Sunday, July 31, 2011

Sample Sunday: War Party

War Party is a story I wrote as my assignment when I took a correspondence course in short story writing several years ago. It has languished on my computer, unpublished (but not for lack of trying in those early days) until recently, when I put it on Amazon.com in the Kindle stores. It recounts a tragedy that led up to a fictional participation in an actual event, the Battle of Salt River Canyon at Skeleton Cave in Arizona Territory. Here's the first scene.

$0.99 at Smashwords and Amazon's US Kindle store.

War Party, Scene 1
 
Black smoke drew Rolla's eye, smoke where there should not be smoke. Then he heard the noise: high, piercing yips, and a woman's scream, and the flat report of gunshots.

A sand hill girdled with stunted mesquite trees blocked his view of the home place. The boy tongued the grass stem from his teeth as the dun-colored pack horse swung its head, nostrils wide, and the rope between the boy and horse tightened. Water in the barrels sloshed and splashed over the rims. Rolla smelled dank wetness as it cut through the dust on the sides of the casks.

He heard Pa's angry voice, and more shots, and the eternal yips, chilling his spine. Rolla started to run, pulling the dun behind, but the horse resisted, so he tied a fumbled knot around a mesquite branch. Then he scrambled and panted his way up the slope.

Rolla reached the top and flopped belly-down behind a tangle-branched creosote bush. He broke a stem so he could see through the shrub, and a tarry odor filled his lungs. Now he saw the source of the smoke. On the right, the dugout roof and door were ablaze, and to the left, hay stacks burned next to the corrals. The boy tried to count the dashing, milling figures with long black hair tied down by rolled bandanas, but because of the dust and smoke, he lost the total.

Apaches! he thought, remembering a neighbor's warning: "They's got hair down to here, boy, and them dirty white cloths to hide their nekkedness. And most often they's got a white band of paint clear acrost their faces, from ear to ear, nose and all."

One of the raiders knocked down the corral poles. The stock spilled out, chased by another Indian, and the rest of the band bunched behind, whooping, and drove the protesting animals onto the trail.

When the Apaches were a cloud of ocher dust, Rolla slid down the hill and, kicking the tree, snapped the spiny branch holding the horse's tether rope. He ran along the path, jerking the animal behind him, not caring about the water.

The boy came yelling into the yard between the overturned wagon and the stone fence surrounding the garden plot. "Pa!" he called, and saw a dark brown patch on the tan earth near the wagon. The boy dropped the horse's rope and followed scuff marks around the vehicle.

His father lay in a heap, and Rolla skidded to a halt beside him. "Pa," he cried, and knelt to shake the man. "Pa, wake up. They're gone." Then he recoiled, and held himself rigid at the sight of the stark white and crimson circle on the top of Pa's head. Rolla drew in a deep breath, and took in the dust and smoke, and the sweet-rank stench of blood.

The first, numbing shock passed, and the boy laid his hand inside his father's coat, checking for a heartbeat. There was none, and he stumbled to his feet.

"Ma?" he asked, looking around, swallowing hard, and he saw the splash of white petticoats behind the black wash kettle. "No, please," he prayed, feet dragging, as he approached the place where one shoe stuck out from in back of the boiling pot. He stopped, then peered around the column of rising steam.

Ma lay stretched out, eyes wide, mouth twisted, and the bodice of her gray dress was dark with blood. Her shawl looked like a yellow butterfly on the ground, and Rolla picked it up, fingering the soft wool. The threads caught on his chapped hands, and he clenched his fists over the wrap.

"Ma!" he yelled, and an echo returned from the hill as he draped the shawl over her terrified features. As he got up, he shook with restrained rage, and for a moment he stood, quivering, as though he were rooted between the two fallen figures. Then the youth dug one grave on the flat behind the corral: a large one beside the two small ones already there in the Arizona sand. After he rolled rocks atop the mounded earth, Rolla took his hat by the crown, pulled it forward off his head, and mumbled the Lord's Prayer before he stamped back to the yard.

The boy kicked through the rubble of the corral and found the riding saddle. He caught and tethered the dun, dumped the water barrels, loosened the pack saddle, and pushed it to the ground. Then he hoisted the riding saddle onto the horse's back.

Although the smoking roof poles had collapsed, and the front part of the house sagged, the fire had burned itself out, and Rolla wrestled the charred door aside and stepped into the dugout.

