Whose Story Is It Anyway?

by Deb Graham

Whose story is it?

“Using the pointillism technique we’ve explored this week, draw a human foot. Due Monday.”

Confidently, I jotted down the assignment and headed home for the weekend. I got this! My grandmother was visiting, and she had the oddest feet I’d ever seen. Her baby toes curled under, and the corns near her big toes bulged.  I knew she’d welcome the chance to sit and pose for me while she crocheted. And I knew my art teacher would love it.

Pointillism; a series of dots gathered together in a foot shape; I knew I could excel at this art class’ first homework. I spent two hours carefully detailing every inch of Grandma’s left foot. My family agreed I’d caught the realism.

 On Monday, I slipped my sketch paper out of my hinged portfolio and clamped it on my easel to show the teacher when he circled the room. Ten minutes later, I was in tears, humiliated from the public mockery and scolding dished out.

 Inaccurate lines.

Bulge by big toe.

Baby toes grotesquely rolled under

 Visible boney structure and exaggerated veins.

And he announced my grade to the class; my very first D-. He said he only gave Fs when assignments were not turned in; this was a half point above not drawing at all. I held on another three weeks, then dropped the high school class, and with it, whatever latent drawing talent I may have had.

Today I secured a floor-length artist’s smock around my grandson; at only two years of age, adult clothing is always floor-length. I set him in front of an easel, and offered him his very first paintbrush.

“What color do you want?”

“Yite bwoo!”  No surprise there; light blue is his favorite color.

I sat back. The little guy dipped his brush in the paint. Sure of himself, he arched wide blue swaths with gleeful abandon. I envied his confidence and obvious joy. And I didn’t tell him how to hold the brush, what strokes to make or criticize his choice of color. This was his art, not mine.

I’m a writer and an author. I've published 17 books, three this year. I’m most comfortable in nonfiction because it’s predictable; I control the outcome. I’ve written two novels and I’m working on three more. Fiction tends to go off on its own, and I find that unnerving. Characters speak to me, scenes veer off where I hadn’t intended, plot lines refuse to stay on track. Nonfiction doesn’t behave like that.

When I first attempted fiction, I figured I’d need all the help I could get. I researched, starting with internet searches on How To Write A Novel, How To Set A Scene, How To Write Dialogue; the basics. I also sought human help, including a critique group, beta readers, and editors.

When I wanted to learn to draw, I sought a teacher. At this stage, I find both about equally helpful.

Readers change the voice, insisting Will has to use complete sentences, and Cinci can’t use run-on sentences, although that’s the way I hear

 them in my mind. Others call my style “Yoda-like” and insist on most sentences starting with He Was or She Went; passive to the point of yawning. One said a child couldn’t jump on a trampoline for ten straight minutes, but clearly, she hadn’t seen a joyful child on a summer’s afternoon. “You can’t kill off that character, or I’ll be mad at you!” wailed another. “Put him back!” 

If I listened to them, my stories would be unrecognizable mush.

An artist paints, then steps back, admiring. Never do they create a masterpiece, then hand over the paintbrush to a person to let them add a few strokes to the bridge or erase that tree on the left.

As writers, why do we open ourselves to peer-critique? No one can hear the story in our words, so why do we allow Them to change our voice, to dull its sharp tones, to conform the structure into mind-numbing dullness?  It’s time to stop running our writing through committees.

How? Trust yourself. You’re the one who can hear the character; let them speak, unflattened. 

Believe in your own writing. Trust the process, because what’s the worst that can happen?

Be brave! Get a copyeditor who will only find typos. Ignore any attempts to change your style or writing in any way; they’re only suggestions. 

Sure, rules of grammar apply, and punctuation is critical; I get seriously annoyed by authors who lazily neglect to close quotes or who think every sentence must be paragraph-length, and you just can’t spell “unique” as “yewneak” and expect me to bother reading the rest. I have my limits, and anything that requires me to use a magic decoder ring to read isn’t worth my time. But editors who seek to change your plot, characters, theme, etc should...go write their own book.

Writers are artists, and we need to trust our art. The world needs to hear our voice, our story, and sometimes, just telling it and putting it out there is best, rather than letting it be edited to death.

