Where is this novel going?

This week I'm participating in a Week of Writing, or WoW, sponsored by American Night Writers Association. I committed myself to write at least 100 words per day, and so far, I'm surpassing that goal.

I've debated a bit about exposing this raw output, but it's what I wrote yesterday and today. I might edit it here, but let's take it a minute at a time, shall we? I haven't cleaned up all the Spanish, so disregard that. (Or, if you see any errors, kindly point them out so I won't forget to edit them.)

Marie brought her head-long rush to a stop, working to keep upright as she teetered before three men seated around a barrel. Laying on top of it were two planks that formed a rough table, which was littered with cards and poker markers that shook and bounced as the men scrambled to their feet. Blinking back indignant tears, Marie realized she knew two of the men, the Dominguez brothers. Enrique reached forward and snatched a bottle of liquor off the table and hid it behind his back. Patricio removed a cigarillo from his lips and palmed it.

"Señorita Maria, ¿que le pasó? Ah, what ees happen weeth you?" he asked in a mixture of Spanish and English, his voice raspy with concern.

Marie shook her head, more to clear it than to indicate a negative response. "I— Nothing of— It was a momentary trifle," she ended, flustered more than she would have wished. That Tom! She must speak with Pa, as soon as could be done.

"If there's something we can do, miss?" the man unknown to her asked, his voice low and melodious. "We would be happy to assist you in any way." He removed his hat and inclined his head.

She noticed that his hair appeared to be black and wavy in the firelight, not unlike that of her brother James. She put the back of her hand to her nose to mask a snuffle. "Thank you sir. There's nothing of importance to be done. I thank you all for your concern." She nodded toward the men and turned to go, but the black-haired man grasped her elbow and stopped her.

"Miss. I beg you to sit and compose yourself." He motioned to his recently-abandoned chair, then spoke to Patricio, "Traiga un vaso de agua." Then he again addressed Marie. "Will you take a glass of water? You seem uncomfortable."

"I— I thank you, sir. And you are. . . ?"

"C. G. Alderson, at your service." He bowed as he made his hat cut a figure through the air.

Marie imagined the hat would look quite at home if it had a feather sweeping from the side of the crown. Oddly, the thought did not strike her as ridiculous, but as courtly and comforting. The man seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare. With that, Marie took the chair offered by Mr. Alderson.

Enrique Dominguez brought her a tin cup of water, and Marie accepted it, wondering when Patricio had delegated the task to his brother. She put the cup to her lips, sighed, and took a sip. What did it matter who fetched the water? Her life had shattered into shards around her ears.

"Miss, you really must allow us to help you, if you have trouble to be mended."

It was the same man speaking, Mr. Alderson.

"Sí, señorita," chimed in Enrique. "Queremos— We want to ayud—help you si es posible." He looked at Patricio, as though he were seeking affirmation that his speech was in proper form.

"It was nothing," she repeated. "A slight disagreement."

"Who would offer you such an affront?" Mr. Alderson seemed taken aback at the temerity of annoying her. "You have but to mention his name." An unspoken threat to the malefactor hung in the air.

"His name?" Marie felt a small smile lifting her lips. "You are sure a man wronged me?" Her tears had gone.

Alderson hung his head. "Dear lady, I beg your pardon at making any false assumption." He raised his head again and looked her straight in the eye, one eyebrow raised. "It would be the highest dishonor to distress such a fair creature as yourself. That is my only defense, that I imagined some scoundrel of the male persuasion gave you an insult. Was I not right, dear lady?"

"Sir, you were not wrong, but I doubt the offense will reoccur." Marie heard herself using formal language, and cast her eyes down to mask any delight that might be showing in them. "Once my father takes a hand. . . ." She stopped herself. It was likely that her father would disregard any misgivings she had at this late date. "That is to say. . . ." Again, she felt at a loss for words. What could she say, not knowing where this weekend's affair would lead her? Might Pa go through with his scheme to announce her engagement to that odious young man? Her mouth went dry.

"You are distressed anew," Mr. Alderson stated. "Would a sip of spirits fortify you?"

Marie first felt shock, then reconsidered, as the feeling drained off. Why not? It works for men. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Somehow, she found herself steadying the bottle that Mr. Alderson had wiped on his sleeve and brought to her mouth. She took a sip. White fire burned down her throat as she swallowed once, twice, then thrust the bottle away.

