Friday, April 29, 2011

Blog Tour: The Crazy Daze of Motherhood by Jane Isfeld Still

Jane Isfeld Still is a very funny lady. In her second book about the perils of motherhood, Jane has given us the perfect Mother's Day gift: laughter.

The Crazy Daze of Motherhood gift book is packed with anecdotes about Jane's experiences as a mother, told with a very dry wit. From overflowing toilets to broken collar bones, she always finds the hidden humor in the situation.

A mother's day is filled with all kinds of emergencies, from bumps and bruises to hospital stays. Find the perfect way to recover from your own family's little emergencies with Jane Isfeld Still's latest book on the hilarious daily challenges of a mother in the fray. You're sure to laugh and cry as you celebrate the joys of motherhood.

Jane is married to Rick Still, who she believes has the distinction of being the only man in history brave enough to give her earwax candles for her birthday. They had six children in eight years, and while her children were growing up, she discovered she had a great sense of humor. At least that was her take. Rick once said to her, "Honey, you know all those real corny things you say all the time? Who ever thought you could make money at it?" Her son Adam once told her, "Mom could you please stop telling jokes to my friends? It's really embarrassing." One of Jane's philosophies is, "You're not doing your job unless your children are worried about being seen in public with you."

Among the 20 stories included in this slender book, my favorite has to be "Fashion Faux Pas." I laughed. I cried (mostly from laughing too hard). I shook my head as I related to the horrible dilemma of what to wear to the doctor's office. I giggled as I didn't relate to being immobilized because my coat was caught in a door--with a nervous, half-dressed male patient on the other side. Very, very funny!

If you don't get this book for your mother this year, shame on you! If you only remember your mother this May 8, get the book for yourself, or a daughter or daughter-in-law (or all of the above).

To read more about Jane and her exploits visit her website at janeisfeldstill.com or her blog at janeisfeldstill.blogspot.com

Buy the book on Amazon here 

Monday, April 25, 2011

My New Project is Alive!

No More Strangers is a collection of six short stories, three poems, and an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, Spinster's Folly.
No More Strangers, the eBook, is found at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55150 regularly priced at $3.99. However, in celebration of Easter, I'm having a special introductory sale that ends Tuesday at midnight PDT.
Use the coupon code QF77F at checkout, and receive the collection for 50% off=$1.99 
This collection is now available at the Kindle Store, too!

Sunday, April 24, 2011

This is the Christ!

My New Project is Alive!

No More Strangers is a collection of six short stories, three poems, and an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, Spinster's Folly.
No More Strangers, the eBook, is found at http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55150 regularly priced at $3.99. However, in celebration of Easter, I'm having a special introductory sale that ends Tuesday at midnight PDT.
Use the coupon code QF77F at checkout, and receive the collection for 50% off=$1.99

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Chapter 1, Scene 1

Just because, and due to some behind-the-scene stuff, I've decided to post the beginning of the fourth Owen Family Saga novel again. It's been re-worked since it appeared in draft form in September of 2009. I'll most likely go over it again before it's published, but here is the present version. I hope you enjoy it.

