

In view of the demographic of the attendees, I've decided to take a minimum amount of paperback books, because this crowd is more likely to buy and read ebooks. I'm attempting to make it easy for them to purchase books of mine that catch their interest!  

There are tons of apps for reading/scanning QR codes. I'm hoping many attendees will have such scanning apps.

So much goes on at ComiCon that I probably won't be sitting around watching my feet swell as I thought at first. I might get to go roam a little to take in a panel, or just wander around and see the sights. I'm sure there will be cringe-worthy costumes, but some are likely to be spectacular--even if I don't know what show or comic book character they represent.

My friends have advised me to have fun. By gum, I'm going to have fun. Really, truly.

I'll be in the Four Carat Press Booth in the Lower Level Exhibit Hall, Hall Six, Booth #1797, against the south wall. Come say hello!

February Romance Fix

by Marsha Ward

What better time than Valentines Day to tell you about a nice deal in FREE Clean Romance eBooks that I'm involved in?

In exchange for your email address (so you can get to know all us authors and other books we have written) you can choose among our FREE eBooks and pick one or several of those offered. You can have them all!
And as you enjoy our FREE eBooks, you can learn a little about us as people, as well as authors.

This promotion comes to you through My Book Cave, a service offering ratings, yes, RATINGS on books, just like you get ratings on television shows and movies. What an idea!

With FREE eBooks and collections from such stellar writers as Julie Wright, Elizabeth D. Michaels, Heather B. Moore, Laurie Lewis, Melanie Jacobson, Rebecca Talley, Joyce DiPastena, Lois D. Brown, Marsha Ward, and others, how can you go wrong?

Go now to My Book Cave, open your free account, and select a bunch of yummy Clean Romances.

Oh, did I tell you there's also a Gift Card Giveaway? Enter the sweepstakes to win a $10 Gift Card from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or iTunes. Tell all your friends! Click here to begin your February Romance Fix now.

A Scene from Ride to Raton

by Marsha Ward @Marsha Ward

Some writers plan out everything they will ever write. Not me. My brain doesn't work that way.

When I finished my first novel, The Man from Shenandoah, I thought I had written the only full-length novel I would ever write. I thought that was it for these people, and any further long-form fiction, as well.

But evidently I had more to tell. I left James Owen sorely wounded in heart and mind, and he demanded that I give him a chance to work through his pain.

Accordingly, I wrote Ride to Raton (It probably should have been called Ride to Raton Pass, but I liked the sound of the three words, and totally forgot the fact that there is a town in New Mexico named Raton). I thought this novel would finish up my account of the Owen family from Virginia.

Boy, was I wrong! The two books have grown to five, with offshoots and spinoffs going in all directions, and more to come.