He found saddlebags, and stuffed them with whatever came first to hand: a loaf of bread; tins of tomatoes; his store-bought shirt; ammunition for the Winchester he had found under his father's body, brass dulled with blood. Then he rolled and tied a pair of quilts. Last, he picked up the photographic portrait of Matt and Kate Wood on their wedding day, and carried everything out into the daylight.

Rolla stared hard at the picture, as though by staring he could bring his parents to life. A dark sigh shook his body, and he pressed his lips together, shuddering at the contrast between this almost smiling couple and the mutilated corpses he had buried.

"I'll get 'em, Pa," he choked, his voice high, thin. "Those 'Paches killed their last white folks."

He shoved the portrait into his coat pocket, then hoisted the saddlebags behind the saddle, secured them, and tied on his bedroll. The rifle he jammed into the boot, then he loosed the horse, gathered the reins, and stepped onto the chopping stump to reach the stirrup. Mounted, he took one last, bitter look around, then bounced his heels off the mustang's ribs, and it skittered out of the yard and onto the trail.
 ~~~
Young Rolla has revenge in mind. Have you every been so provoked that you thought of killing someone? How could you defuse that strong emotion? What else might Rolla have done in these circumstances instead of vowing revenge upon a band of Indians?

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Sample Saturday: Trail of Storms, Excerpt 1 from Chapter 1

Today's Sample is from the third novel in the Owen Family Saga, Trail of Storms. The setting is Mount Jackson in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley just after the American Civil War, the genre is historical Western fiction, and the rating is PG-13 due to violence.

I began this series of Samples to coordinate with Sample Sunday, but since I don't like to do marketing on the Sabbath day, I shifted my samples to Saturday. I was briefly interrupted by major surgery and recovery therefrom, but now I'm back, and I'm taking part in the Sweet Saturday Samples blog hop, where authors are presenting Clean Fiction Excerpts on their blogs.
$3.99 on Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle
$16.95 at Amazon.com for Trade Paperback

Chapter One, Scene One

“You girls stick tight together. Those blasted Yankee riders are still botherin’ folks.”

Jessica Bingham paused outside the bakery’s front door, letting Ma’s words roll off her shoulders as she rearranged the loaves of freshly baked bread in her basket. She looked down the quiet street. The rising sun’s pink and gold rays chased night’s shadows from the cracks and crannies of Mount Jackson’s storefronts. She inhaled the fresh scents of the morning to clear the heavy odor of yeast from her nose. Spring was here. “Hmmm,” she sighed, and felt a smile of satisfaction lift her mouth. Ma was wrong to worry. This perfect day could hold no danger to her or her sisters.

And yet . . . the previous week, two young married ladies had been knocked to the ground by a band of cavalrymen of the occupation force. One merely had the wind knocked out of her, but the other had lost her unborn babe. Her husband had protested. He’d been badly beaten. A feeling of unease crept over Jessica. Perhaps there were no perfect days in Virginia anymore?

Her older, recently married sister, Hannah, pushed past, saying, “Jessie, get yourself out of my way. This bread won’t deliver itself.”

Jessie stepped aside and let Hannah pass, since she always seemed to be in a hurry. She had to take the lead in every endeavor, and couldn’t abide being late. Maybe that’s why she was born first of the twins.

The other twin, Hepzibah, came out of the door and stopped at Jessie’s side. She nudged Jessie and said, rolling her eyes, “Hannah’s just so rude. Don’t give in to her. Ever since she got married, she thinks she’s the queen of the world.”

Jessie shrugged and stepped out into the street, Hepzibah following after. “Maybe she is, in Robert Fletcher’s eyes. He treats her like a fine lady.”

Hepzibah made a small, anguished sound. Jessie looked around at her sister, whose expression had changed to chagrin.

Jessie said in a rush, “Oh Heppie, don’t mind my prattle. I reckon George loves you just as much as Robert does Hannah. He’s bound to say so real soon.”

This time, Heppie’s sound was definitely a sigh, and her eyes began to redden.

Jessie, trying to divert Heppie from having a crying spell in the middle of the street, called out to Hannah, who strode along five yards ahead of them. “Wait for us. Ma will have a conniption if we don’t stay together.” She looked around the deserted street, her nerves beginning to twang. “Do you see any riders down the road?”

“No,” Hannah replied. “It’s too early for those lazy bums to be out. Besides, I ain’t seen ‘em for days. Ma’s just got a bug in her ear.” Hannah carried her basket of baked goods on her hip. She stopped walking and gave it a little hitch to make it ride higher.

“Do you reckon they’ve left town?” Heppie asked Jessie as they followed Hannah.

Jessie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a customer told Ma they’re still here.” She turned her head to look behind her. “I don’t see them.”

