Sometimes I can see better in the dark with my eyes closed.

Sometimes I can see better in the dark with my eyes closed 

Deb Graham                                                                                                                                                                                             I noticed the other night, as I was wending my way back from the bathroom about 4 AM after drinking too much grape juice before bed, that I was walking with my eyes closed. Odd, so I questioned mySelf.

“Self, why are you walking with eyes closed?”

Without an eyelash’s hesitation, mySelf replied, “It’s dark. I can see better with my eyes closed.”

Well, that was worth thinking about, so I sat down in the dark hallway and pondered for a minute or six. I realized I often close my eyes in dark places...to see better. Outdoors on moonless nights, I often walk with eyes clamped shut. On nights when I need a bathroom run and feel too polite to wake Husband by turning on a light, my eyes don’t open, and I manage to powder my nose, wash my hands, and make it back to bed with toes unstubbed. I’ve mentioned before I often write notes in the night, and I don’t turn on a light for that, either. Hmmm. What does my Self know that I don’t?

Can I really see better with my eyes closed? Yes, I guess I can. In dim light, I strain to make out the outlines of the hotel dresser or the rock in my path. Just before dawn, my eyes ache, trying to suck in the faint light so I can dodge the trees. In the evening, as darkness falls, I scramble to pack up my reading materials so none get left out overnight. If I try to see when there’s just not enough light to take in, my eyes quickly fatigue from being asked to accomplish what they cannot.

But once I’m in full and total darkness, I automatically shut my eyes and rely on my other senses to protect me from falling or crashing into things. And they step up to the task. With my eyes closed, I can sense or feel doorframes, shoes left on the floor,  furniture, even in unfamiliar places, and I noticed I’ve been doing that for years. My inner self guides me, and for the most part, my shins remain unbarked. I don’t like the dark, but I seem to have figured out a way to navigate in it.

How does this relate to writing? I’m constantly running ahead, flipping on lights, researching frantically, drowning in copious notes and ideas and outlines. Maybe relying on self-imposed deadlines, plot lines, charts, and keeping close track of book sales and advertising plans and All Of It is getting in the way of why I started writing in the first place.

I wrote my first book (Tips From The Cruise Addict’s Wife) because I realized I just plain knew more than most people. I’m no brighter than anybody else, but I’m a compulsive reader and have a fear of missing Something Wonderful, right there, when I travel. My first novel (Peril in Paradise) came about because of a question. How could a Bad Guy make use of the fact that immature Hawaiian sea turtles have a predictable migratory path? I had a story to tell!

I write rather a lot; I published two books this summer alone. I’m aware of at least four more brewing in there; there could be more. Am I blocking my own path by not allowing my senses to guide me? By straining to see what lies ahead and get in front of every possible contingency, am I missing the joy in writing? If I get out of my way, would I do better and be happier? Sure, there’s a risk of “failing,” whatever that looks like, or at least flailing, but so what? 

I may occasionally smack my head on a low-hanging shelf I couldn’t see in the dark, but mostly, I get along just fine. Sometimes I can see better in the dark with my eyes closed. With regard to writing, it’s worth a try. 

I'm back!

by Marsha Ward  @MarshaWard marshaward.com

Month after month I've been forgetting my turn to post. That's a crying shame, because, yanno, the blog is named after me, sorta, kinda. I'm the founder of ANWA, and I blog with a few of my friends.

Maybe I'm burning out. I've been writing a white-hot streak of fiction for several months, and often find myself with no words of wisdom to share at the end of the day.

I've produced ten (10!!!) projects this year, including a brand new short story that was released last Friday. Scandalous: An Owen Family Story is my first venture into the exclusive program at Kindle called Select.

You can find Scandalous on Amazon for purchase, or read it free if you subscribe to KindleUnlimited.

Here's the blurb:
Young Julianna Owen didn’t think flirting with Parley Morgan at the barn raising would lead him to put his hands where they ought not to be. But worse yet, her sister discovers them and Parley abandons her, running off into the woods.
 
Julianna’s strict father has found where she is hiding, and her world on the Colorado frontier is crashing down around her ears. She thought love and romance was only about going on picnics and holding hands, not rough kisses and hurtful pawing.

Now the consequences of her actions might be beyond what she can bear.

In the 1860s Owen Family universe, Scandalous shines a light on teen hormones run amok during a trying time in the family’s story, as it ties up a loose thread from the novel, Spinster’s Folly.

