Study Questions for Book 0

I know it's Sample Saturday, but I'm substituting something different for a sample today. Now that you've had a while to purchase and read my novels, I've got a couple of "Study Questions" to throw at you. Today's questions are for Book 0, Gone for a Soldier. If you're brave enough, please post your answers in the comments.
~~~

As you read the first chapter of Gone for a Soldier, did you guess correctly what was going on in Rulon's town? What did you think he would do about it? How do you think you would react if a crisis occurred that impacted your community?

Julia Owen makes Rulon a uniform for him to wear to war. Have you ever tried to keep a gift project a secret from someone else? What did you do to hide what you were doing? Did you successfully surprise the intended recipient?
~~~

I hope this exercise was interesting to you, because, well, I'm going to throw out more study questions in weeks to come. Have a great day!

Sample Saturday - Book 3

Today's sample is from Book 3 of the Owen Family Saga, Trail of Storms. The Bingham family has fled their home in Mount Jackson, Virginia. Jessie Bingham has been persuaded to ride on a wagon seat with a long-time friend from the Shenandoah Valley, Ned Heizer.
~~~

“Hi! Get up there!” Ned called to the horses. Once they were on the road, he turned to Jessie. “Your ma’s walkin’ back there with Robert and Miz Hannah. You can call me Ned now.” He watched a pink glow light her cheeks.

“I haven’t seen you for so long,” Jessie said, ducking her head to one side.

“Yup.” Ned moved his foot onto the brake lever. “I’m sorry I let some years get between us.”

Jessie didn’t reply.

“Do you remember that time I brought you a peck of mulberries, and we climbed the tree behind Miller’s barn and ate the whole thing?”

Jessie smiled but said nothing.

“Our hands got all purple, and my belly ached something fierce, but the company was fine.”

Jessie laughed. “As I recall, you threw up all over my skirt, and I had to hide it from Ma and wash it myself.”

Ned grinned. “I don’t remember that.”

“It happened.”

“Nah, it couldn’t have. I was always a model citizen around you.”

“It did.”

“It didn’t!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

Jessie gave Ned’s arm a gentle shove as her laughter filled the road. “The purple stain never did come all the way out of my skirt. I had to cover it with an apron until I outgrew it.”

“It does my heart good to hear you laugh, Jessie. I don’t reckon you’ve had much to laugh about the last few years.”

She shook her head. “Ma always tells us life ain’t meant to be fair.”

“But a fine-lookin’ girl like you should have little things that give you pleasure, like fancy trinkets and good memories.” He looked over at Jessie. She was blushing again. “Memories are precious gifts. I have a store of them I could share.”

Jessie said nothing. After a while, Ned began to whistle a tune, and she turned to him, her face a picture of delight.

“That’s the firefly song. You made it up.”

“I made it up for you.” Ned avoided looking at Jessie. He hadn’t told her that, before now, and couldn’t predict how she would react.

“You did?” A low chuckle escaped Jessie’s throat. “I never knew.” She tried out the tune, then laid her hand on his arm. “You never told me. What other secrets are you keeping from me?”

“Oh, lots and lots.” Ned grinned, relieved. “Like the time I shut the Owen boys in the Bates’s cellar for teasing you. Remember, I took you and Ellen Bates and Marie Owen into town on the buckboard to get candy at the store? That’s so you wouldn’t hear them rascals fussin’ to be let out.”

Jessie snatched her hand from Ned’s arm. He looked at her. She had turned her face away again.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Nah, no,” she said, stumbling on the word.

“Are you in pain?” he asked. “This road ain’t too smooth.”

“Um, I’m a little tired,” she said.

“I don’t wonder,” he said. “That shotgun sent you flyin’. Fear is mighty fatiguin’, as well.”

Jessie said nothing in return, and Ned lapsed into silence.

* * *

Jessie hadn’t thought about James Owen for more than a week, but Ned’s remembrance of secrets he’d kept had reopened the wound that never quite seemed to heal. Precious mercy! Will I never stop thinking about him! A cold chill ran through her body, and she shivered, fighting tears that she wouldn’t be able to explain away.

Ned Heizer. Big-brother substitute Ned. Protector and friend while her own big brother, Max, played beau to the girls. Ned was acting like he wanted to court her.

That can’t be. Ned is my friend. How can he possibly want more than that?
~~~

Thanks for visiting. You can purchase Trail of Storms in your chosen version from the vendors below.

Trail of Storms: Book 3 - in print and ebook formats
Print: Amazon | Barnes and Noble | ebooks: Smashwords all formats | Kindle | nook | Kobo | iTunes Bookstore

You may purchase an autographed print copy at this site.