Marie Owen pressed forward through the crowd that surrounded her brother Carl and his new bride, Ellen Bates. She pushed her way across the patch of trampled grass in the Colorado meadow, trying to get closer to the bridal pair. Ma was hugging on Ellen while Mrs. Bates dabbed at her eyes. Mr. Bates stood alongside them, looking stern.
Someone leaving the site of the makeshift altar in a great hurry bumped Marie's shoulder hard, and a flailing hand knocked her bonnet askew. She cried out, "Have a care!" as she turned to see who had been so heedless, then shook her head as she realized it was only her next older brother, James, fleeing from Carl's triumphant grin.
"You behave, James," she muttered, loosening the strings beneath her chin so she could straighten her headgear. When she was satisfied that it was once again firmly in place, she returned to her purpose of reaching Ellen.
Her youngest brother, Albert, was her last obstacle. He had wormed his way to the front of the crowd, and was enthusiastically engaged in kissing Ellen's cheek. Marie elbowed the youth aside, reached her friend, and threw her arms around her.
"Lawsy," Marie whispered in Ellen's ear as she hugged her tight. "I thought this day would never come for you. Now you're my sister, Mrs. Carl Owen!"
Ellen pushed back from the embrace slightly, her green eyes shining like dewdrops above her freckled cheeks. "It was so sudden. I didn't figure Pa would bring the priest with him." Her voice quivered. "Who would have thought . . ." She scanned the meadow, craning her neck back and forth. "Where is James?"
Marie squeezed Ellen's arm. "Now don't you fret about him on your weddin' day. He'll get over a little disappointment."
"I want to tell him I am sorry."
"Don't you bother. He's been acting like such a ninny. It was plain as the nose on your face that you loved Carl and not him."
Ellen ducked her head, but when she raised it a moment later, her radiant smile spoke of her happiness.
Marie couldn't help kissing her cheek. "I'm thrilled for you," she murmured, and gave Ellen another hug.
"I cannot believe this happened so fast," Ellen whispered. She took a deep breath, then turned to look at the new husband, who was sitting himself down on a chair, his face white.
Ellen's smiled disappeared, and she turned back to Marie as people shoved against them. "Carl's bleedin'. I have to get him back to the cabin." She gripped Marie's shoulder. "You'll be next to marry," she said in a rush. "I see the way Bill Henry looks at you."
"What?" Marie protested, but Ellen had slipped away, entreating Rulon and Clay Owen to haul up the chair and carry Carl to the house.
Marie stood rooted in place by her friend's astonishing words, and watched a crimson stain spread across the hip of Carl's trousers. A shiver of fear coursed down her spine. Carl had been wounded in a shootout with kidnappers. Would he bleed to death because he got out of bed to marry Ellen? No! Surely not. Ellen was as good a nurse as anyone hereabouts. She would take ample care of Carl and pull him through this bad spell.
"James!" Ma's sharp call cut through the babble of voices.
Marie turned to see what had alarmed her mother, and saw James loping into the forest. She breathed out in exasperation. He had been so temperamental lately, stumping around like a bear with a hangnail.
"Rod, go see--"
Marie went to her mother's side. "He's fine, Ma. Give him a fortnight to clear his mind, and he'll be the light of your eyes again."
Ma grasped Marie's wrist without looking at her. She spoke low. "Daughter, he's not fine. Make your pa go after him." She glanced down at her clenched hand, opened it, and let Marie go free. "Tell your pa--"
"James is man-grown, Ma."
Her mother seemed not to hear her. "Good, Rod is going." She called out, "Bring him back," sighed, gave herself a shake, then turned her attention to the departing newlyweds.
Marie shrugged her shoulders and followed her mother's gaze. Ellen walked beside Carl, fussing a little, patting his hand. His brothers carried his chair toward the little log house Carl had built with his own hands to receive his bride. No matter that his wife wasn't the one Pa had intended for him. It seemed such an age since Pa had connived to arrange marriages for two of his sons before they'd all fled the ruins of the Shenandoah Valley, and headed out for Colorado Territory. Carl's betrothed, Ida Hilbrands, was long gone.
"Good riddance," Marie said aloud.
"Good riddance to what?" a young female voice said behind her.
Marie jumped and whirled to face her sister. "Julianna! Don't creep up on me like that. It's not ladylike."
"What do you know about being a lady? More like a spinster, if you ask me."
"Spinster? Don't you call me names!"
"I will if I want to. You're gettin' awful long in the tooth, Marie. You've got no beaus in sight. Pa surely wasn't thinking when he left you off his marryin' list." Julianna swished her skirt with both hands and let her tongue quickly dart from between her lips then retreat back into her mouth.
Marie felt warm blood rising into her neck and face at her sister's insolence. "Leave Pa out of this," she barked. "You see how well his plans turned out." She gestured toward the departing couple. "True affection conquered his meddlesome--" She fumbled for a word, then spat out, "meddling. Ellen is happy, so I am happy."
Julianna smirked, pointing toward the forest. "James ain't happy. He stomped off. Pa went after him, glowerin' almost as much as James."
Marie balled her fists, glaring at her sister. "Thank you for telling me something I already know, Miss Snippety Nose. James'll mend, given enough time."
"But in no time at all, Pa will have to put you on the shelf. Nobody will even look at you by Christmas, Old Maid!"
Has anyone ever called you a spinster, or suggested it was time you got married? How did you react?