I can’t draw anything fancier than a straight line, but I can write. 

Jumping Into the Fire

I don't know what I was thinking. If' I'd stopped for even a moment and considered what I was signing myself up for, I would've screamed and run the other way. Apparently, I wasn't thinking. That part of my brain must be defective.

Why do you ask? Because I'm planning on pitching two books at the ANWA conference.  A non-fiction with my sisters, and a YA novel I've written myself.  

Remembering back to last year, I should've known this was a bad idea. The stress of pitching one book can be staggering.  But two? Just shoot me now.  Or at least tie me to a post and walk away.  Apparently I'm out of my mind. 

Not only is it two books, but the submission process is completely different, so I'm learning two things at once.  A non-fiction involves a query, a proposal, and a few sample chapters. A YA novel involves a query, and a completed story.  Even the query formats are different! Ugh. 

And yet I persist.  Sleep is highly overrated, right?  I'll catch up when I die. Which, at the rate I'm going, may be sooner than anticipated. 

Here I am, one week away from pitching, and I'm running around with my hair on fire, screaming like a banshee, wondering how I'm going to pull it all together.  Or if I even can.  

Check on me in ten days. If I answer, you'll know I survived. If I'm huddled in the corner sucking my thumb, you'll know survival is a highly subjective term. 

Why and How To Write Nonfiction

I'm out of, well, country, this week, so here are some notes from a recent workshop I presented: 

Reasons To Write A Non Fiction Book

1. You’re already an expert on ... something. Do you have parenting skills, nursing insights, do your friends rave about your Thai cooking, can you re-seat a rattan chair or keep iguanas alive? 

2. They sell, and, if you find a niche, often earn more money than fiction

3. It’s easier than you think! Just lay out facts, add details, maybe a sketch or two, get a proofreader, and off you go. 

I know it’s effective, easy and profitable. I’ve self-published eleven nonfiction books, with much less angst than my novels, and they’re bringing in significantly more money each month!  My first, a book on cruise vacations, is still selling dozens a week after 2 1/2 years, and has over 310 reviews on Amazon. The much shorter kid-activity series is nothing more than my files from my seven years as a Girl Scout leader and four as a den mother in the pre-Pinterest era, arranged with line drawings. 

The How To:

See A Need, Meet That Need. The best-selling non-fiction books fill a gap, or add a twist to a topic that interests people. Ancient crocheting techniques may not be a best-seller, but How To (almost anything!) books sell like crazy.

Identify Your Audience. The narrower it is, the more successful the book can be, with the exception of a few highly niche markets. A highly-technical topic may require more detail than a book on party games. 

Keep It The Right Length. Fiction books have strict rules about length, depending on genre. Nonfiction can be anywhere from a pamphlet to epic-length. Around 20,000 words is a good starting point. This frees up time; I finished six of my shorter nonfiction books in under three months.

Know Your Competition. The trick is to present it in a way that is relatable, understandable, and utilize your unique voice. Use your voice to fill gaps not covered by other eBooks in your niche. Zero in: “Low carb” is ho-hum but “Low carb traveler” is a unique perspective. Do some research and see what else is already available, then figure out how you can make it your own.

Write What You Know. If you have years of experience gardening with carrots, traveling by kayak, or cooking for a veggie-adverse family, speak up! What talents have you developed through Church activity? Go ahead and research. You don’t have to know it all beforehand, but be familiar with your subject. Readers see right through flim-flam.

Use Real Life Examples to make your book relatable. Unless you’re writing a yawn-worthy college textbook, make it interesting, not dry. Add in personal stories and real-world experiences to enhance your point, yours or other people’s. Your readers want to learn from you, so share!

Read. Research up-to-date information, identify your competition, find gaps and find a way to fill the need. Read reviews on other books in your field. What are reviewers complaining about? Are they getting the same old thing with no unique perspective? Are they expecting more advanced strategies? Use their negative reviews of your competition to fill that gap with your own book.

Watch The Market. Be aware of seasons; Camping and gardening books sell better in the spring and summer, holiday craft books do better in the autumn, be aware of travel seasons if you write travel books. Try to release your book at the proper time.