Sample Saturday - Book 0

Before I get too far removed from the beginning of the story of the Owen Family, here's a sample from Book 0, Gone for a Soldier.

How did this novel become Book 0 in The Owen Family Saga? That happened mainly because I'd already marked The Man from Shenandoah as Book 1, and it's a bit difficult to change the numbering scheme at all the online vendors, not to mention on the covers. So Book 0 it is. Perhaps that's fitting for an origin story like Gone for a Soldier.

In this sample, second brother Ben is waiting for his sweetheart, Ella Ruth, to meet him.
~~~

Ben waited in the darkness of the lane that led up from the north fork of the river. Before him on a rise stood the grand house, the centerpiece of the prosperous farm owned by Miss Ella Ruth Allen’s father. Behind him, tied to a low-hanging tree limb, his horse nickered softly and stamped a hoof.

Ella Ruth was late in arriving to their tryst, but that was to be expected. Ella Ruth was late for every occasion.

He smiled momentarily at her habitual tardiness, and then adjusted his leaning position against the smooth tree trunk. If he had his wish, he would scoop her up and run away to the nearest place he could marry her, but she hadn’t yet agreed to elope with him. He hoped his powers of persuasion would be sufficient to the task tonight. If not, he only had a few more days to win her over to the idea.

Hearing footfalls on the lane, he pushed away from the tree and straightened.

“Ben?” Breathless. Timid. Hopeful.

“I’m here,” he called, keeping his voice low.

The footsteps slowed. Hesitant. “Where? I cannot see you.”

She was close, so close to him that he could smell the scent of the rose water she wore. He moved forward. “Here,” he said, bringing the girl into his arms.

“Oh Ben,” she sighed, snuggling against him, her head fitting into the hollow beneath his chin. “I worried you wouldn’t come.” Her anxiety showed itself in a constrained giggle.

“You can depend on me,” he told her, repeating a phrase he’d said many times before in his attempts to woo and win her.

“You always say that,” she said, a bright little chuckle in her voice.

“I want you to remember it. I want you to know I am true to you. There is no one in my heart but your dear person.”

“Oh Ben,” she repeated. “It’s Poppa you need to convince, not me.”

He sighed. “Don’t I know it.” He held her, rocking her slightly. “What’s the secret? How do I make him see my worth?”

“I cannot advise you on that point.”

He heard the despair in her voice. “Ella Ruth, what does your ma think? Does she influence him?”

“Oh no! Momma doesn’t meddle in Poppa’s affairs. She wouldn’t dream of telling him to let you—” Her voice choked.

No help in that direction. Ben sighed again. “There has to be a remedy. Does your brother have influence?”

“Merlin keeps out of Poppa’s business.”

Gall rose in his throat, and he couldn’t speak until he had cleared it away. “My pa always told me life wasn’t fair, that I should buck up and realize it for truth. I reckon I didn’t know what he meant until now.”

“Don’t you get disheartened, Ben. I adore you. Poppa will have to see, sooner or later, that you are not merely a farmer’s son, but a person of real substance, real importance. Like I do.” Her voice rose to a squeak.

Marveling at her remarkable speech, he patted her hair, then stroked her cheek. “I won’t lose heart, but time is growing short. War is coming, the papers say. I expect I’ll go fight for the Confederacy.”

“Oh no. You can’t. You would have to leave me.” She snuggled tighter against him.

“That’s the way it is with war. All the more reason to redouble my efforts. When can I talk to your pa again?”

“Not for days. He’s on a trip for business.”

“Humph.” Ben pondered on the problem, still stroking Ella Ruth’s cheek until she stayed his hand.

“Ben.”

“Hmm?”

“How much do you care for me?”

He shook his head, drew all his focus together to answer the question. “There ain’t a measure large enough, girl.” Moonlight fell upon her brow. It gave him an idea. He took her chin between fingers and thumb and gently turned up her face so he could gaze directly into her eyes. “You are the sun, the moon, the stars to me. No man ever loved a woman more.”

Ella Ruth giggled. “I wish Poppa had a romantic soul. He couldn’t help being moved by such tender words.” She shivered. “He’s a businessman.”

“A very wealthy businessman.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Can’t you make a pretty speech about business, Ben?”
~~~

Thanks for visiting. You can purchase Gone for a Soldier in your chosen version from the vendors below.

Gone for a Soldier: Prequel (Book 0) - in print and ebook formats
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If you want an autographed print copy, click here to purchase one.