Monday, April 18, 2011

Title Search: The Adventure

Although I haven't written since late Friday night--I've had this pesky task to do called getting-the-tax-return-finished-and-sent-off--I do think it is possible that I am on to something in the title department.

Here's one of the big reasons why finding a title matters so much to me: I'm planning on releasing a collection of prose and poetry in the very near future, and I want to include a preview of this fourth Owen Family Saga novel at the back. I really don't want to call it OwenFam4. It needs its own identity.

I know, I know. Books have been released with previews in them from novels that eventually end up with a different title, but that creates confusion. I don't like confusion. That's why I've been pressing pretty hard to whittle my very long list down to a short one.

I'll keep you posted on the progress.

Blog Tour: The Woman He Married by Julie N. Ford

My blog is the last stop on debut novelist Julie N. Ford's book tour, but first, I need to mention the giveaway you'll want to get in on: visit all the blogs on the tour to read the reviews, and leave a comment (with your email addy) on each one to be entered in the contest to win a signed copy of the novel The Woman He Married, and a $50 Barnes and Noble gift card! Don't forget to leave your comment here, as well. I'll put the blog list at the bottom of my review, with a little bonus. The winner of the signed copy and the gift card will be announced on Julie's blog on April 20, so don't delay!

Next, a little about Julie. She is a wife and mother who lives in Tennessee, an LDS author writing for the national marketplace, has a BA in Political Science and a minor in English Literature from San Diego State University, and a Masters Degree in Social Work from the University of Alabama. A bout with cancer put some of Julie's dreams on hold, but it also helped her realize that her top priorities, in addition to her husband and family, included writing fiction and getting it published. Now she has several books appearing in the next year.

Since my push toward publication came because of a health crisis, I relate to Julie, even though I took a different path. Her determination speaks to dreams fulfilled in spite of long odds, and I tip my hat to her (and yes, I own several Western hats).

The Woman He Married is billed as a romance, but it has a healthy dose of woman's fiction in it. With a degree in law and a complex relationship background, Josie McClain has let her life get out of control and her dreams slip away from her. She had dealt with her dissatisfaction and dilemmas and three typical children with the help of alcohol...until she gave it up six months ago under pressure from her candidate-for-circuit-court-judge husband, John Bearden. Seeking an alternative to booze, she stays too busy, from compulsive volunteerism at her childrens' schools, to working a couple of days a week at the law firm of her college lover, Brian, who evidently still has a thing for her. Eleven years into a marriage on the brink of break-up, Josie's crossroads comes when the diamond tennis bracelet she's been hinting about for ever so long shows up on the wrist of her husband's press secretary.

In days of yore, a woman's magazine had a regular feature called "Can This Marriage Be Saved?" That's the question of the day for the balance of the novel, as Josie "embarks on a journey of self-rediscovery, finding that fulfillment was unwittingly within her reach the whole time."

No first novel is perfect (sheesh, is any novel perfect?), and neither is this one. There are slight point-of-view flaws, a few bumpy transitions, and too much home decor and clothing description for my taste (but that's MY taste). However, it moves along at a rapid pace, is well balanced with a sticky situation for an inciting action, interesting characters and adorable children, lots of soul-searching, and baleful humor from Josie's best friend, Gina. Julie N. Ford shows great promise in her debut, and I look forward to reading the sequel to The Woman He Married.

The Woman He Married is available at Whiskey Creek Press in both e-book and print versions, and at Amazon in Kindle and print editions. To buy autographed copies at a reduced price, go here to Julie's website.


Second Chance Contest: If you read The Woman He Married between now and May 28, you can go to Julie’s blog and vote for who you feel Josie should have chosen in the end. You’ll be entered into a 2nd contest to win a $50 Barnes and Noble gift card.

Friday, April 15, 2011

Is the Western Dead? We'll see on July 29th

Cowboys & Aliens.

I've never read the comic book/graphic novel that I think I detect in the background of this movie, but if it's got Harrison Ford on a horse, Daniel Craig with a shotgun, and Arizona in 1873, I'm so there. Yeah.

In theaters soon, but not soon enough. July 29th, 2011.


Uh Oh!