Humor is Your Best Friend, regardless of topic. Humor relieves tension, spruces up boring areas, and helps your book be more relatable, as well as cementing facts in your readers’ minds. A two-line story can make even papercuts interesting.

Try a search online for “How To Write Non-Fiction” and while you’re there, look up “How To Self-Publish.” I find that works best for   nonfiction.. It’s a faster way to get books Out There, which is especially important for very current topics. 

Will I Always Be a Step Behind Schedule?

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

I'm running as fast as I can, but I feel like I'm always a step behind where I should be. Perhaps I'm judging myself harshly, but I lost precious writing days earlier in the year due to bad weather and power outages, which put me behind schedule for producing new work. That caused me to give in to anxiety, which of course put me further behind in my production schedule. I'm trying to catch back up, but the days have been lost, and putting more pressure on myself could cause another period of anxiety-driven down time, which can't be good. Unless I'm supposed to stop being so busy and be still.

Maybe I need to explore that concept?

I haven't worked out how being still will aid my publishing schedule, except in the realm of being still and knowing that God is, and that He loves me and is mindful of me. That is always a great comfort.

Two weeks ago I revealed the cover of my new book, From Julia's Kitchen: Owen Family Cookery, which was published last Friday. I'm now working to finish and format the manuscript of another book, a nonfiction Indie Publishing guide, so I can release it soon. I've been agonizing over a cover for that book. I just couldn't find anything that suited it. Then I decided to throw off fear and make the cover myself.

Perhaps that will work. I hope so! Yes, I'm fluffier than the chick on the cover, but that's how I'd like readers to think I look. I can dream, right?

I won't give you a date for the release, but if God be willing and the creek don't rise any higher (literally), it will be soon.

I have more story ideas than I have time to write them, so wish me luck, good weather, and lots of energy so I can get them all written and published.

Cover Reveal: From Julia's Kitchen: Owen Family Cookery

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard
 
Early next month I’ll publish an exciting new project: From Julia’s Kitchen: Owen Family Cookery. This ebook contains Julia Owen’s prized recipes, plus a note on each recipe telling about it.

Of course the idea that a fictional character has collected recipes, or “receipts,” as they were sometimes known in those days, is pure fiction, but the recipes are real. Sign up for my Readers mailing list below to get the first notice of the release of From Julia’s Kitchen, right in your inbox.
   

Subscribe to my Readers mailing list

BIC-HOK-TAM

By Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

BIC-HOK-TAM?*

What? Is she kidding? Isn’t that HoHoKam for “go to sleep right now or the evil raiders will get you”?

Not really. BIC-HOK-TAM stands for “Butt in chair-hands on keyboard-typing away madly”. It’s what every writer needs to learn to do—every writing day.

Notice I said every writing day. This also might be “every writing moment.” I know some of us can’t write seven days a week like some full-time novelists do. As a women writer, I do have other commitments. Some women writers have families who need some measure of care. However, I encourage all writers to write in what time you can make available for writing.

Writers find the time to write in a variety of ways. We cut out watching that favorite television program. We vacuum twice a week instead of five times (or teach our children to do that job). We stop going to every baby shower or lunch date. Maybe we use comforters on the beds instead of making tight hospital corners each morning (again, why aren’t the kiddos making their own beds?). Perhaps we eat Cheerios for dinner a few nights a week instead of cooking gourmet meals.

Whatever sacrifice we (and our families) make gains us a few more minutes to write. A few more minutes to practice BIC-HOK-TAM!

Okay, we have a few minutes before we have to pick up Tabitha from kindergarten. How do we do BIC-HOK-TAM?

We sit down (BIC), put our hands on the computer keyboard (HOK), and start typing whatever comes into our minds, if we don’t have anything already flowing (TAM). Okay, so it’s a letter to our Aunt Katie on how fun it was to play in the snow at her house on Thanksgiving Day, 1983, or a grocery list, or a journal entry that can touch our family members many years down the road.