Sample Saturday

EEK! It's Saturday again, and I almost missed it.

Here's a scene from Book 2 of the Owen Family Saga, Ride to Raton. James Owen has just had "firm" words with the man for whom he is working to pay off a debt of honor. He is also two weeks or so out from being shot by a disgruntled drunk, which is why he's so cautious.
~~~

James turned on his heel and walked out the door. He paused at the doorway leading outside and looked into the yard. Everything seemed normal. Then he strode toward the stables.

As he entered the dimness of the interior, James stepped to one side of the door and stopped, hand on his pistol butt. This was the time for an attack, while his eyes were adjusting to the half light, so he listened. The scuffling sound he heard sent him into a dive behind a stall partition, trying to draw the revolver as he went down. He fell hard on his left shoulder, landing on scar tissue from a bayonet wound he’d received during the war. He swore softly, rolling to a crouch with his pistol in his hand.

James blinked several times to free his eyes of fragments of straw, but remained otherwise motionless, trying to locate the source of the danger. There was no sound but the pounding of his heart in his ears for long moments, then, the shuffling noise he had first heard came again from the other side of the shed.

From the darkness beyond the door, through the rectangular light, and into the darkness again, scurried a large rat. James holstered his revolver and wiped sweat from his eyes. He got to his feet and started toward where the hay fork hung on the wall.

James heard the report of the pistol at the same moment a lead ball whizzed past his right ear. He hit the straw covered floor again. James rolled to his left, toward the protection of the nearest stall. The shot had come from the direction of the shuttered window near the back of the shed, close to where the harnesses were draped to dry on pegs, looking like so many brown spider webs in the dim light.

Ma, they’re at it again. Can’t a man pay his debt and leave a place still in one piece? With his revolver in his hand, James waited for what would come next—another shot, a rush of men, or the marshal, Tate. As he waited, a bead of sweat ran out from under his hat, down his temple, and into his beard. His side and shoulder throbbed with pain. Six little beans! Why’d I ever stop in Pueblo Town?

No shot came, and James slipped out of the stall and rushed to the doorway. He glanced into the alley. No one was in sight, so he slid through the door and made his way to the back corner of the shed.

Holding his breath, James craned his neck around the corner. One man stood there with a revolver pressed to a crack in the shutter and one eye up to a knothole in the wood. Two steps, and James was behind him. The man reacted to the slight noise of his coming by whispering, “That you, Li—”

James laid the pistol barrel un-gently alongside the man’s head and caught his body as he crumpled.

No. It’s me, James Owen, and I’m tired of dodging lead for no good reason, he thought as he holstered his gun and laid the limp body on the straw covered dirt. Tarnation. This can wear a man down.
~~~

Thanks for visiting. You can purchase Ride to Raton in your chosen version from the vendors below.

Ride to Raton: Book 2 - in print and ebook formats
Print: Amazon | Barnes and Noble | ebooks: Smashwords all formats | Kindle | nook | Kobo | iTunes Bookstore

Sample Saturday Returns

With one thing and another, I've been missing here for a few weeks. Now I'm back, and here's a scene from Book 1 of the Owen Family Saga, The Man from Shenandoah. Carl Owen has returned home after the close of fighting in the American Civil War, and is down at the creek fetching a couple of pails of water and washing up.

Carl had to use the creek because General Phil Sheridan's troops marched through the Shenandoah Valley and caused a bunch of destruction to the Owen family's farm, including wrecking the well.
~~~

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.”
~~~

Thanks for visiting. You can purchase The Man from Shenandoah in your chosen version from the vendors below.

The Man from Shenandoah: Book 1 - in print and ebook formats
Print: (new edition) CreateSpace | Amazon | Barnes and Noble | ebooks: Smashwords all formats | Kindle | nook | Kobo | iTunes Bookstore

Aaaaaaa! He's back!

James Owen, I mean. Here I haven't even finished the current novel, or the novella, or the short story, or the novel-not-from-this-series, and he's jumping in with both feet!

"¿No me amas?"

James Owen sat bolt upright and looked over at his sleeping wife, Jessie. She didn't, to his knowledge, speak in her sleep. Besides, the voice wasn't like hers. Not at all. He shivered in the July night air, heavy with heat.

Jessie's Spanish wasn't as fluid as that of the voice that had awakened him. He pondered a moment, rubbing the scar tissue in his side that sometimes pained him into wakefulness. Nothing hurt tonight. He looked at Jessie again, curled in a ball around her ripe belly.