This never-before-posted scene from Ride to Raton occurs after James is shot in Pueblo, Colorado Territory, by a disgruntled former Union soldier. Randolph Hilbrands, a friend of James's father, has taken him into his home to recuperate.
~~~

“Mister James, Mister James, wake up, please? You must be hungry.”

Surprised to hear his name, James rolled over, grinning at the soothing touch of the water on his naked body, and swam upward from exploring the bottom of the pond behind the flour mill on a creek feeding the Shenandoah River. He tried to shrug off the hand that gently touched his right shoulder, but the movement brought such a flood of pain to his side that he moaned before he could catch himself.

“Please, Mister James. Ma said I wasn’t to come back to the kitchen without feeding you. If you don’t wake up soon, your food’ll be stone cold.”

He thrust his head and shoulders above the water, opened one eye, then immediately shut it against the sunlight that streamed through an open window between muslin drapes and hit his face. His body felt bloated, invaded by aches and twitches. And although he was still naked, he seemed to be lying half covered by a sheet and quilt on a bed inside a room, instead of treading water in the millpond.

Someone besides himself was in the room. “Six little beans!” he grunted, trying to shade his eyes with his left hand, remembering that a girl’s voice had addressed him. “It’s brighter than noon day in here. Can you shut them curtains?”

A young girl put the tray of food on the washstand and ran to the window to pull the drapes together. She returned to stand beside the bed, and James blinked his eyes as she drew near.

The girl was about fifteen, he judged, slender and blonde. She wore a white bib apron with a full skirt over a light weight gingham gown patterned with sprigs of lilacs on a white background. Her wavy hair hung below her shoulders, tied back with a white ribbon. The girl smiled, tentatively, and one dimple appeared in her cheek.

“Who’re you?” he asked, wondering how he came to be between the sheets. The last thing he remembered, he had been lying atop the coverlet, enduring the sting of a thousand hornets as Amanda Hilbrands’ needle pierced the flesh of his side. Now he looked around. The tub was gone from the room, and the towel had disappeared from around his hips. James blinked twice, and reached down to draw the sheet over his chest, grateful that the quilt masked his nakedness from the girl.

“I’m Sylvia. My pa runs the hotel. Don’t you recall he brought you here?”

James shut his eyes for a moment, less to remember his arrival than to recall where he had heard the girl’s voice before. He gave his head a shake, then opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” he sighed, a long drawn out sound, and fingered the bandage around his chest. “Your ma put this thread into me a couple of hours ago.”

“That was two days back!” the girl exclaimed. “You’ve been asleep since then.”

“Six little beans! Did I take a fever?” James got himself onto his elbows, and the girl bent forward to put a pillow behind his back so he could sit partway up. As the sheet slipped and gathered in creases about his waist, the girl’s hair brushed his shoulder.

The blonde hair—he could see it on another head, arranged in tumbling ringlets behind a face twisted with fury. A voice—with the same timbre as this girl’s voice—batted at his ears: “You never came around, Carl Owen. Cecil was here. I have a right to marry a man I can trust!”

James shuddered.

“No.” A frown furrowed Sylvia’s forehead. “I reckon you’re just wore out. You been through a lot of woe since you came to Pueblo City.” She turned away to bring the food tray, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed with the tray on her lap. “This is a good room, though. Pa let Ida use it for her wedding night.”

A wrenching pain invaded James’s gut. Ida Hilbrands had breathed this air, her body had lain on this bed. The body that should have quieted Carl’s lusts was given to an English dandy—on this bed, beneath this quilt. James swallowed. His throat closed on cotton.

The girl touched his wrist. James’s arm twitched under the cool fingers.

“Are you all right, Mister James?”

He cleared his throat. “You sound like your…older sister.”

“You mean Mary?” The girl’s face brightened. “How is her little baby doing? We all want to see her.” Sylvia picked up a spoon and a bowl and stirred the contents.

James again eased the sheet up to cover his chest. “The little gal’s growing, but no, I wasn’t speaking of Mary.” The sheet bunched in his lap again, and James jerked it upward and pinned it underneath his arm.

“Oh. You mean—”

“Ida! I mean Ida.” His voice rasped in his throat as he said the name.

The girl looked puzzled. “Are you angry with Ida?”

James felt his face settling into ridges as he scowled. Angry? The word was wrong. Wrong and far too weak. I hate her. I despise her wide blue eyes and her lying, cheating heart. He cleared his throat again. “I have reason.” His breath left his lungs in a lengthy shudder.

Sylvia looked at him for a moment, puzzlement crinkling the skin around her eyes. Then she picked up a spoon.

“Here, have a taste of porridge. Ma made it fresh for you today.” Sylvia held the spoon to James’s lips, and he accepted the morsel. “What did Ida do to you? I thought it was Carl she threw over.”

For a moment, he could only chew, then swallow. He sensed no taste, no savor. Before he had a chance to speak, Sylvia put another spoonful of mush into his mouth. He swallowed that down, then, as Sylvia brought up another bite, James shook his head.

They’ll know sooner or later. Pa will come in for supplies, or Ma will send a note to Mrs. H. by a passing stranger. He turned his head to look at the doorway. Will I be gone, first? Or will Danny O’Brien shoot me in the back? He looked at the girl and squeezed his hands into fists. The pain forced his mouth open.

“You didn’t hear, I reckon. Carl got over being mad at Ida. He wed Ellen Bates about a week past.”

“Oh, Mister James! She was pledged to you!” Sylvia dropped the spoon into the bowl, and it clanked against the side.

Instantly, he repented of his burst of words. “Forget I said that. Just forget it!”

“I’m sorry.” Sylvia held her hands tightly together in front of her mouth.

James snorted. “It’s done and over.”

“How could that happen?” The girl moved the tray from her lap to the bed and leaned forward.

Bitterness rose in James’s throat, and he turned his head to swallow it down.

Sylvia bounced once on the bed. “Ida caused it. She sure is mean.”

James shuddered anew, slumping against the pillow. “Go away,” he said.

“What?”

“Take your gruel and leave me be. I’m weary.”

“But you didn’t finish.”

“Tell your Ma I fell asleep again. It won’t be a lie. Look. I’m nodding off now.” James shut his eyes.

He heard her get to her feet and pick up the tray. “I reckon I tired you out, talking so much.”

“It’s not you. I’m wore out, like you said.” James twitched the quilt higher on his chest. Suddenly he bolted upright, winced, then lay down again. “You’d better get your papa, girl. I got to put myself deeper in his debt.”
~~~

I'm participating in the Payson Book Festival this Saturday. Come up to the cool pines of Payson, Arizona and bring your kids to this family-friendly event. It's FREE! Except for food and snacks, and of course, a multitude of books to purchase from nearly 100 authors, in every genre and for every age group, fiction and non fiction alike.

It will be at Gila Community College, 210 N Mud Springs Road(north off Highway 260, opposite the Ranger Station) from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. Come and go, or stick around for talks, kids classes, and music.

My novels will be in the Bookstore, and I'll be in the courtyard at Table 14. See you there!