This edition contains bonus material at the end, an excerpt from the Shenandoah Neighbors story, Bloodied Leather.
~~~

I've also been going-going-going this year and I have three more places to go before year's end: The ANWA Writers Conference, where I'm doing a two-hour presentation; an epic road trip to the Northwest, and the Mesa Book Festival. Maybe I can relax during the Christmas holiday?

That's not likely.

I'm just hanging on and hoping to be more consistent with my blogging turn here. So, I certainly will try to be here in two weeks.

Happy reading!

Twitter Pitches: An Entirely New Experience

I've seen mention of Twitter Pitches in other writing forums. Usually I hear about them after the fact. A few months ago, after missing another one, I decided to do some research.

For those who have never heard of a Twitter Pitch before, is where those who have a completed, polished manuscript create a Twitter-length (140 characters) pitch about your book (you must leave room for hashtags describing genre, and twitter pitch hashtag).  For example, one of my pitches looks like this:

Homecoming Dances, Bullies, Kidnapping, and the Mexican Mafia are a typical day’s work for this teenaged spy. #IWSGPIT #YA #Ad

It's not fantastic, but I had all of 20 minutes to come up with my pitch because I forgot the Twitter Pitch was today. It ultimately doesn't matter though. What I'm really gearing up for are the Pitch Wars, and PitMad which occur in August and September.  Brenda Drake ( http://www.brenda-drake.com/) has a lot of great information on how to participate in a Twitter Pitch.

Today, I am taking part in the Insecure Writer's Support Group Twitter Pitch (#IWSGPit).  This is the first time they've hosted a Twitter Pitch and with more than 30 Literary Agencies represented, I thought I'd give it a go.

At the very least, I'll work on my elevator pitch or hook.  At the most, I might get one or two agents to request more information.

I'm two pitches in (I can submit one pitch per hour) and the only people liking my pitches are people who follow me on Twitter. But I'm treating this much like any other query prospect. It's a long shot and a learning experience which will better prepare me for the Twitter Pitches I'm preparing for in the future.

Have any of you participated in a Twitter Pitch? What did you think of it? Did you get any feedback?  I'd love to hear from you in the comments.

Reading Through the Generations

Much of my childhood was filled with books, listening to stories, telling stories, and falling asleep to stories. On trips, my parents would play children's books, narrated on colored audio cassette tapes, each tape color coded for it's respective story.  We'd spend hours in the car reading along with the lively storyteller, letting the words come to life in our minds.

Before I was old enough for school, Mother would pile four or five of us on her lap or at her feet to read a few chapters before nap time, often featuring scripture-related themes. Colorful illustrations would fill the pages for us to view while Mother spoke.

At bedtime, Dad would come home, gather us onto a bed, and proceed to tell us lively renditions of The Three Billy Goat's Gruff, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, or Little Red Riding Hood.  If we were particularly lucky, he'd make up an adventure of his own.  One all-time favorite was the Green-Handed Monster From Piccolo Street. Dad would gesture, change voices, and provide lots and lots of tickling. Then he'd tuck us into bed, kiss us goodnight, and our dreams would continue where his imagination left off.

As we got older, reading became second nature.  Mom and Dad had bookcases filled with layers of books in all shapes, sizes and genres.  I remember one particular wooden book case with scroll work and doors.  I'd spend hours pulling the books out and reorganizing them by shape, name, or color - depending on my mood.  When my father passed away, that was the item I requested from his estate.

In their closet, another bookshelf filled with the paperbacks, displayed their favorite titles.  Dad had nearly every Louis L'Amour book written.  Mother preferred romances, particularly Barbara Cartland stories.  As soon as I was old enough to read, I began sneaking into their paperback stash and borrowing a book or two.

Between my library books, and the borrowed books, I was constantly reading. While some children got in trouble for causing mischief, we were scolded for staying up till three or four in the morning reading.

Now that I'm a mother, I work to find new ways to introduce the love of reading to my children. There was no Internet, cellphones, and little TV for me growing up.  Now a days, these items seem to be the babysitter, entertainer, teacher, and friends to people of all ages.

My third child is now eight.  This year she began reading chapter books and exploring independent reading.  This opened new worlds to her, especially this summer when we limited her use of electronics and television.

Now, she's started her own blog, YouTube, Instagram, Facebook Page, and Twitter Account to review each of the books she's read and to give her opinions.  I don't know where she gets her ambition from (ahem), but she seems to be thriving. She mentioned to one of the local librarians that she was starting a vlog, and now the person in charge of author spotlights for all the libraries in the county has requested an interview. My sweet little pipsqueak is loving every minute of it.