Maybe it’s just pure hoop-di-doo and garbage, but we’re WRITING, and soon, our minds will open up and we’ll start to write something we need to share, maybe a poem, an essay, a short story, a character sketch or a novel chapter. Maybe we’ll write a magazine article entitled “10 Ways to Make Time for Writing,” or another chapter in our non-fiction book. The point is to begin, and that’s where BIC-HOK-TAM comes in handy.

Use BIC-HOK-TAM as often as you can, to write and get closer to your writing goal.
~~~

*This blog post first appeared on The Ink Ladies Blog on July 26, 2007.

Trying to Catch Up

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

Wow! I have to apologize. I've missed a bunch of blog dates. The last one I did was way back on November 8, when I announced that I was beginning an online workshop. Nope, I wasn't starting up a new project, I was commencing a course of study under the able oversight of someone who is a much more experienced writer than I am. And, well, I fell off the earth for a while, learning to write.

Then, Thanksgiving and Christmas happened. And planning for a new year for the kids' department at church. And ZooLights.

So here I am, back in the land of the living. To alert you beforehand, I've signed up for another workshop, which takes place in March and part of April. I suspect it will be even more brutal. I'm just sayin'.

And taxes.

I can't forget that the workshop will happen right in the Heart of Tax Season. I'm not a tax preparer or anything like that. I'm only a humble taxpayer, with a self-run business. Sometimes it gets complicated.

I've planned ahead for this writing and publishing year, too, and have high expectations that I will write and publish six works this year. Good luck to me!

I'm working on the first project now. It's a non-fiction guide to a certain aspect of indie writing that I hope will interest writers who look toward becoming independently publishing authors.

I likely won't make my first projected release date on the book, but I set the date before reality dawned big and bright and I realized that what should have been a small, simple project has expanded into a big, complex one. Why? Because I looove to explain things, and the topic demands some explanation to make things crystal clear.

I've got some fun fiction projects coming this year, too. I'm hoping to make one shorter than I at first envisioned, so readers can more quickly learn about the genesis of the Owen Family. We shall see what comes of that wish.

Enough about that. How was your day?

Best Christmas Present Ever

Best Christmas Present Ever

Our family begins asking, “What would you like for Christmas this year?” in October. Several years ago, I wanted to head them off.

Our kids were all in their twenties; students, newlyweds, one with a young child, two pregnant, busy, all underemployed in various stages of poverty, but each with a giving heart. They’d want to give me a Christmas present; gift giving is a big part of the season’s fun. Telling them, “Don’t get anything for me” would hurt their feelings. Besides, I like gifts!

I don’t need more Stuff, and at this stage of life, if I see something I’d like to have, I buy it myself. What could they give me that I’d really treasure, not tuck away on a shelf? If I could come up with a wonderful, meaningful, inexpensive gift, I’d be happy; bonus points if it was a long-term idea.

I pondered for days. 

What do I value? I value my family, the Savior, travel, conversation, and the power of Story. We’d taught our young ones to tell stories since they were tiny; it's part of the fabric of our family. Stories bind us together and set us apart as people. You don’t see raccoons sitting around telling tales, do you?

That was my answer: I wanted stories! I pondered for days, and settled on these criteria: I wanted a story from each adult and literate grandchild (one, at that stage). I clearly said, “This is not a let-the-wife-handle-it-type gift.” The story was to be non-fiction, preferably a memory from their own life, it could include me, but didn’t have to, and it was to be long enough to properly to tell the story, whether that be eight pages or six lines.

In October, I sent out a mass email to all of our children and their spouses, detailing the gift I wanted. Just think, all they had to do was write a story! It’s the perfect gift---no cost, except their time, no stress or shopping, and it’d be something I would cherish. My heart smiled as I imagined reading stories for Christmas, my birthday, Mother’s Day, and onward.

I was excited to hear their responses. Instead, my email was utterly ignored. Over the weeks approaching Christmas, my broad hints were brushed aside with a sighed, “Oh, Mom, really.” My heart sunk, resigned to another lovely throw pillow or bowl.

On Christmas morning, tears flowed, but not from disappointment. While I thought my kids were ignoring me, they were conspiring. A daughter bought plastic sheet protectors. A daughter-in-law was tasked with designing a scrap-book-type cover for the optimistic-sized loose-leaf bind my son was ordered to purchase. All of them wrote a story, just for me!

The stories gave insight into family members. I learned why a daughter-in-law’s family values education so strongly, and I could feel her shock in finding her dad’s 8^th grade report card with a C+ on it, tucked in with his baseball award. Another daughter-in-law detailed the day of her engagement. I hadn’t known my son proposed to her on a cliff. As he knelt, he “accidentally” dropped the ring box into the valley a thousand feet below. As I read, I could imagine her scream echoing across the canyon, and her relief when he laughed and pulled the glittery ring from his pocket.  