"There. That should hearten you."

Marie felt herself shudder at the strong taste. She licked her lips to cleanse them of a lingering drop. It burned her tongue. She sensed, rather than saw Mr. Alderson tilt his head at the Dominguez brothers, who melted away from the table and left her alone with him.

Alderson placed the bottle on the table and seated himself beside her. He drew the chair close, momentarily bumping his knee against hers. "You must tell me your troubles, my dear," he said.

Okay, where do we go from here?

Sample Sunday: The Man from Shenandoah, Excerpt 5 from Chapter 1

To learn more about Sample Sunday, see this post on the Kindle Author blog. To find more samples of e-books, follow the Twitter hash tag #SampleSunday.

From Chapter 1 of The Man from Shenandoah

$2.99 on Smashwords - 7 downloadable formats

including Kindle (.mobi) and Epub 

Rod approached his chair and sagged into it, while Carl returned to his stool. Both men sat slumped for a time, saying nothing as the pain sat upon their shoulders. After a time, Rod threw back his head.

“Your ma’s kept the family going whilst we were gone, son, and she’s the one saw to it that we didn’t starve when we returned. I got a leave to come home in December, on account of our mounts were starving for lack of forage, and I’ll be switched if she hadn’t outsmarted that cocky Phil Sheridan. She saved most of the corn by tying the sacks on the backs of the stock, and sending Clay and Albert to the hills with the animals. She saved the crop and the herd, both. I’m mighty proud of her.”

“Ma, that was right canny thinking. I’d like to see Sheridan’s face should he find out you outfoxed him.”

Julia shook her head and continued with the meal.

“We ain’t tooting our horn about the food we got, Carl,” Rod said. “It’s mighty little for our needs, and even so, we had to send the girls into town.”

“How serious was Rulon hurt, Pa?”

“Well, he had a right smart mess of holes in him. The surgeon sent him home to die, but there ain’t no quit in Rulon. That little wife of his nursed him along real well, too. He’s mostly out of bed now, finally on the mend.” Rod rose to his feet. “Say, come out and help me milk, son. That brindle cow the Yankees stole last fall wandered up to the fence today, bawling and kicking and carrying on to be let in the gate, but she’s still half wild. There’s a calf trailing her, so she must have milk.”

Carl nodded. “Sure, Pa. I reckon a body don’t forget how to do the chores.”

As the men stepped out the back door, Carl glanced around at what was left of the yard behind the house, and took in a rasping breath. The vegetable garden was a sea of mud, while out yonder, wreckage marked where the barn had been. All that remained were the burned beams and blackened supports that had fallen onto the floor. Two mounds of gray ashes, scattered by wind and rain, showed where the hay had been stacked. The animal pens were in ruins, poles broken and strewn about. Someone had piled brush in the gaps until new poles were cut.

Carl waved an arm at the view. “Was it like this when you got home, Pa?”

“Pretty near. The boys and I ain’t had a lot of time to clean up much.”

The brindle cow tied in the pen rolled her eyes and lowed in fright at the men’s approach. Rod expelled his breath. “She always was skittish, Carl. I reckon she got away from Sheridan’s soldiers and wintered back in the oak groves. She had her calf, then got lonely for home.”

Carl stepped around behind the cow. “Mind that hoof.” Rod spoke sharply as the brindle kicked out at the young man.

Carl dodged away and snorted. “She must be a Yankee lover. Welcome home to you too, cow.” He patted her flank.

“Grab the pail and set to work, son. She wants milking.”

Just then the hungry calf tied behind the remains of the barn began to bawl. Brindle pulled her head backward, and Rod reached for the rope to snub her on a shorter line. Lacking a stool, Carl squatted on his heels and began to milk.

The cow sidestepped, nearly catching Carl’s foot. He avoided her hoof, and then she whipped her tail against his face. He turned away, saving his eyes from the coarse hair. Then she lifted her hoof and banged it hard against the pail, but Carl snatched it away in time to save the contents from spilling.

“Whoa, cow!” he yelled, as she swung her hindquarters against him. “You’re right, Pa. She’s gone wild.” He scrambled out of the way, bringing the pail with him. “I call the job done. Let that calf come over here.”