I wrote this yesterday, and edited it today, adding 15 words and deleting a couple.

Marie drew her skirt together at the knees, hands gripping the cloth. "Sir, I don't know what you mean."
Mr. Alderson tilted his head and the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Why, Miss Owen, you seem quite vexed with troubles. Won't you allow me to share your burden, even only a tiny bit?" His thumb and forefinger almost touched.
The fire from the liquor seemed to be spreading from Marie's stomach to her limbs. She brought a finger to her lips to bite the nail, then thought better of it, and dropped her hand back into her lap. "You are a stranger, sir. How odd that you wish to be my confidant."
The man drew back a trifle, pressed his lips together, then blurted out, "I beg your pardon for moving beyond my place, Miss Owen. Your beauty overwhelms me." He sucked in a breath through pursed lips, and hung his head. His voice sounded hollow as he said, "I do beg your pardon, very humbly, Miss. Please forgive me."
Marie felt in a forgiving mood as the skin of her hands felt soft enough to run off her fingers like melted butter. "I..." she began, but her voice faded. "It's not... Usually I would not..." She shook her head gently, feeling as though her brains would collide with the bones of her skull if she exerted herself overmuch. "You are forgiven, Mr. Alderson," she said in a rush, before her voice failed her again. "Forgiven," she repeated for emphasis. The consonants ran together.
Mr. Alderson raised his head and stared into her eyes. "You are quite...magnificent," he said slowly. "Magnificent and magnanimous, together in one generous soul. I feel as though I were in the presence of a royal personage. Such grace. Such charm." He took her hand in both of his, and lifted it toward his lips. He stopped midway, and murmured, "I am quite overcome with feelings, Miss Owen. Will you permit...?" and he kissed the inside of her wrist.
Looking at the man's bent head, Marie wondered that his moustache did not tickle her skin. Instead, it felt stiff, yet flexible and yielding at the same time, and his warm lips spread the heat from the alcohol up her arm. She knew she must remove her hand from his grasp, but her strength failed her just as her voice had, and the lethargy caused her head to rest on her shoulder.
He made circles on her wrist with the back of one finger, his nail smooth, not catching her skin with jagged edges or nicks, but sliding over her skin like it rode on a film of sweet oil.
"Sir," she protested, her voice little more than an echo, as he began to place kisses as gentle as the touch of a moth's wing on the heel of her hand, then moved gradually down onto the sensitive flesh of her palm. Such gentle kisses, stirring her blood and driving her inhibitions far away, far up the mountain and into the depths of a dark pool of water where she had sat once in time, a man bending over her, offering a cup of cool water. Who had that been? Her head swam as memory eluded her, and she swallowed, no longer fighting the wild pulse of blood that throbbed in her temples.
She raised her head with an effort. The fire had gone to embers, no longer lighting the table before her. The man beside her murmured, "So lovely," and placed his hand on her knee.
An internal alarm roused her senses. This is wrong. I did not tolerate Tom's hands on me. This man is a stranger. He has less right. She shifted her body so that her limbs slid out from under the man's hand. "I...must go," she said, grateful that her voice seemed steady. She pushed herself to her feet against the man's protests. "You must forebear, sir," she added, tugging her hand free. "Goodnight."
Steering herself toward the light of the distant lantern hanging from the door post of her father's house, Marie splashed through the creek and felt the shock of the cold water bring her wits into sharper focus. She grimaced against the headache starting behind her eyes, but made it through the front door and into the loft before anyone greeted her or made note of her wet shoes and hem.
I'm shameless, she told herself. A shameless spinster, acting like a brazen hussy. And yet, some of the warmth from the man's moth-like kisses had not faded from her body, and she wrapped herself in that warmth as she fell asleep.
I really shouldn't tease you all this way. Maybe I'm the shameless hussy.

Almost dreck, my copyright, who knows if it will appear in the finished product?

Thursday, April 14, 2011

2nd Amendment

I am thoroughly dedicated to the idea that when the 2nd Amendment to the United States Constitution said "the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed," the Founding Fathers meant what they said.

I'm disgusted that the man sitting in the White House (when he's not out playing golf or bowing to foreign potentates) is dedicated to driving America into the gutter, to sullying the principles stated in the Declaration of Independence, and to taking away the rights expressed in the Constitution (a document I believe--correct me if I'm wrong--he held up his hand and swore to defend).