My five-year-old granddaughter dictated her story, and drew a delightful, wobbly illustration of the stuffed felt chickens I had helped her sew the previous month. A son-in-law wrote of a camping trip on a sailboat in Alaska with his eleven siblings... and no running water. My daughter wrote of the things she had learned from me, her mother, and her hopes of being a good mother to her unborn child. Our son wrote of the joy he felt teaching the gospel and bolstering the sagging spirits of discouraged missionaries; in his mission, he was known as a “fixer.”

Another  son detailed memories of a family trip in which we played in the snow on a mountain, acquired sunburns in the high desert, sledded, swam, hiked through a canyon, toured an orchard and sampled new apple varieties under development, rode a ferry, visited a museum, splashed in  a waterfall, enjoyed an old-fashioned soda fountain, toured a hydroelectric dam, crossed a steel-mesh bridge on foot through an old-growth forest, climbed on a vintage train, played on a massive new playground, toured a candy factory (with samples), drove through desert, mountains, farms, forests, meadows, across rivers and valleys and canyons...all in two days. I sighed, remembering our many family vacations, most of which were just that packed. “As long as we’re nearby, we may as well see as much as we can” was an unspoken motto.

I wiped tears, I laughed, I choked up as I read each story aloud. My heartfelt response encouraged my kids: at last, they had a gift idea Mom loved! Every Christmas, birthday, and Mother’s Day since then, I’ve received a set of new stories. That optimistic-sized binder is stuffed now, as stories multiply and grandchildren grow old enough to add their own stories. On sad days, I take comfort in reading over my fat collection of stories. This truly is the best gift I could ask for.

Christmas is coming! If you love stories as much as I do, feel free to take my idea. 

Who am I to shine?

Who am I to shine?

by Deb Graham
 
I’ve cherished books since I was a little girl, wandering in the public library, longing to be old enough to venture unto the mysterious realm of the Middle Grades room, certain the thick books held untold mysteries, away from my beloved picture books.

Books are to be cherished. For every holiday since our first son was born, gifts have included a book. I want my kids to associate reading with happiness.  I taught them each to read when they were not much older than toddlers. As a character in my novel asserts, “The world can’t put anything over on a body who can read.” She’s a pioneer; they talk like that. 

I guess my love of books passed down. When the kids were young, I sometimes found myself scolding, “It’s one o’clock in the morning! Put down your book and be asleep!” I’d step into the hall, wondering if I was wrong to fuss. Perhaps I should have encouraged another chapter. I delight in hearing my grown children complain about their little ones reading far into the night, or, at least, sleeping with a pile of picture books.  

Reading is a gift.  But writing is a whole nuther thing.

Who am I to think I can write anything worth reading? A song, a poem, an article, a full-length book? We’re warned against pride and arrogance, cautioned about the virtues of humility, and to present before the world something out of our own creative minds is ...well, daunting.

We may admit, with lowered eyes, “Oh, I write a little.” Somehow saying, “I just published my eleventh non-fiction, one of them has almost  300 reviews on Amazon, my debut novel is selling well, I’m working on two more and I’ve collaborated on three others and I'm thinking about writing a peanut butter cookbook,” sounds like go-stand-in-the-corner boasting. Not to mention, it's anxiety-inducing. Wrapping words around actions can do that, you know.

Let’s look at some wisdom from reputable sources:

Matthew 5:16 (KJV) says “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”

The Lord of all tells us to shine. By writing good quality books, articles, stories, poetry, blogs, music, etc, we push back the darkness.

Nelson Mandela quoted Marianne Williamson in an inaugural address:

 “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” (1)

In October 2008, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf said:

“The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul. No matter our talents, education, backgrounds, or abilities, we each have an inherent wish to create something that did not exist before. Everyone can create. You don’t need money, position, or influence in order to create something of substance or beauty.” (2)

To deny our probably-inspired creativity doesn’t benefit anyone. The World is great at cutting us down, making us feel inadequate; we need no help in that regard. What we need is  a source of uplift, a reminder that we’re on the right track. I hope we each can find that.

As you read this, I’ll be at the ANWA Northwest Retreat. It’s a coming together of like-minded women, all sharing ideas, strengthening one another, teaching, sharing, building relationships, mixed with time to write in complete, uninterrupted sentences in a beautiful setting.  Last year was my first retreat, and I came home feeling so energized, so accepted, so inspired, I was among the first to sign up this year.

 Last year’s retreat triggered three new books and two bathroom remodels (3), along with tangibly increased self-confidence. Who knows what will happen this time? 

One of the most valuable things I learned was to own it, to boldly say, “I’m an author!”