Rod grinned, went for the bawling creature, and untied the tether rope. “We’re all out of practice of milking, son,” he called. “I reckon I’d druther fight Yankees than get stepped on by a wild cow. I know James feels the same, after milking the white-face cow.”

“Is he in one piece?” Carl asked, looking sidelong at his pa.

Rod turned the calf loose, and it ran to its mother. He grinned again as it began to suckle. Then his face went somber. “He got a flesh wound at Five Forks, outside Richmond, but it’s healing clean. He can swing an ax, so I sent him up by the mountain to cut wood. Likely he’ll be home tomorrow night with a load of fence poles.”

“It’ll be good to see him.” Relief softened Carl’s voice.

 ~~~

How do you feel when you attend family reunions or get-togethers and have the opportunity to greet someone you love and haven't seen for a while? Does you heart swell and make your eyes leak, or do you approach the moment with more of a stoic outlook?

 

Blog Tour: Journey of Honor, by Jaclyn M. Hawkes

Today, I'm the stop on the tour of blogs for the debut novel by Jaclyn M. Hawkes, Journey of Honor. Here's the bio from her website:

Jaclyn M. Hawkes grew up in Utah with 6 sisters, 4 brothers and any number of pets. (It was never boring!) She got a bachelor’s degree, had a career and traveled extensively before settling down to her life’s work of being the mother of four magnificent and sometimes challenging children. She loves shellfish, the out-of-doors, the youth, and hearing her children laugh. She and her fine husband, their family, and their sometimes very large pets, now live in a mountain valley in northern Utah, where it smells like heaven and kids still move sprinkler pipe.

I thought I would chat with Jaclyn and get to know her a bit before I give my impressions of  Journey of Honor.

Welcome, Jaclyn. It's good to have you here. What type of writer are you? Do you plan ahead/plot or do you simply fly by the seat of your pants?
I have no idea how to describe what type of writer I am. I'm not sure I fit a mold. I write when I can fit it in and when the story comes. Sometimes those two don't coincide, which doesn't work very well. I write different stuff as well. Usually happy stuff. I feel like there's enough gritty reality in our gritty realities and I want to give people a happy distraction. I have everything from medieval to early pioneers, to cowboys, to modern day. Maybe I'll do pirates next!

You're not a chocolate girl, huh? Oh well, more for the rest of us! Just kidding. Maybe. Do you have any authors that inspired you?
Tons of authors have inspired me. Tons. There are so many wonderful reads out there, from great who-dunnits to how-to-manage-your-life. Some of my favorite novelists are Jennie Hansen, Dee Henderson, Betsy Brannon Green, Traci Hunter Abramson, Dorothy Keddington, Louis L'Amour and Janette Rallison. I adore Janette's humor! She is a scream! So is Betsy. You gotta love a good laugh in this life! And I totally wish I could do Marcia Lynn McClure's business model.

I'll let Janette know. What is your next project?
My work in progress is a great tale of gallant knights and intrepid ladies. It's been fun. I've never done a medieval story, but always wanted to and am enjoying it. I also have a number of books in the process of getting through publication. It's definitely a journey.

Yes, writing and publishing always is. It's been good having you here, Jaclyn. Thank you.

Thank you so much for being part of my tour. I so appreciate it.

The daughter of a diplomat, beautiful young Giselle VanKomen's life in Holland had been one of privilege and grace. When she joined the Latter-day Saint faith, not so much. Disapproving of her choice, her parents sent her father's parents to dissuade their daughter from gathering to Zion, but they, too, joined the new religion. Cast out of her home, Giselle left everything behind to go with her grandparents to America. Her path to Zion had its perils, though, including rough treatment at the hands of a Mormon-hating mob, and an accusation of theft that almost prevented her and her grandparents from making the final leg of their journey to the Great Salt Lake Valley. Only the intervention of a young man and his friends in a wagon train bound for California--that the VanKomens had paid to join--made it possible for her to escape. That intervention came in the form of a marriage of convenience to young doctor-in-training Trace Grayson, and the train got underway barely in time to avoid problems with weather at the other end of their journey.

Of course tribulations abounded on the journey, including bad weather because of unforseen delays; a bothersome Indian who wanted to buy Giselle; the fact that Trace was falling in love with Giselle, and she, him, which could complicate matters when it came time to get an annulment so she could marry a polygamist; and oh yes, the unfortunate fact that the interaction with the Mormon-hating mob had left Giselle with child.

I've dealt with some of the same themes Jaclyn put in this novel in my work, so I'll admit I expected more meat in the development of the plot and ancillary characters. Having interviewed Jaclyn, I now understand her outlook on the purpose of fiction, and that hers is not the same as mine. Be that as it may, Journey of Honor is fluffy, romantic, escapist entertainment for a rainy winter afternoon or a day at the beach, especially for readers who do not expect facts and historical accuracy to burden their romat Jaclyn M. Hawkes at her website and her blog. Purchase Journey of Honor at Amazon.com in paperback or Kindle editions.