“That don’t mean they’re not around the corner,” Heppie said, sniffing, then wiping her nose with a tiny scrap of a handkerchief. “Look sharp.”

Jessie shivered. Her stomach began to ache, and she felt vulnerable and unsafe. The Yankees had already won the war, ravaging the country in the process. It was terribly hard to make ends meet these days. She’d heard Ma crying at night on that score. Why didn’t the Yankees go home and leave the people of Mount Jackson alone?

She thought of Hannah, who lived with Robert in a house on the other side of town. During the time he worked at the bank, Hannah was all alone. She may lord it over Heppie and me for not being married, but maybe she’s afraid too. She does spend an awful lot of each day at our house.

Jessie stepped over a stick in her path. I reckon I don’t blame her, she thought. She hesitated a moment, sniffing the air. Was that dust she smelled? Don’t panic. Likely a wagon passed on the Valley Pike. At that moment, the sound of hoofbeats coming up behind them raised chills along her spine. She whirled and faced four mounted Yankees, who had seemed to rise out of the very ground.

The men caught up and circled the three women before they could take another step. Two of them spat tobacco juice near the girls’ shoes. One failed to launch his mouthful properly, dribbling juice down the front of his shirt.

“Cal, you can’t hit a tin can with a turnip,” said one man whose dirty red hair poked out in points where it escaped his cap. His laughter rang through the empty street.

Jessie grabbed hold of Hannah’s arm with her free hand. She felt Heppie clutching at her skirt band. Jessie looked around, frantic. Where were the Miller brothers? They were always up early, coming down the street as the girls left the bakery.

“Sez you, Red,” the Yankee named Cal said, spitting a fresh stream that landed on Heppie’s shoulder.

Heppie screamed, dropped her basket, and tried to wipe the juice off.

Cal chewed on his wad of tobacco, turned, and shot a spurt of juice in Hannah’s direction. She shrieked as it hit her cheek. Red laughed again, and waved his cap in the air.

“Hannah!” Jessie shouted, and pulled her sister closer to her. The stink of the tobacco filled her nose as she dashed it away from Hannah’s eye with her hand.

The third man, whose black moustache contained bits of food, said to Heppie, “Here, let me wipe that for you.” He leaned down and grabbed a lock of Heppie’s blonde hair. She cried out as he yanked on it, pulling her closer to his horse.

“You need a knife, Bull?” asked the fourth Yankee, reaching into his pocket.

Bull swore. “I can get my own trophies, Foster. Put away your knife.”

“Get away from her!” Jessie shouted. Her heart thrummed in her chest. She tried to think of what to do even as she shoved at the man’s arm, getting the juice from her hand on his uniform sleeve. He let go of Heppie’s hair and turned on Jessie, trying to swat at her hand, but she evaded his reach. Hannah was cowering away from Foster, who called her unpleasant names. The other men rode in circles around the three young women, laughing, whistling, and making rude talk.

“Go back to the store,” Jessie urged her sisters. She stripped the white towel from her basket and flapped it in the face of the nearest horse. It reared, dumping Red, and galloped off down the road. The girls pushed their way through the interrupted circle and ran for the front door of the bakery. Behind them, Jessie heard the laughter and catcalls the other men showered on the unseated rider, who swore at them, his horse, and Jessie herself.

Heppie made it to the door first, wrenching it open. Hannah followed hard on her heels, and Jessie brought up the rear.

“Lock it, Jessie,” shrieked Heppie. Her big blue eyes seemed ready to leap out of her face.

Jessie twisted the lock, wondering if it would keep the men out if they wanted to enter. “Ma,” she cried out as her mother rushed into the shop from the kitchen. “Those Yankees! They spit tobacco juice at us. Just look at Heppie’s dress!”

“They’re so crude,” Heppie moaned, swiping at her shoulder. “I’ll never get this stain off me!”

“There, there, girls.” Ma gathered the young women into her arms. “Did they hurt you?” Jessie felt her mother’s body shaking.

Hannah loosed herself from Ma’s grasp and dabbed at her cheek with a handkerchief. “I hate tobacco!”

Ma let go of the girls. “Jessie? You ain’t been harmed?”

“No, Ma.” Jessie started to hug herself to control her quaking, but remembered in time that her hand was still smeared with slime. She walked behind the bakery display case, found a cloth, and wiped her hand with it. The day had just begun, and already it was a disaster.

Ma went to the window and looked out. “Are the Yankees still out there?” She craned her neck to the right. “Looks like they’re goin’ off down the street,” she said. “One of ‘em is chasin’ a horse. What happened?”

“Jessie spooked his mount and got us out of there,” Hannah said. Her voice sounded calmer. “Heppie, let’s go clean ourselves up.” She took Heppie’s arm, and the twins went into the kitchen.

“Ma.” Jessie joined her mother at the window. “Do we have to go out there again?”