Here's a website my son introduced to me. If you are also concerned about the right to keep and bear arms, go here and get a little education.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Amazing Discount Offer on Ride to Raton

James Owen was wounded at the Civil War Battle of Five Forks on April 1, 1865. I don’t want to wait four years to give a discount on his story, so here’s my offer: an amazing 62% discount on the ebook Ride to Raton in many formats thru Friday 4-15-11. Use coupon code BV83K at checkout for a $1.50 download. http://v.gd/dlVsR3


That link goes to the Ride to Raton page at Smashwords.com, but has an interim page warning you to make sure you know it's a good place to go. I hope you all trust me. If not, click the link in this paragraph, instead.

In case you missed it, April 12 marked 150 years since the first mortar shell barrage by Charlestonians upon Ft. Sumter in Charleston Harbor, South Carolina. The start of the American Civil War, in fact. Hence, the $1.50 price.

Enjoy!

New Tidbit

Here's a short scene I finished up yesterday, er, that is, this morning. I hope you like it.

Bill keep his face smooth as Chico threw down his cards. It would be unseemly to chortle over his good luck tonight. He had helped luck along a trifle, and didn't want to share that fact with Chico or the other players in the bunk house. Maybe I'm just an ornery cuss. He dropped his wrist below the table top, shook the other ace out of his sleeve and slid it into his boot top. I only hankered to know if it could be done. He'd find a way to return Chico's cash to him later. It wasn't like when that little scoundrel, Bertie Owen, had cleaned him out. He hadn't felt any impulse to turn over his ill-gotten gains.

Chico pushed back his chair, the lamplight flickering over his scowl. "Hang it all, Henry! Where'd you get so lucky? Miss Marie ain't here to plant a kiss on your cards."

Bill raised a finger and tilted back his hat so he could see Chico. "Don't go mixing the lady into our game, Chico. She ain't a factor in your bad luck."

Chico took off his own hat and slammed it onto the floor. "Damn you, Bill Henry! That was my last three dollars! Now I can't--"

Bill cut off the diatribe by saying, "Have it back, friend, with interest. I don't want a five-spot standing between us," as he extracted a five dollar note from the pile of bills before him and slid it across the table toward Chico.

Chico snatched up the bill, his face relaxing just a mite. "Someday you'll go too far, friend."

Allowing a grin, Bill said, "You've come all the way from Texas with me, Henderson. You know I'm the best friend you have."

"Humph," Chico grunted, picked up his hat, and strode toward the bunk house door, stuffing the money into his shirt pocket with one hand and his hat onto his head with the other.

"Have you gentlemen had enough?" Bill asked the other players.

A chorus of agreement met his question, and Bill took a few bills off the pile and pocketed them as he arose. "Split it up, boys," he said, indicated the remainder. "Be fair." Then he made an exit amidst the cacophany he left in his wake.
As always, my copyright, my draft-quality dreck. Any comments?

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Civil War and Other Disasters

This Tuesday marks the 150th Anniversary of the "beginning" of the American Civil War in South Carolina. It's important for me to mark that anniversary, because my fictional characters, the Owen family, were informed and impacted by the events thereof.

But first, let me urge you to buy a collection of short stories written by my friend, Charles T. Whipple. You're seen me write about Charlie "Chuck Tyrell" Whipple before. He lives in Japan, and was impacted by the recent earthquake and tsunami there. Because he says he only does one thing well, and that is write, he and his ebook publisher have put together a collection that includes the first-ever publication of his international prize-winning story, "A Matter of Tea," and other Japan-based short fiction. I was privileged to read that story, and write the promotional blurb for the book.


The ebook is found at Smashwords.com in various ebook formats: A Matter of Tea. The cost is only 99 cents, and all proceeds are going to charities and relief organizations that are helping out right now in Japan. I implore you to support this cause. Charlie has a blog post on his Outlaw Trail Western blog with more details, plus links.

For the next four years, you're going to be seeing news articles, blog mentions, and other Internet and paper commemorations of various events and battles that took place during the American Civil War. My Owen Family Saga novels tell a fraction of the aftermath of that great and bloody confrontation.