Want to help someone in Japan?

I heard from a writer living in Japan, whose livelihood has been cut off due to the earthquake and tsunami. Charles Whipple needs to feed his family, if he can get food. He says:

People are queueing up at stores to buy supplies. Resupply is a problem. Fuel is a problem. Normal work is a problem, which in my case means a sudden drop in income. Belt-tightening in progress . . . At least my family and I are safe. Still, dark days ahead.

Charlie writes fiction as Chuck Tyrell, and the best way to get him out of a tight spot is to buy his books to bolster his income stream.

Here's a little info about Charlie:

Chuck Tyrell is the pen name for Charles T. Whipple, an international prize-winning author. Whipple was born and reared in Arizona’s White Mountain country only 19 miles from Fort Apache. He won his first writing award while in high school, and has won several since.

Raised on a ranch, Chuck brings his own experience into play when writing about the hardy people of 19th Century Arizona. Although he currently lives in Japan, he maintains close ties with the West through family, relatives, former schoolmates, and readers of his western fiction.

Whipple belongs to Western Fictioneers, Western Writers of America, Arizona Authors Association, American Society of Journalists and Authors, and Tauranga Writers Inc.

How about we do a good deed on a personal level and buy Charlie's books that are available online? The Snake Den is available for Kindle at Amazon.com. You know you can download the free Kindle software to your computer, right? Also to a variety of other places. I have no Kindle, but I can read Kindle e-books on my computer or on my iPod touch.

Vulture Gold is available both at Amazon, and for other formats at Smashwords.com. You can thus read it on your nook, Kobo reader, Sony Reader, iPad or iPhone, or your computer, as well as on the Kindle.

Folks, let's help out a human being in need. Please pass the word. Rescue a writer and his family. You'll get a couple of good-reading books in the bargain.

A Kind Contrast

Back in January, I shared a bit that gave Marie a lump in the pit of her stomach. I want to give a contrast with this part, which actually comes a bit earlier in the book.

Marie slipped off Bess and led her toward a tie post. Mrs. Bates came from the house and joined her, beaming at her, as Marie secured the horse.

"Marie Owen! It's a favorable day when I get a caller." She hugged Marie, then called out in Spanish, motioning over a brown-skinned lad who was working nearby. "Ven aquí, joven. Quídate del caballo."

The boy dropped his pitchfork and came running to see what Mrs. Bates needed. She explained, while Marie marveled at the woman's command of a foreign tongue.

"Mrs. Bates," she exclaimed when the boy had taken charge of Bess. "I didn't know you spoke Spanish."

Muriel Bates drew Marie along toward the house, laughing as they went. "Why girl, a body has to know how to speak it hereabouts if you want to get the work done. It's a pretty tongue." She clucked at Marie's tangled hair. "Now we'll just take a brush to that mess of locks, and put buttermilk on your face to take the sting out of the burn."

In no more than five minutes, Marie sat on a chair in the kitchen, holding a cloth Muriel had soaked in buttermilk to her face. She felt the heat lifting from her skin.

Muriel ran a brush through Marie's hair, patiently working out the knots. "Tell me the news, Marie. How is your ma? Is Ellen well? How is that husband of hers? Is he on the mend?"

Marie spoke through the fabric. "Ma is doin' as well as one might expect. Carl is still down in bed, but Ellen says he's makin' progress." She paused to remove the cloth and turn it over to the cool side. "Ellen is well, and she is happy. I ain't ever seen a body so content."

"That's right gratifyin' to hear, girl." Muriel worked at a particularly stubborn tangle for a moment, then asked, "Did your brother return yet? Mr. Bates said your pa was right vexed that he left."

"No," Marie mumbled. "He's still gone. Ma is grievin'."

"I imagine so. I imagine so," Muriel repeated, and lapsed into silence as she tackled another matted-up spot in Marie's hair.

Marie squeaked as the hairbrush pulled tight against her tender scalp.

"I'm sorry, girl," Muriel crooned. "Let me try finger combing through that one." She put down the brush and used her fingers to coax the hair to separate. "You didn't bring any pins to put up your hair?"

"No. Pa was in such a hurry to leave, and I didn't think to dress my hair, nor to bring my bonnet. I'm payin' the price now." Marie sighed.

"Let me wet that cloth again. I have plenty of buttermilk today." Muriel took the cloth from Marie, dipped it in a bowl, and wrung out the excess moisture. "I reckon the butter specks will look like freckles, but they'll wash." She gave the cloth back to Marie, and started in on the last tangle. "I don't have no spare hairpins. I can try something new, though, a little trick I learned from Paco's mama. She helps out here and there when I need her," she continued. "She's the one teachin' me the Spanish tongue."

Once Marie's hair flowed freely down her back, Muriel took a piece of leather and a smoothed-down piece of wood, and twisted the hair into a bunch at the back of Marie's head. "This won't hurt a bit," she murmured, fitted the leather piece over the top of the hair, and thrust the wooden spike through a pair of holes in the leather. "There now," she said, making sure the clasp was secure. "That's right pretty, and will keep the tangles away." She patted Marie's shoulder. "Or you could make braids."