 ~~~                                ~~~

(1) “Our Deepest Fear” by Marianne Williamson from A Return To Love: Reflections on the Principles of A Course in Miracles

(2)  Happiness, Your Heritage, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf

(3) I designed the backsplashes in our bathrooms and made them of beach rocks from the retreat’s beach, which I gathered a month later. Benefit to living nearby!

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 Bible?

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

I have been taking time away from writing to put together a big project, a collection of the five books of The Owen Family Saga as a box set. It has been a huge job of work.

"What work?" you may ask. "Just slap all the books into one file and you're done!"

Not so.

I had to tinker with scenes that don't exactly play well with each other over the scope of the saga. Gotta be consistent.

"Is that kid named Ezra or Harry?" I picked Harry.

"Did Rod Owen meet Julia Helm's brother before they got married?" I thought they had in The Man from Shenandoah. As I write my current writing project, it appears that I was wrong, so I had to fix that in the existing work to jibe with the upcoming story.

Now that I've written Gone for a Soldier, that passage about Rulon and Mary's relationship in The Man from Shenandoah seems off. (Rewrite passage.)

Did he or didn't he during the Mexican War? Hmm. That question may remain forever unanswered.

How to explain the bit about the wedding ring? (Rewrite passage.)

Such fun!

I wish I had started a series "bible" when I wrote The Man from Shenandoah, to keep all the facts and characters straight, but I didn't know then that this tale about the Owen Family was going to expand into a series. Creating the "bible" now is going to be quite a task, but it's one I really need to do. When I'm done, perhaps it can become something new, maybe something called The Owen Family Companion.

After all, it's been done before: "Little did Louis L'Amour realize back in 1960 when he published The Daybreakers, a novel about two brothers who came west after the Civil War, that he had begun creating what would become perhaps North America's most widely followed literary family: the Sacketts." From The Sackett Companion: The Facts Behind the Fiction.

Every author should keep handy a notebook for facts (was the dog black or brown), characters (am I reusing too many names, or do all names begin with a single letter?), items (was that letter written in pen or pencil?), and the like, whether or not he or she is writing a series. Every little thing will come in handy for checking consistency within that story.

Can oxen run?  No, but they can perambulate pretty quickly if motivated. (I asked a large animal vet.)

Did people ride in wagons when on extended journeys? Not if they had a lot of belongings and/or foodstuffs to carry.

How many stories tall is the house? What does the general store look like inside? How far away from the house should the stable/barn/pigsty be? Is the bar/saloon/pub well lit, smoky, smelly, just a "belly-up-to-the" bar, or does it have gaming tables and sit-down tables, too?

You're the author. Make it easier on yourself with a "Book Bible."
 

A Gift of the Spirit

by Kari Diane Pike

What would you do if you knew that you could not fail?

I asked my seminary class that question last year. I noticed several pairs of eyes open wide. Wheels started turning. Sleepy heads lifted up off the tables. Faces lit up.