It wasn't a good time. It wasn't a glorious time. In fact, it was a terrible, heart-breaking time of brother fighting against brother, father against son, thirteen Southern states seceding from the united states, and unimaginably horrific battles that left men dead or maimed in ways we can only see in Veteran's hospitals today. Many soldiers came home with wounds that drove them to narcotic addictions in their quest for relief of pain. Families on both sides were impoverished; and further torn apart through deaths, disagreements, and physical hardships. Many people relocated to the West, where is wasn't in fact, all better. It was simply hard in a different way.

Stay tuned for more during the next four years that parallel those Civil War times. You'll see new fiction from me, and a few collections, to boot.

And here's a special deal, in quiet remembrance of that time: I'm offering a coupon that will get you a 49% discount on ebook versions of The Man from Shenandoah from Smashwords.com. The price is $1.50 (150th Anniversary). Use the coupon code LM77P at checkout. This coupon is good only through Tuesday, so hurry on over to take advantage of the savings. Once you've read the book, please return to The Man from Shenandoah's Smashwords page and give it a rating and review. Thank you!

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Author Interview - Anna del C. Dye, Curse of the Elfs

Today I'm interviewing a friend of mine, Anna del C. Dye, who writes romantic fantasy novels for the young adult market. Her newest novel is Curse of the Elfs.

Anna del Carmen was born in Valparaiso, Chile, and has a fraternal twin sister and three other siblings. Their mother died when Anna was six years old, and her father never remarried. After meeting her husband-to-be, Rodney, in her native city, they fell in love. She traveled to the United States later, and married him two weeks after arriving. She learned English through reading the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series of books. Then she was introduced to The Lord of the Rings, and loved it.

Early on in her life, Anna showed an affinity for sewing, became a professional seamstress, and took classes that rewarded her with opportunities of costuming the casts of four different plays, which she enjoyed immensely.
She wears her dresses down to her ankles and likes them to be very feminine, with lace being one of her favorite trimmings. "I am afraid that I do not follow fashions," she has said. "I wear what I like." That's a woman after my own heart!

She is fluent in both English and Spanish and understands Portuguese. With such a romantic background, is it any wonder her novels deal with romance? Anna and Rodney reside in Utah and are the parents of three princes and a princess.

Anna is an accomplished, multi-award winning author. One of her short stories,  "Amerine—Fairy Princess," won an award in the Oquirrh Writers contest. The first book in her YA Romance Series entitled “A Kingdom By The Sea” also won an award. Anna’s works also include The Silent Warrior Trilogy, the beginning saga of her YA Elf Series.

Welcome, Anna. How long have you been writing and why did you start? 
I started about seven years ago because my husband wanted to live to the ripe age of fifty. He thought my imagination would be the end of his days. He actually ordered me to. He is awesome.

That's pretty funny, but he does sound awesome. I understand he's a fine editor, too. Some writers start their books at the beginning and keep on going until they reach the end. Others start with a scene in the middle and jump around in their writing  until they have enough material to edit together. How do you write your books?

With the Trilogy I started in the front. Curse of the Elfs came to me in the middle, then it took form toward the front and the back. I am not sure why… it just happened.

Was there a particular person or event that inspired you to write your stories?
The last movie of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings was my inspiration. I wanted to know more about the characters’ lives and couldn’t find enough. My husband said, “Why don’t you write your own?” I answered, “Yeah, right!” But his answer haunted me, and in three days I had the draft of The Elf and the Princess in my mind. When I told him the story, he came back with a laptop and told me to write it. The rest is history.

What a great guy!
Anna, do you write with music playing? If so, is the music likely to be songs with lyrics or only instrumentals?
I do have music on, though I love quietness. I have my favorite tunes in the computer where I write. Lots of them have lyrics; a few don’t.


What is the coolest thing about being an author?
Meeting great people and other authors.

What would you say is the most challenging part about being an author?
Spending hours promoting my books while I would like to be writing another.


Do you have a particular goal you aim to achieve with your writing?
To take people to a wonderful world where they can forget reality’s cold hand and safely enjoy fantasy. Life is tough and we need something to help us make it more fun and worth living. Fantasy is the way I choose to do it.