Ma took a deep, shuddering breath, then let it out slowly. It seemed to steady her. “Folks’ll be lookin’ for their bread and pastries. If you leave by the back door, it’s most likely the Yankees won’t even spot you.” She gave Jessie a pat on the shoulder. “I know those Yankee louts are mighty rude to folks, but I don’t think you’ll come to real harm if you stay together. When Hannah and Heppie have cleaned up, you three scoot.”

Jessie sighed. Ma’s right. Folks need their baked goods, and heaven knows we need the money. She shivered. They would have to go back out. Without a protector. Her brother Luke was too young to do much good. Her heart pounded in her chest. Oh Pa! Why did you have to die and leave us so helpless?
---

The aftermath of the American Civil created cruel circumstances for the Bingham family, and a brutal attack on Hannah drove the extended family to flee to the West. Imagine how horrible circumstances would have to be in your life for you and your family to leave your home overnight. Share your thoughts and feelings.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Why I'm a Dedicated Indie Author

Indie Author = an author who publishes his or her work independently of traditional or "legacy" publishers, which work may take the form of either print books, electronic books, or both.

I have several writer friends who have done some variety of independent publishing, and more who are curious about what indie publishing can do for their bottom line. I thought I would share some facts about what a big change a few hours' work has made in my life.

Long-time friends know why I started "self-publishing" several years ago, despite the bias against those writers who did so. For those who don't know, I had a serious health crisis, and didn't want to die with manuscripts unpublished. Therefore, I put out three print books with iUniverse.


Then my books were such a resounding success with you fantastic readers that I couldn't stop to wait for a gatekeeper to accept/schedule/publish my work. Each new book being part of a series about my Owen family, that wasn't likely to happen anyway. Traditional publishers usually don't buy a series book in the middle of the arc. I am currently working on a fourth in the series I now have entitled the Owen Family Saga.

When the electronic book distributor Smashwords.com came to town two years or so ago, I jumped on the ebook bandwagon, and signed up with my first two novels.


I decided to hold off on the third until I finished writing the fourth. A stupid decision, I discovered later, as I educated myself under writers J. A. Konrath, Dean Wesley Smith, and other early electronic book authors. Smashwords delivers content to most of the big ebook retailers, including Sony, Kobo Books, and B&N--before they came up with Pub-It. Smashwords has NOT been successful in getting distribution to Amazon, YET, and the head honcho, Mark Coker, advised us Smashwords authors and publishers to go over to the Amazon Kindle site and do it ourselves. I'd heard the Kindle preparation process was complicated and difficult, so again, I held off.

In the meantime, I had some sales through the Smashwords channels. Royalties in the two figures.

Then I decided I'd put things off long enough, added my third novel to Smashwords in late April-early May, 


and decided to see how hard it really was to format for Kindle. Astonishingly, with the free software Kindle Direct Publishing offered, it was easier than preparing a manuscript for Smashwords!

I uploaded my three novels to Amazon Kindle, and heck, just because more content is better, added several short stories and an anthology, which I also uploaded to Smashwords. I topped it all off with a Sampler of three chapters each of the three published novels, and a chapter from the forthcoming one. My prices ranged from $.99 to $3.99.


 
 

Now I had TEN ebooks of various sizes (let's call them units) going through both Smashwords distribution and through Kindle's three stores: US, UK, and Germany.

Let me just say that I've had no, zero, zip sales through the German (DE) store. I understand a bit more now why that is, but it's irrelevent to this discussion.

After I uploaded my works, I joined a couple of Facebook groups, mentioned the works, and then got busy preparing for a road trip with a girlfriend. This took up most of May.

June. June brought me pretty low. I had emergency major surgery, and thus did no marketing for my books.

July arrived. I was beginning to feel like a human being again, and, curious to see if I'd sold any ebooks on Kindle, I took a look at my sales figures.

I about got my socks knocked off! In May I had sales of 90 UNITS in the US Kindle store ($209.03 royalty), and 5 UNITS in the UK store ($6.35 royalty).

In June I sold 94 units in the US and 3 units in the UK. Royalty figures were not available per month yet, but for the period of June 4 through July 9, the royalties from the US store are $287.09 and 63 pence for the UK.

In July thus far, I've sold 81 units in the US and 11 units in the UK.

Yes, I know, these aren't figures in the tens of thousands of sales or royalties yet, but ebooks have the advantage of the long tail. They never get swept off a bookstore's shelf after a month. They are FOR.EVER!