Marie caught her breath. "I never thought of braids, being so old, and all."

"Old!" Muriel laughed. "When did you get to be old? You're just now at your best, girl."

"My sister tells me I'm old."

"Julianna? That girl has no sense. Get the notion of bein' old out of your head, Marie. That will only give you the vapors. You're as lovely as can be, and don't you forget it."

Rod Owen poked his head into the kitchen. "Time to leave, daughter."

"I'm comin' Pa," Marie said, and removed the cloth from her face as Rod exited the room as fast as he had entered it. "I thank you for the buttermilk cure, Mrs. Bates, and for pulling the snarls out of my hair." She touched the leather clasp. "May I use this while I'm down hereabouts? I'll bring it to you when we come back through."

"You keep it, girl. I'll have Mr. Bates make me another."

"Thank you, ma'am."

What a difference between Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Morgan! You can see where Ellen Bates Owen got her caring heart.

Have you ever experienced kindness when you were feeling down? How did it impact your outlook on life?

Sample Sunday: The Man from Shenandoah, Excerpt 4 from Chapter 1

To learn more about Sample Sunday, see this post on the Kindle Author blog. To find more samples of e-books, follow the Twitter hash tag #SampleSunday.

From Chapter 1 of The Man from Shenandoah

$2.99 on Smashwords - 7 downloadable formats

including Kindle (.mobi) and Epub

After knocking the mud from his boots, Carl entered the house, shrugged out of his wet coat, and hung it on a peg inside the door. He pulled his shirt together the best he could and glanced around the room, savoring its warmth and cheerfulness. Then he took the stool his father indicated and moved it close to the fire before sitting.

“What happened to your buttons, boy?” Rod asked. “Were you obliged to sell them for food?” He also sat, and crossed one leg over the other.

“Naw. Some fat Yankee sergeant down the road a ways cut them off me. Said I was in uniform and didn’t have the right.”

“That’s where you got the cuts and bruises and the mud, Carl?” his mother asked.

“I reckon, but they didn’t hurt me none.” He eased his rib cage from side to side to be sure.

Rod slapped his thigh in anger. “Yankees,” he spit out.

Carl looked up, feeling a similar heat. “They ain’t mannerly, that’s for sure, but I came out lucky anyhow. Didn’t lose nothing but my buttons. I hid my horse back in the willows along the creek, and they were too drunk to spot him, so they missed the rifle I snuck off the Yankee weapon pile after I got my parole.”

“Drunk, you say? That sounds like the same Yankee bunch that’s been back and forth through this part of the Valley, teasing and tormenting the folks.”

“Could be them.” Carl shrugged, then looked around the room once more. “Ma, where’s Marie and the little girl? Ain’t they supposed to help you?”

Julia smiled. “Your little sister is nigh on to twelve years old, boy. We kept having birthdays while you were away. You’ve had a couple yourself. Ain’t you about nineteen now?”

“Closer to twenty, Ma. I ain’t a young’un no more.”

Julia looked at Carl’s bearded face. “I see you been over the mountain, son.” She paused to form a corn cake. “I sent the girls in to Mount Jackson to Rulon’s place. Mary’s not feeling well, and she’s got Rulon to tend to, so they’re helping out with young Roddy. You heard Rulon got hurt bad?”

Carl nodded.

“There’s also more food in town,” Rod explained. “Your ma has her wits scraped down to a nubbin to find us enough to eat since Sheridan paid his call.”

“Clay went in with the girls,” Julia added. “He’s got a job at the livery, so there’s just Pa and James and Albert to fix for.”

“And Benjamin,” Carl reminded her.

He watched his mother’s body stiffen, and saw his father take a protecting step toward her. Silence hung in the room like a curtain made of combed cotton fibers, thick and heavy and oppressive. Then Rod spoke, his words muffled and measured.

“Benjamin fell at Waynesboro. I had no way to get word home. Your ma only found out when I got here.”

The words bucked into Carl with the kick of a mule. He sagged on the stool and his head dropped against his hands. First, Peter had fallen at the Second Battle of Manassas, or Bull Run, as the Yankees called it. Then Rulon, the eldest, was sorely wounded in the siege of Petersburg last October. Now Benjamin was gone. Carl felt his ears ringing hollow, filling his skull with a soft buzzing.

He rose to his feet and faced his parents. “I’m powerful sorry,” he said, holding himself still. “Benjamin was always such a lucky cuss, full of life, and all. It don’t seem right he’d be gone.”

Carl bowed his head, took a deep breath, and began again. “Ma, I know he was your favorite son, and I don’t hold it against him. He was the favorite of everybody.”

He took a step toward his mother, watching her white, crumpling face. With another step he had her in his arms, patting her head and shoulders. “There, Ma, you cry. It’ll do you good.”

Rod’s arms went around the pair. “The boy talks sense, Julia. You ain’t cried since you got the news. Let the tears wash out the grief you been carrying around.” He continued gruffly, “I reckon I already done my sorrowing.”

The men waited, suspended, as Julia’s sobs tore the air. After a long time, she quieted, wiped the tears from her cheeks with her apron, and stepped out of the men’s arms. Her face was changed, resigned. “I reckon that’ll have to do for Benjamin, ‘cause the living need their daily bread.” She went back to the table, wiped her hands, and continued to fix supper.