English is your second language. Did that cause you to have challenges in trying to write your books?
Not many, really. I write, and my husband-editor has to figure out what I am trying to say. (If I can't figure how a word goes in English, I put it in Spanish...he speaks Spanish very well.) We have a lot of fun when we edit the books, because of my English mess-ups.


In your latest novel, you used the word "elfs." Is that a misspelling of the usual English plural, "elves"?
No. I did that on purpose. 

If you could give your book to only one person, who would it be and why?
A teenager in trouble... In the hope that he/she could discover the power they have deep inside to change and become better. I want them to see that nothing is impossible if we put our minds to it.

You have lots of battle scenes and sword play in your novels. How do you describe them so well?

I found a medieval sword fighting class at the local high school, and my husband and I took it. My husband liked it so much he has taken it for a few years now and has even earned two different belts with the clan.

What advice would you give to aspiring authors?
Never give up!!! Join a writer's group close to you right now, and learn the craft from them.
 

Tell us about your newest novel, Curse of the Elfs.
When an Immortal Race ceases to be immortal, woe to the land.

Ancient legend tells of elfs crossing paths with a dying wizard named Zoltan. The Old Sorcerer’s unrepentant deeds had caused the elders of the wizarding school to chastise him severely. On his deathbed Zoltan asked the elfs for help. Losing patience in his delirium, he cursed them. Now, the immortal elfin race is, slowly but surely, dying.


Their only hope lies in a servant of kings who must learn to love the elfs before he will attempt to save them. But no one, elf or mankind, has ever heard of this man. Nor does anyone know where to find him. Can the best healer in the land find this savior before their race is gone forever?


That sounds very exciting, Anna. I think you'll get many new readers with such intriguing books to offer. Thank you for being my guest on my blog today.
Thank you for this opportunity to visit with you and your friends.



Curse of the Elfs can be purchased in the following places:

Anna's other fantasy novels, in the "The Silent Warrior Trilogy," are:
Book 1 - The Elf and the Princess
Book 2 - Trouble in the Elf City
Book 3 - Elfs in a Conquered Realm

Monday, April 04, 2011

Sample Sunday: The Man from Shenandoah, Excerpt 6 from Chapter 1

Yes, I do know it's Monday today. The thing is, I've been absent for a couple of weeks, due to a family emergency. Today's excerpt will finish off Chapter 1 of The Man from Shenandoah. I will continue next Sunday with a new series of excerpts, this time from my second novel in The Owen Family Saga, Ride to Raton.

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

And now, the final excerpt from The Man from Shenandoah:


Carl and Rod headed for the house as the sun dropped toward the horizon. The rain earlier in the day had left the air cool and sweet, and a light breeze was blowing the final clouds away. Carl handed the milk pail to his father at the door.

“I’m all covered with mud, Pa. Best I wash up before I eat.”

“You’ll have to use the crick, son. The Yankees knocked the top of the well apart and dumped it into the shaft. I ain’t got it cleaned out yet.”

“Then I’ll bring back some water.”

Carl took two pails from the back stoop and slogged his way through the muck of the yard to the creek path. He felt like a small boy again, recalling the times he’d walked this path before the well was dug.

Carl came up to the creek, knelt, and dipped the pails into the deepest part of the water. After he set them high on the bank, he removed his shirt, tossed it aside, and plunged his arms into the water. Gasping with the impact of the cold, he splashed it onto his head and chest.

Once his face was clean, he wiped off his boots and rubbed most of the mud from his pants, then rinsed his shirt in the stream and wrung it out several times. He shook out the shirt and put it on, shivering when the cold, wet cloth made contact with his flesh.

Twilight took away most of the daylight as Carl paused to look into the water of the creek where it pooled below him. He saw a distorted reflection of the outline of his form in the dim light. Nineteen years had built his body well and tall, but the last four, with the privations of war, had hardened the muscles of his frame and made his features gaunt. His hair was too long, and the week’s growth of sandy red beard itched. He’d have to hunt up scissors and a razor as well as a comb.

As night fell, Carl shrugged his shoulders to rearrange the damp shirt, picked up the pails, and headed back to the house, guided by the lamplight from the kitchen window. Breeze on the shirt chilled him, and he walked a little faster. At the steps he re-scraped his boots, then opened the door and went inside.