Remember, I've done little or no advertising that my work is even out there, and these are Western-flavored novels and stories, for the most part, not the more-in-demand romances (per se), mysteries, thrillers, dystopian YA novels, vampire tales, or zombie stories.

So, the big question is: Am I ever likely to send queries, try to get an agent, or nervously stand in line hoping for a gatekeeper to say I'm good enough to publish? I don't know. You be the judge.

Works by Marsha Ward
Print books, novels: The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms
Ebooks, novels: The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms
Ebook Collection (prose & poetry): No More Strangers
Recipe Book: Rapid Recipes for Writers...and Other Busy People
Short Stories: Cottonwood Cowboys, War Party, The Usual Game, Thumps & Losers (2 stories)
Sampler: The Owen Family Saga Sampler (Three chapters each from the three novels in the Owen Family Saga, plus a bonus chapter from the forthcoming novel, Spinster's Folly)

My electronic books are available at Smashwords.com in many ebook formats; Amazon Kindle in the US, UK, and Germany; Barnes & Noble; and other online ebook retailers.

My print books are available at iUniverse.com, Amazon.com, bn.com, marshaward.com, and other online retailers.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Blog Tour: All That Was Promised, by Vickie Hall

Perhaps because some of my forebears came from Wales, I readily agreed to review the recently released LDS historical novel, All That Was Promised, for this blog tour. I wasn't disappointed to find tidbits about Welsh culture and cuisine sprinkled throughout the work. Vickie Hall did her homework for her debut novel, but it doesn't show unduly, as she avoids the mistake of many new authors of throwing in every bit of research, simply because they know stuff the reader surely must need to know, as well.

The book is published by the Bonneville Books imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc. They do some of the most stunning cover art in the LDS marketplace:


This novel, which was provided to me by the publisher, is most suited for LDS teens and women.
 
From the back cover: Ben's expression registered his surprise. "You're a minister?" he asked, curiously.

Richard cleared his throat as a telling grin twisted his mouth. "Aye, that I am."

Leah returned to the compact parlor and gave the missionary a scant glance. "Do you find that amusin', Mr. Lachlan?"

"No, not at all," he replied sincerely. "People from all walks of life recognize the truth of the gospel."

An encounter with a Mormon missionary and his unusual message of a "restored gospel" leave Richard Kenyon, a young Methodist minister, questioning his life's work when he cannot deny a growing testimony of this peculiar American religion. But Richard soon finds himself struggling to recognize the promised blessings of the gospel when violent persecution shakes the fledgling Church in Wales.

An accomplished composer and produced playwright, Vickie Hall has turned a new leaf in her life by trying her hand at fiction. All That Was Promised is based upon the journals of her Welsh progenitors. It gives her great joy to tell their story in a fiction format.

I found the story in All That Was Promised to be well-told, and most of the characters to be nicely developed. I liked Richard Kenyon's sincerity. I ached for his wife, Leah's, childless state and struggles to accept the changes that Richard's conversion brings into their lives. I was horrified at the persecution, the senseless destruction and beatings--even until death--that the Saints in Wales endured. Although my Welsh ancestors came to America before they found the gospel, I could imagine how difficult it would have been for them to undergo such trials.

I do have a quibble with the manner in which the author chose to use Point of View for her characters. Actually, I suspect she didn't choose it so much as she was perhaps ignorant of how Point of View works.

There is an old, not-so-much-in-favor-now Viewpoint called Omniscient. As author Orson Scott Card explains in his excellent how-to book for novelists, Characters & Viewpoint, "The only time we (authors) can act out our godlike role in front of the audience is when we write using the third-person omniscient point of view." Card continues: "As an omniscient narrator, you float over the landscape wherever you want, moving from place to place in the twinkling of an eye. You pull the reader along with you like Superman taking Lois Lane out for a flight, and whenever you see something interesting, you explain to the reader exactly what's going on. You can show the reader every character's thoughts, dreams, memories, and desires; you can let the reader see any moment of the past or future."

Sounds like A Christmas Carol.

Unfortunately, no one uses Third-person Omniscient Viewpoint to good effect these days. Mostly, there is a lot of "head-hopping" going on, which pulls the modern reader not along on a flight of fancy, but out of the story, instead. I persevered, and found that I could mostly ignore the viewpoint shifts, even when they occurred in successive paragraphs.