~~~

How do you handle grief? In a situation such as Julia faced in losing her son, do you think--if you lived during the 19th Century--you would have acted differently than you would today?

Read an E-Book Week--all week long

Don't forget that Read an E-Book Week is still going on. In fact, it's barely begun! However, you don't want to wait to buy your favorite novels in convenient e-book versions.

You can get really good savings on the two novels I have listed on the Smashwords site, The Man from Shenandoah and Ride to Raton. They're on sale during Read an E-Book Week for 50% off! Yes, The Man from Shenandoah, is priced at $1.50 this week only! Ride to Raton, Book 2 in The Owen Family Saga, can be purchased during Read an E-Book Week for only $2.00! In case you miss the discount code on the site for checkout, it's RAE50.

And don't forget, my recipe book, Rapid Recipes for Writers . . . And Other Busy People, is FREE!

Even if you don't have a Kindle, nook, Sony Reader, Kobo, or other dedicated e-reader device, you can read e-books on your computer, SmartPhone, iPad or iPod touch. Don't miss out on the great savings on e-books you can discover during Read an E-Book Week!

By the way, who is that actor in the Read an E-Book Week button on the right? It's driving me nuts that I can't remember his name. The first person to let me know in the comments gets a free download of their choice of the e-book version of The Man from Shenandoah or Ride to Raton. Include a way to reach you. Thanks!