I don't know if the vlog will continue past the end of summer, but at the very least Courtney is exploring new genres, authors, and books.  Plus she gets to wear lots of different outfits when she vlogs!

If I am lucky, she will continue her love of literature into adulthood and beyond. Hopefully she will share that love with others around her, reminding them there is more to this world than smart phones, vines, and Snapchat! And she will understand that with each story she reads, entire worlds will open up to her.

What things have you done to encourage reading and literacy with your children, grandchildren, and young ones? I'd love to know!  And if you happen to be a children's author and want Courtney to review your book, drop me a line!

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?

I Will Not Compare Myself To Others

Normally I'm a pretty confident person.  My life is not perfect. I know it. I've come to terms with the things I cannot change, and I work harder to change what I can.

But for some reason, this last couple of weeks, I've struggled with comparing myself to others.  I don't know if this is because I spent the better part of that time with strep throat and the flu, while also caring for my youngest who had strep throat and a staph infection.  I do know this means I'm about seven pages behind on my to-do list.

I know part of my problem is that I'm spending too much time on social media. It's hard not to compare your rough draft to someone's final product.

I listen to stories from my writer friends who are cranking out a book or two or three a year, and I'm thinking, "Hey! I think I added 2 pages this month."

Plus, I'm working on a book with my sisters. Each of us has a specific list of things responsibilities for the book.  We also have a mountain of other responsibilities in addition to writing this book.  As we do our daily/weekly check-ins, I continually struggle with internal dialogue accusing me of not pulling my weight and doing as much, or as well, or as often...well, you get the picture.

Finally, last night around 1:00 a.m., as I was staying up extra late to close the self-perceived gap between me and my sisters, I threw my hands up in the air.  I closed my eyes, wishing I could go to bed and get some sleep. But my mind kept saying, "Just a few more minutes.  You're almost caught up."

For one brief moment, I remembered a conversation with my husband earlier in the day. We'd been talking about the atonement, but it just as easily related to my desire to 'keep up'.  He told me, "What you do is good enough.  It doesn't need to be  your very best, or 100% all the time.  As long as you are trying, that's good enough."

And with that thought, I drug my butt out of my chair, and shuffled to bed.

This morning, without the fog of exhaustion seeping into my thoughts, I see the error of my ways.  Why am I comparing myself to someone who isn't living the same life I am? They're not fighting my battles. They don't have the same demands on their time.  Yes, there are people who write better, more prolifically, and publish more often than me.  I will be there one day.  But there is a time and a season for everything.  This is not my time or season to be a full-time writer.  I am a full-time mother, and a part-time writer.  Full-time writing will come in time.  I just need to be patient. Comparing myself to others is like opening the front door and welcoming Satan to make himself at home.  Nothing good will come of it.

Business of Indie Publishing: Print Editions

by Marsha Ward

I’ve just finished taking a course on business for fiction writers. One of the things I’ve learned is that an Indie Publisher should have many streams of revenue. Here a few sales and there a few sales adds up.

One revenue stream often neglected by Indies is print editions. I’ve heard that I should rectify this situation.

It must be true. Many times I’ve heard one of my friends say, “Well, I’ll buy it when it comes out in print.” Make that two, no, three friends. There must be more who I haven’t heard from.

I’ve always thought, Well, it’s only a novella, and I don’t plan to do it in print. It’s too small.

Always Learning New Stuff

But I’ve learned that nothing is too small for print! Bundling several projects together can make a larger printed product, but it’s a valid idea to have ALL work in print.

So, I’ve taken a bit of time away from writing to do some business “housekeeping.” That is, I’ve been making print editions of a couple of pieces of my work. I will continue to do this in the future.

I also uploaded an updated print cover for The Man from Shenandoah with the correct Book Number, and will do the same with Spinster’s Folly after TMFS clears the process.

Besides that, I’m toiling over new print editions for the last two of the Owen Family Saga novels, Ride to Raton, and Trail of Storms. Once they are ready to go, I’ll rescind permission for iUniverse to print those books. My relationship with them will then be at an end.

FYI, prices of the print editions for Gone for a Soldier, The Man from Shenandoah, and Spinster’s Folly have gone up a dollar each, but Amazon is holding the line with sales at the lower prices. I don’t know how long that will last, however.