"I'd retake my English final."

"I'd start up a business."

"I'd apply to medical school and become a neurologist."

I wanted to bottle up the energy that snapped and crackled in the room. A warm, tingly feeling reminded me of a time I stood on the sidelines of a soccer field in Flagstaff, Arizona, my trusty umbrella shading me from the intense July sun. A magnificent thunderhead mushroomed up from the horizon and before I knew it, an army of fierce looking cloud warriors had joined him, flashing their lightening swords behind their backs.

I pointed out the weather front to my husband. He took his eyes off the game and glanced around for a moment before looking at his watch. No worries. Only ten minutes left to the game. Besides, the sun shone bright above us and miles of blue sky still separated us from the storm. All was well.

That's when I felt it. Every hair on my arms stood straight up and my body tingled from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head. Before I could even process what that meant, a blinding flash of light accompanied by a deafening crack hit the fence surrounding the field. A nanosecond of stunned silence evaporated into shouts as players and parents yelled out to each other and sprinted to their cars for safety, leaving behind a ghost town of shade canopies and tipped-over camp chairs.

The feeling in our seminary class was every bit as powerful, but in a much different way. The lightening made my hairs stand on end, but the result was chaos and fear. The energy I felt when the Holy Spirit testified truth to our class-the truth that Heavenly Father loves us and sent us here to succeed-brought us hope and strength and determination to act.The witness we received that morning reminded us of who we are and why we are here. While players and patrons scattered, our class became more unified. While I have no desire to be that close to lightening ever again, I seek the closeness and the witness of the Spirit every single day.

This morning I listened to a speech given by Pres. Henry B. Eyring in 2006 called "Gifts of the Spirit for Hard Times." Pres. Eyring testifies that, yes, we can experience the companionship and personal revelation of the Holy Ghost every day if we will live worthy of it. He named three things in particular that help invite the Spirit of the Lord to be with us:

1. Faith in Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ.
2. Be Clean. 
3. Pure Motive. 

The third item, "pure motive" gave me a lot to think about. Why do I pray for the Spirit to help me with my writing and with teaching? Do I seek praise, adoration, and accolades, or do I seek to accomplish the will of our Father in Heaven? What I have noticed is that when I try to show the students how much knowledge I have, class time fails miserably. When I suppress my selfish desires and ask and listen to God's purpose, the students light up. They ask questions and volunteer answers. Love fills the room. 

What would you do if you knew you could not fail? I've asked that question in this forum before, but I've come to see the question from a different perspective. Life is magnificent!

Hugs~ 

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!

My Conclusions on Being a Fiction Writer

by Terri Wagner
I have shared my struggles about writing with a partner...an ongoing struggle. Even Marsha jumped in and helped out, thanks!!!!!! However, I have come to an amazing conclusion...I loathe writing fiction. I adore reading fiction, I am constantly astonished at how a writer can weave a good fiction story and leave you breathless. I have too many authors I love but top of the lists would include fantasy writers Dave Eddings and Terry Brooks, and adventures with a history twist such as Clive Clussler and Dan Brown. I do not just apply this to books, the whole Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings universes are wonderful places to to visit again and again.

However, I am ready to throw in the white flag on writing fiction. I am not that imaginative. Don't misunderstand, I can imagine a lot, but I cannot write imagination. I change my characters too often. I do not have to explain this comment...I have rewritten the opening chapter a dozen times from a dozen different POVs. None of them work. I should know since I read enough to know the good from the bad. I cannot follow my own storyline since I have no idea where I am going with it. I could go on, but you get the picture. This is not negativity. This is called facing reality.

Now hand me a dissertation on any subject, and I can disassemble and reassemble in a way that any layman can pick it up and read it. I have edited a ton of highly technical articles, sat in lectures on space elevators, and wrote about what it all means. But do not ask me to wander into the world of make believe as a writer. I am content to enjoy the intrigue of others. I surrender to fiction. My partner will probably laugh and tell me to write it again. I will say one thing about her criticism, it forces me to stretch my writing ability. But as Dr. Seuss might say, I do not like it, I do not want to do it, I think I shall not do this!