Edited: WE HAVE A WINNER! My friend Frenchy, from high school, came up with the correct name of the cowboy actor in the Read an E-Book Week photo on my sidebar. She has declined to accept a prize, saying it was fun to do the challenge. And the name of this famous tough-guy, leading man, and all-around great actor is:

Richard Widmark

He played Jim Bowie in the 1960 version of The Alamo, and is well known for his role as Col. Tad Lawson in Judgment at Nuremberg. Other films include his debut role as the killer, Tommy Udo, in the 1947 film, Kiss of Death, for which he won a Best Supporting Actor Academy Award nomination. He also appeared in How the West Was Won, 1974's Murder on the Orient Express, and Madigan, which was both a film in 1968 and a TV series that ran in 1972-73.

Have you ever seen Richard Widmark in an old movie? Which one, and how'd he do?

Is This the TITLE?

It's been a bit uncomfortable for me this time around, writing a novel without some semblance of a title to stick on it. Up to now, I've been referring to my WIP as Owen Fam 4, but that is highly unsatisfactory.

After saying "meh" to hundreds of titles, I've arrived at one that makes my heart quiver in delicious, secret delight. Will it do the same for you?

Here it is:

Miss Owen Trips

I know you're going, "Huh?" It's okay. At least it's a working title, and there are several levels of reasons this works for the novel. It's better than "Heedless" or "Unwise and Unwary" or "Unwise Eyes and Lying Lips". When you read the book, at last, it will all come right.

So, what do you think? First impressions? Thoughts? Reactions?

You hate it. That's okay. Tell me why.

Sample Sunday: The Man from Shenandoah, Excerpt 3 from Chapter 1

To learn more about Sample Sunday, see this post on the Kindle Author blog. To find more samples of e-books, follow the Twitter hash tag #SampleSunday.

From Chapter 1 of The Man from Shenandoah

$2.99 on Smashwords - 7 downloadable formats

including Kindle (.mobi) and Epub 

Roderick Owen came around the corner of the house, puzzled by the sounds in the front yard, but ready for Albert’s Yankee invasion. He stopped short at the sight of a tall, very grubby man embracing his wife, and Albert bumped into his father from behind.

“Look here,” Rod threatened, stepping forward.

Carl turned to meet him. “Have I changed so much, Pa?” He grinned under his smeared camouflage.

“Rod, it’s Carl. He’s home at last.” Julia wiped the mud from her face with the apron.

Without a word, Rod enveloped his son in his arms. After a long embrace, he held him off to look at him, and shook his head. “By gum, you sure got your growth dashing around with Mosby. We thought you were dead, boy, not hearing from you, nor seeing you home yet.”

“I took the long road home, Pa. The Colonel disbanded the Rangers about three weeks into April, but me and some thirty others wouldn’t leave him, so he took us south to join up with General Johnston in the Carolinas. The General gave up before we got there, so Mosby cut us loose and made us go in to get paroled.” He paused a moment, scratching his nose. “They won’t give him a parole, Pa. There’s a price on his head!”

“I reckon there’s mighty little justice around now, son. Your colonel won’t get fair treatment since Booth shot the President. There’s rumors Mosby had a hand in it.”

“Somebody shot Jeff Davis?”

“The other president, Abe Lincoln.”

“Is he dead?”

Rod set his jaw, turned his back on his son, and walked toward Carl’s horse, his hand worrying the mud at the front of his shirt and pants. He picked up the horse’s trailing reins and approached his son. “Yes, and it brings hard times upon us. There’s no mercy in the boys running the country now.”

“Mosby had no part in it. I rode with him day and night for over two years. He done no such a thing.”

“I reckon.”

“He didn’t. That’s all.” Carl’s stomach growled aloud, and he looked at his mother. “Is there anything to eat? It sure don’t look like Phil Sheridan left much. We heard about his orders to burn out the Valley, Pa, but we laughed. Not one of us believed he could do it with you and Jeb Early’s troops on home ground.”

“They sent in two and three times our number, son. All we could do was pester them around the edges some.”

“Well, I’m home now, and this ground will grow food—if we can get seed.” Carl looked about the yard. Albert stood in the shadow at the corner of the house.

“Who’s that young’un? I don’t recollect leaving anybody that big at home when I left.”

“It’s me, Albert. I growed a mite.”

“Can’t be. You were just a little bitty sprout.”