Now In Print:

Newly published is a print edition of Western Stories: Four Tales of the West, with a brand new cover! It’s currently available for $6.99 plus shipping and handling from CreateSpace, Amazon, and BarnesandNoble.com.

Work continues on a mega print edition of The Complete Owen Family Saga. That has been quite an undertaking. I’ve had to change the font and margins several times in order to keep the book within the page limit for the size. At first, I thought I might have to go up to 8 1/2- x 11-inches, but I figured out a way to keep it at the familiar 6-x 9-inches.

It will be a thick book. The minus is that it has over 400,000 words, so the font size is smaller than I would like. However, it’s going to have that stunning yellow cover. I might do it in the silky-feeling matte cover. The five novels within are in the best reading order. Those are big pluses.

I trust these moves will be good for business.

Life Is Out of Control!

by Marsha Ward

Okay, so I have to post-date this post because I'm posting it on a day on which I'm not scheduled to post, but life is like that recently. What I mean is, it's all messed up.

Not life, per se, but my scheduling thereof. I've been postponing working on finishing one nonfiction project so I could finish another one. Well, the recipe collection is now completed, and it's available in print as well as ebook formats. Here's a link to my website with details.

But have I resumed writing the last two chapters on the other nonfiction project?

Um, no.

Because I'm testing something out for that project, by formatting another of my books for print! That's a difficult project, due to the length of five-books-in-one. I'm trying to keep it under the limit of 840 pages. I might need to go to a bigger-size of book, like 8 1/2 x 11-inches, but I hope not.

Perhaps I should abandon the present test format until I have time for the large book, huh? Maybe do the testing on a shorter work, like a novella or a short-story collection? The formatting is taking a lot of time that should be spent in other ways, like getting the testing done so I can get back to the original task: finishing the nonfiction project!

Because I have other work to write. Sheesh!

It would help if my Internet were cooperating. We have a lot of wind today, and for some reason, wind affects my satellite connection in bad ways.

Whiny Wednesday, anyone? Oh, that's right. It's not Wednesday!

Sharing the Writing Process With My Teenaged Son

Nathan's books - well, 1/4 of them, anyway.

Connecting with my son through writing has been one of my biggest rewards.

Nathan is 17 1/2 now. He's at that age when most boys hold up in their rooms, blast music or play video games, and block their family out of their lives. At least that's what my brothers did growing up.

Nathan, on the other hand, reads.  He's been fanatical about reading from the moment he discovered new worlds unfolding on the pages in front of him. At one point, he had thousands of books downloaded on his phone. He keeps telling me he needs another row of shelves along his bedroom walls for books.  I continue to put it off. If I build a shelf, he will want to fill it. And that gets expensive fast!

As I've written my Unleashed! series, Nathan has always known at least one of the books would be about him.  He's been a good sport so far, bless his soul.  He's endured photo shoots, questions about hypothetical situations and how he would handle them. We've had actual arguments over how my imaginary characters would or would not act. The boy has an incredible grasp of human nature and strategy.

This weekend, I mentioned to Nathan how I didn't think my first chapter of Unleashed! was strong enough to catch the Literary Agents' attention. To my surprise, he agreed.  Then, he proceeded to tell me four different areas that were weak, or unbelievable. After hearing his reasoning, I hung my head, and trudged to the computer to create an alternate beginning.

I've spent the last week slaving over my laptop, and finally have it finished.  Nathan likes the new start much better.

If you're interested in offering up your opinions, let me know and I'll send each of the versions to you. I'd be interested to hear what you have to say.

Now, I'm off to go pick a fight with him about whether or not a seven-year-old girl is physically capable of taking down a 300 lb man.  Wish me luck!

Night Writing

By Deb Graham

I’m swamped.

I’m a mom, an involved grandmother, a wife, active in my Church, my community, and three writer’s groups (plus three more online). I’m an author and writer. I've published thirteen books, and I'm currently working on two novels while researching one more, plus contemplating another cookbook, and scouting out magazines to sell articles to. I'm also in the middle of converting all of my books to audio book format, a time consuming task.

I juggle the household management, the yardwork, and most of the planning in our family. I’m a friend, and I try to reach out to those I don’t know as well. I'm accused of being a good listener. I sew, I donate to good causes, I encourage where I can, and take up service projects right and left. I’m an avid reader, but frequent migraines don’t always allow that pleasure. I have health issues that cause constant aching, sap my energy, concern the doctors, and trigger a little voice in my head to chant “If you take on one more thing, you’ll go up in a puff of smoke.”  