Since this novel was published by a commercial publisher, I lay the blame for the POV errors on the head of the editor, who should have gently guided her author into making appropriate changes so that we only saw one character's point of view per scene, and not a mishmash of every possible thought and reaction of every character present.


That, along with an abundance of adverbs and adjectives, were my only complaints with this novel. There is evidently a sequel in the works. I look forward to reading it for further adventures with Richard and Leah Kenyon.

To learn more about Vickie Hall, check her website here, and her blog here.

All That Was Promised is available in LDS bookstores and at Amazon in print format here, and in Kindle format here.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

National Day of the Cowboy - July 23

Saturday, July 23rd, is the annual National Day of the Cowboy, and the Barnes and Noble in Redlands, CA will be hosting the "Read 'em Cowboy!" book fair. A portion of sales from the book fair will go to the Western Writers of America's Homestead Foundation, so please consider participating.

It's not necessary that you physically attend the event (though the more, the merrier!). By using vouchers you can download and print from the event's Facebook page, you can make a purchase at any Barnes and Noble store, and a percentage will go to Homestead.  If you buy online at www.bn.com/bookfairs, just enter the Bookfair ID# (10510444) when prompted at checkout.

You can make these purchases in-store (preferable, because the donated to Homestead is higher) or online anytime from July 23rd through July 28th and B&N will honor the vouchers/Bookfair ID#  The amount B&N donates back will vary from 10% to 20% of all sales, depending upon the grand total of qualifying sales.

Here's a great excuse to add to your Western library (books, music, movies all count),  do some early Christmas shopping, or just support Western Writers of America . You'll also be helping to clue booksellers in about the National Day of the Cowboy - and reminding them to stock more Western titles!

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Spinster's Folly, Chapter 12

It's been quite a while since I posted anything from my manuscript. Although I'm not back to work on it yet, I did print it out today so I could review it before I begin writing again next week.

Here's a scene from where I left off before my Great Hospital Adventure:

Marie's stomach roiled with nerves as she backed down the loft ladder. She carried her shoes in her hand, hoping her stocking feet would make less noise on the floor. There was one plank to be avoided at all costs; it would shriek if she stepped on it. Although she could hear Pa's regular snores, if he heard that plank! Well, she'd be discovered, and all her plans would be for naught.

She was safely halfway across the floor when she remembered she needed her sunbonnet, or her face would suffer a recurrence of the burn it received on her trip to the Cuchara land. Even though Mrs. Bates's sweet leather clasp would keep her hair in order, it would not help with the sun.

Restraining a sigh, Marie finished her trek to the door and placed her shoes beside the wall. Then she retraced her steps across the room and up the ladder. Feeling her way in the darkness deeper than stove soot, she found the article and put it on her head, tying the strings under her chin. This severely restricted her sight to the sides, but at least she would have the bonnet when she needed it tomorrow.

In her haste to get back to the door, she almost stepped on the squeaking floorboard, but stopped herself in time, rocking in her abrupt halt, and holding her breath as Pa snorted in his sleep.

Would he awake? Was her escape to be thwarted? She didn't dare breathe until the sonorous exhalations became regular again. Then she let out her breath slowly, sidestepped to avoid the villainous board, and resumed her trip across the room.

Now, to get out the door. The hinges sometimes made noise, but Marie hoped the oil she had put on the leather that afternoon would keep that from happening. She picked up her shoes, took a shuddering breath, and pulled the latch.

The wooden stop lifted, the door opened soundlessly at her touch, and then, she was free!

Recovery

Some of you--probably those of you who have checked this blog in vain for new material over the last couple of months--know that I had what was essentially emergency surgery at the beginning of June. That has had a profound impact on my lifestyle and ability to do just plain stuff for the last six weeks. Although I am not back 100% yet, I'm feeling much better, and able to do more in a day than say, just last week.

I'm getting cranky and ornery, and that's always a good sign of recovery. I hope I won't get too out-of-control before good sense prevails again, and I become my previously good-natured self.

Hang in there with me. I've got some blog tours and book reviews coming up, and I look forward to working on my manuscript again very soon.

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Making some progress

I'm happy to say that I'm gaining some strength. Every new day is one to conquer, but I'm getting there.
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