“We’re just fixing to eat,” Julia called. She turned and saw the water buckets. “Thank you, son. You saved me a trip.”

Carl pulled up a chair to the table and joined Rod and Albert.

“It ain’t much, Carl, but it’ll keep you from blowing away.” Julia waved her hand toward the food. “We’re lucky to have greens. They popped up down by the crick, and I picked them late this afternoon. ‘Course, there’s corn pone, and we have milk, but there ain’t no real coffee, just roasted chicory.” She sighed as she sat at her place. “We’ll have real food again once we get a crop up.”

“That’s something we need to do some talking about,” Rod declared. “First, let’s give thanks for Carl’s safe return, and for this food we got.”

At the end of the grace, Carl glanced across the table at his father. There’d been something in his voice that foretold serious business. Rod must have felt his stare, for he looked up, his beard wrinkling as he chewed.

Rod swallowed. “Tell me how it looks south of here, son. What did Sheridan leave for the folks in the south end of the Valley? You came from Staunton, I reckon?” Rod took a bite of greens.

“He burnt or pulled down homes, barns, crops, orchards, ‘most everything, all the way to Staunton and beyond. It’s a famine time. A crow flying by would have to bring his own rations.” He paused to chew a piece of pone. “Ma, it’s a wonder to me the Yankees left our house alone when they came back through.”

“I had my good Sharps rifle, and I set right there in the doorway and wouldn’t budge none. After a while they left me be and went out back to burn the barn.”

“Marie could-a been killed,” Albert said, frowning. “Them dirty Yankees didn’t wait ‘til she was out of the barn to set it afire.” Albert’s eyes looked dark and fierce. “I wish I’d a been down here shooting me some Yankees instead of up in the hills with Clay and all them cows!”

“Likely they’d have shot you, Albert,” Carl said. “Praise God you was up there!”

Rod’s mouth tightened. “What about livestock, son? What did you see?”

“I reckon we’ve got more cattle than any five stock men down the Valley, Pa. Maybe five pigs, thin stuff; not more’n ten hens anywhere. I reckon Grant didn’t want no more supplies coming out of the Shenandoah. He meant for little Phil Sheridan to clean us out, and he did the job.”

“Lucky I was warned some,” Julia said, “or I wouldn’t have had time to send the boys off up the hill.”

Rod chewed his food slowly, his face looking thoughtful. “I reckon we’re eating about as well as Rand Hilbrands. The Yankees missed burning the store in Mount Jackson, so he still has food to put on his table.”

“What happened over to Chester Bates’ place, Pa?”

“He lost his barn, and the house is gutted out. They burned his fields bare. The Bates family is about wiped off the face of the earth, I’d say.”

“Are they all dead?”

“They’ve got their lives and little else.”

“That’s sure a pity.” Carl wiped his mouth with his hand. “They had the prettiest stone house I believe I’ve ever seen. Where are they living now?”

“Right on the place, in the old tool shed.”

“Hush, that’s a shame. There’s no finer man than Chester Bates, ‘cept for you and John Mosby, Pa.”

“Andy Campbell says his pa’s so mad about his place being wrecked, he wants to clear out and go someplace else,” Albert reported.

Rod Owen cleared his throat. “That’s just what I aim to do.”

~~~

Rod Owen just dropped a bombshell on his family. (Considering they just survived a war, perhaps that wasn't the best thing he might have done. Sorry. Poor joke.) How do you suppose Julia feels about this unilateral decision on the part of her husband? Have you ever faced the necessity of changing the course of your life in a moment's time? How did you manage?

Friday, April 01, 2011

Title, Title, Where is My Title?

It appears I'm still hunting for a title. Much as I love and appreciate it, there was little enthusiasm among readers for "Miss Owen Trips." That's a factor to which I need to pay attention.

Yesterday I was reading poems by Robert Louis Stevenson, and came across one entitled "To Any Reader," from A Child's Garden of Verses. The final lines go like this:

For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.

So, do you think I can use "Child of Air" as the title? I know there's nothing "Western" in it, so it's just a fancy I've picked up and flung before you all.

What do you say? Should I be reading poetry by Robert Service or Baxter Black instead?
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