Our society touts a word I don’t understand. Multi-tasking. Honestly, is there any other kind of tasking? What is the opposite of multi-tasking? Uni-tasking?  Is that even possible? Are there really people who don't apply face creme while brushing their teeth or reach for notecards when waiting for a train to pass?

I sleep poorly. I’m so tired I’ve taken up sleep-writing. That’s not by choice, mind you. I’ve kept paper and pen by my bed for decades, because I find that place between sleep and wakefulness is where Great Ideas spawn. I don’t want to stay awake to remember them, or risk forgetting by morning. 

The last few months, my tired subconscious seems to go on without me. I wake up most mornings to scraps of paper on the floor beside my bed, all scrawled in a half-asleep, written-in-the-dark script. I don’t recall writing them!

Some are ideas for a scene in my novel, or a dialogue between characters I hadn’t figured out yet. Last week I found a note telling how to disguise the poison in an upcoming scene, and you can bet I wasn’t thinking about an Iranian souk as I fell asleep.

Some list things I need to buy next time I go shopping. One was a half-decent sketch for a neckline on that blouse I’m planning to embellish in my spare moments; I’ve also discovered  a book cover design that’ll fit the size I’ve been mulling, perfectly. One reminded me to check on my friend who had a new baby. Others baffle me. 

“Don’t Forget To Paint The Milk.”

Wha-?

“Delete Seattle.”

 I can tell you, that’s not going to go over well.

"Don't fear the grapefruit." 

uh, okay. 

Anyway, as I was whining saying, I’m a busy person. So if anyone can suggest a way to utilize my limited time and energy, I’m listening!

Some time ago, I attended a workshop on Writing Efficiently. One comment stood out. I’ve heard my whole life, it seems, that A Writer Must Write Every Single  Day, No Matter What. I never knew why, beyond the obvious: what doesn’t get written remains...well, unwritten.

The presenter said, “You must Write Every Day, even if it’s just a few lines. This will keep your project in the forefront of your mind. While you are doing other things, your inner self and subconscious can work together to move the story along. While you’re stirring a pot, a plot point may pop into your mind, or you’ll find that knot in your dialogue untying as you drive. Give your brain the tools it needs to multi-task.”

There were days, whole strings of them, when I was simply too swamped to get near my computer, let alone “squander time” writing. I complained, “How long can I call myself a writer if I’m too busy to write?”

 No more! 

Writing is a priority, no matter what else the rest of the day throws at me. I found he was right; while I’m racing pell-mell through my other tasks, my mind does wander to my current writing project, rewording a phrase, fleshing out a character. And, based on evidence, this goes on in the night, too.

 But I still have no plans to paint the milk. 

Reviews

Woo-HOO! My first-ever book just garnered its 293^rd review on Amazon! And that doesn’t even count the non-USA ones, or on other sites: Amazon only.

The last review is so recent, it’s still warm. I read it, twice. Okay, it was three times.

Face it, we humans crave recognition, an acknowledgment that somebody noticed us, our work, maybe even liked it. Selling 24,985 books is great (it really is!) but actual feedback from readers is a different level. You won’t get as many reviews as you like, no matter what. In my How To Complain book, I write that for every person who speaks up, about a hundred more feel the same way, but never comment. Humans are a lazy bunch.

Still, 293 is not sneeze-worthy! So...how do I get reviews?

I ask. No one calls me subtle. I learned decades ago, if I want something, I need to make my need clearly known. Randomly dropping broad hints is futile. At the end of each of my books, I include a  paragraph, clearly titled A Shameless Plea. I respond to personal connection; I assume others do, too. I make writing a review sound so easy; why wouldn’t they?

I say how much a review means to an author, relating it to the book in hand. For a cruise book, I’ll say it means as much as a $200 tip to a cabin steward. In my children’s activity books, I’ll compare it to a bag stuffed with brilliant ideas to entertain a wild scout troop. In my cookbooks, I’ll say a review is equal to the best recipe your friend ever shared, the elegant one that impresses everyone on sight and takes fifteen minutes to prepare.

I say a review takes mere moments to compose, and can even be posted anonymously if they wish.

I have a hyperlink from there, right to the review page for my book. All they have to do is click that spot, and type something profound while the book is still fresh in their minds. Make it easy, and people will write. 

293 times, if you're lucky!

Tidying Up

Call me sensitive–when a perpetually neat houseguest bought me a book on tidying, it kinda raised my ire. The book is entitled The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Marie Kondo, and the houseguest was my mother, alias The Recreational Cleaner. We also call her The Phantom Picker Upper, although not to her face. Seriously, I can sip my lemonade, set it on the table beside me, reach for the glass a minute later, and it's gone, rinsed, and already in the dishwasher. How does she do that, without me even noticing she came in the room?