Albert came out of the shadow and stood where Carl could see him. “I ain’t a sprout now." His voice was a touch heated. "I’ll be fourteen nigh on to Christmas time.”

“You aged a right smart bit, Albert. Been doing most all the chores, I reckon.”

“You left ‘em to do.”

Carl nodded. “I figured you three boys could handle the farm. When Peter died, I felt obliged to take his place in the fight.”

“I reckon.” Albert looked at the ground and kicked the mud.

“I didn’t know James would go, too.”

“They drafted him.”

Julia moved forward and pulled on Carl’s arm. “Come in and set, boy. Doubtless you’re weary, riding all day. I’ll finish the pone we’re having for supper while you tell your pa what shape the Valley’s in down south of here. He’s been asking after news of the state of things since he got home.”

“Now Julie, the boy’s just got here. I can quiz him later while he eats.” Rod turned to his youngest son. “Albert, take your brother’s horse out back and put him in the pen behind the barn. See if you can find some grain. That animal’s come far with your brother.”

“Yes, Pa.” Albert took the reins and led Sherando around the corner of the house.

 ~~~

Did you ever feel put-upon when someone in your circle left, and you had to assume their duties? Or did you accept the situation with good grace? Do you think Albert felt put-upon, accepting, or something else altogether? Is he likely to kick the horse once he's out of sight?

Read an E-Book Week: March 6-12, 2011

E-BOOKS TURN 40!

That's right - it's been forty years since Michael S. Hart created the first "e-book". For a more in-depth look at the history of e-books please see this web page.

In a CNN interview with Cherise Fong, author Rita Y. Toews, author of several e-books and the founder of Read an E-Book Week, dismisses the false competition between e-books and paper books:

"E-books are great for people who travel a lot on business, for vacationers, or for people with limited space," she says. "They are also the perfect application for material that changes on a continual basis."

"Print books, on the other hand, have their place. Nothing can replace a beautiful art book, or a book of photography. E-books are simply a different format for something we've had for hundreds of years. When penny dreadfuls were introduced in the 1800s they were scoffed at, as were paperback novels in the 1930s."

Also in the 1930s, as farmers were being signed up for rural electrification, one of the most common responses was: "Why do we need electricity? We have lanterns!"

My e-book publisher, Smashwords, is offering a wealth of free and deeply discounted e-books for Read an E-Book Week. They also have Read an E-Book Week catalogs in Stanza and Aldiko.

The two novels I have listed on the Smashwords site, The Man from Shenandoah and Ride to Raton, are on sale during Read an E-Book Week for 50% off! Yes, that means The Man from Shenandoah, which is regularly priced at $2.99, is going for only $1.50 next week only! Ride to Raton, Book 2 in The Owen Family Saga, sells any other day for $3.99, but it can be purchased during Read an E-Book Week for only $2.00! In case you miss the discount code on the site for checkout, it's RAE50.

And don't forget, my recipe book, Rapid Recipes for Writers . . . And Other Busy People, is FREE!

Even if you don't have a Kindle, nook, Sony Reader, Kobo, or other dedicated e-reader device, you can read e-books on your computer, SmartPhone, iPad or iPod touch. Don't miss out on the great savings on e-books you can discover during Read an E-Book Week!

If you're into challenges, here's an on-going one at The Ladybug Reads to participate in the 2011 E-Book Reading Challenge. What better time than Read an E-Book Week to join the challenge?

How do you read e-books now? Do you plan to purchase a dedicated e-Reader sometime? If you don't read e-books at the present time, why not?

Weird Dream

Last night I had the weirdest dream. For some reason my husband had decided to seek a divorce. That should have devastated me, but the truth is, that's what was probably the weirdest part of the dream: my lack of intense emotion in response to the situation.

The only thing I can figure out now that I'm awake, is that since I've already suffered through the intense emotion of losing his physical presence through the ultimate separation of death, I had nothing left to give to a different, though potentionally more messy, separation.

I have to say, he did look fine, in the best physical shape I've ever seen for him. Maybe that's the message of my dream. He's lookin' good now? Maybe I have to work harder on my own spiritual and inner beauty to keep from being separated eventually? It's quite a puzzle.

Will I be able to translate any of this to my writing projects?

Do you ever have weird dreams? What is your typical response to them? Have you ever used what you learned from them in another facet of your life?