After walking by the book for two days, I finally picked it up, planning to casually skim the first chapter or two. Sucked in, soon I was turning the last page.

I admit I learned a few things, such as Never Throw Away Other’s Belongings, of which I may or may not be guilty. But the Spread Out Every Item You Own, Touch Each, Have A Conversation With It, Asking If It Brings Joy Or Not, seemed outlandish to me. I set the book aside; just another self-help scheme.

And then the weirdness started. Dressing in the mornings, I’d find myself thinking, “Hm. Do I love this faded blue shirt? How much joy is left in it?” Unloading the dishwasher, I’d ponder stacking the chipped green bowl neatly, or throwing it out. Did it make me happy? It felt like a spell had been cast on me, and I was annoyed.

I’m an author, a writer, a researcher, a traveler. On a daily basis, I’m swamped. I juggle a husband, kids, grandchildren, friends, Church responsibilities, writer’s groups, and assorted doctors who seem to be throwing plaster on my crumbling walls.  I converse plenty. I simply don’t have time to be listening to dated jackets and seven-year-old skirts.

I’ve written eleven non-fiction books, including two best-selling cruise books, and I recently released a sequel, “More Cruise Tips from the Cruise Addict’s Wife.” Around this same time, I began my first novel. Off to a great start, until the voices in my head began. Does this paragraph bring me joy? Is this character making me happy? Has this scene outlived its usefulness?

I reread Mom’s book. I know it plainly talks about sorting one’s Things, but it squirmed its way into my mind and changed my writing for the good. If “man is that he might have joy,” then I guess I’m entitled to some joy in my writing, too. I winnowed my novel down from 89,000 words to 68,000 words, weighing each sentence, jettisoning the parts that brought no joy.

“Peril In Paradise” was released in early 2016, and is selling well. I love the cover design! It’s a cozy mystery set on a cruise ship in Hawaii, with warm characters and descriptions so rich, you could plan a cruise with it. The process was more fun than I expected, so much so I’m currently writing two more novels.

Bonus-I also have more room in my closet since I began writing. Weird, isn’t it, how some books wriggle into one’s subconscious? 

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!

Standing Against Plagiarism

By Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

Almost two years ago, a fellow author, Rachel Ann Nunes, learned that someone had gotten a hold of one of her sweet novels, altered the text to make it an erotic book, slapped her "name" on it, and published it to Amazon.

This is called plagiarism, if you're unfamiliar with this sort of intellectual property (IP) theft. Rachel decided to take a stand. With the help of several friends and a good attorney, she found the identity of the "alleged thief" and has taken her to court.

You cannot begin to imagine how costly this process is. It is not supported by any governmental entity as a criminal matter. It's all on Rachel. She had to sue the "alleged perpetrator" in Federal Court on her own. The case still has not been seen in open court. Rachel is embroiled in all the stuff that goes on before a matter comes to trial: discovery, depositions, and a host of other things.

The cost to Rachel has been much more than the monetary expenses of bringing the "alleged thief" to justice. She has endured harassment, loss of writing time and with that, loss of writing income, nightmares, anxiety, loss of time with family members, heartache, and did I mention that she is the sole breadwinner in her family? Her husband quit his job just before all this hit the fan, to work on a project he and Rachel held dear to their hearts.

Many people in the writing community have rallied to assist Rachel. One of the chief ways they have helped is to donate items or services of value that can be purchased on her Go Fund Me fundraising site.

I previously donated Naming Rights to characters in my novel, The Zion Trail. Now I've made a new offer for the right to name characters in my romantic post-Civil War work-in-progress (WIP), Mended by Moonlight.

I'm happy to report that four out of the five character's names have been snapped up by purchasers. But there's one more available!

For only $12 (or more, if you see fit), you can purchase the right to name a married 30-year-old wounded Northern soldier (who dies) in my WIP. Don't lose out on this opportunity! It's the final name I'll put up for this work.

This is the last chance for you to see your name, or immortalize an ancestor, in this book. Don't worry. I don't use your characteristics or physical attributes in any way (if I even know you), except by some bizarre coincidence.

To help my friend Rachel in her fight against intellectual property theft, go here, scroll down almost to the bottom to where the "Select a Reward Level" offerings appear, and in the next-to-last row, click on the "Name Character" icon with the $12 price.

Thank you!