A chill went down his spine. Six little beans! Amparo!

He slowly lay back, careful not to touch Jessie. "Not fair," he whispered, then repeated the thought in Spanish for his dead wife's benefit. "My livin' wife needs me now," he added.

"I live," she told him. "Solamente you cannot see me."

He let out a stuttering breath that seemed to come from his toes. "Te amo siempre." Afraid to wake Jessie, he moved the conversation back into his thoughts. I'll love you forever. You know that.

Here I am not your wife. I am soltera. Alone. Did you not make a promise to yourself? To me? To your God?

That's all I've got. Now leave me alone for a while, James. I have to sleep!

Ben Owen follows the rainbow

Shortly after I posted a video on Facebook of the gully washer we had yesterday, I sat on my deck to enjoy the cool air. I'm not sure if I nodded off or what, but when I raise my head and open my eyes, a young man sits across the table from me.

He notes my alarm and hastens to assure me that he means no harm, calling me "Mom," and saying he is Benjamin Owen.

I should have known him right off, although he hadn't come visiting before now. He resembles his younger brother, Carl. Or maybe I have that turned around, and should say Carl looks like Ben.

When my breathing regularizes, I become curious about the reason for Ben's visit. Usually, my characters come to urge me to tell their story, but I'm in the midst of doing just that with Rulon Owen, and to a lesser degree, with Ben.

Me: I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Ben.

Ben (eyeing me speculatively): Are you now, Mom?

Me: Indeed.

Ben: Rulon's gettin' the bulk of the words you write. Sometimes I feel a mite cast aside.

Me: This is the first draft, Ben, and I'm jumping around a lot, and writing out-of-order scenes with this novel. Be patient.

Ben (squirming a bit in his chair): I ain't a patient man. Ella Ruth can attest to that.

Me (arching an eyebrow in my best imitation of Randolph Hilbrands): You're much like Rulon in that area. You take care. I don't want to add a tragic subplot about an unwed mother.

Ben (rising to his feet): Unwed mother! I wouldn't-- Well, I'm sorely tempted, but I'd druther not face Ma's fury on that head. She would flail the skin off my bones, she would.

Me (signaling him to be seated): Then control your passions. Don't meet the girl in private. Keep to crowds when she's with you.

Ben: That wasn't my idea, there behind the mill. She crept up on me. Surprised me.

Me: Don't let it happen again.

Ben (hanging his head): She makes it difficult. A body would think, well, it would almost appear she . . . (his voice trails off)

Me: Ben, she's more than a little bit spoiled. She expects to get anything she desires. (I look pointedly at him.) She desires you, but wrapped around her little finger and doing her utmost bidding.

Ben: I get that same feeling, ma'am. I recall that speech she spoke me about the suit she expects me to wear for her dream weddin'! I can't afford such outlandish trappings, nor would I buy them if I could. But ma'am, Mom, how my body does betray me whenever I get a whiff of that good-smellin' perfume she wears!

Me: Benjamin, you must strive to be the good Christian gentleman your mother raised you up to be. Strong. Mannerly. Celibate. (I stress my final word.)

Ben (groans): Ma does have her standards. (He looks at me searchingly.) Did Rulon--

Me: No, he didn't. I expect you to be the consummate Southern gentleman, as well. I have my standards, too.

Ben (seeming to grit his teeth between halting phrases): Then I will . . . give my most . . . fervent efforts toward that end, Mom.

Me: You will keep yourself in hand?

Ben: Help me. Don't let Ella Ruth, ah, ambush me again.

Me (quirking an eyebrow): Fervent efforts, Ben. Fervent efforts.

The sun comes out, and he's gone.

Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward

*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they pass under the rainbow from time to time to visit me in my own time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com or Westward Books.

Research, Writing, and Visual Cues

When it comes to writing novels, I don't follow a strict progression of tasks. Let me explain.

• Some writers do all their research before they write the first creative word.
• Some writers do quite a bit of research to get a solid overview before they begin writing, then continue to research while they write, as they discover they need specific details.
• Some writers make it all up, without any need for research.

Because I write historical novels, I need to do research, so I don't fall into the third group of writers.

I don't always know what I need to know when I begin a project, so I can't research everything before I write. Therefore, I don't belong in the first category, either.

I'm among those in the middle category above: I get the background covered, start writing, then fill in the gaps when they come along. I think of this as first, using the shotgun approach, then using a rifle to target the specifics.

Once I've identified certain facts, I find that I need constant reminders of them. I'm afflicted with ADHD, remember?

Because I am a visual-learner, I depend on visual cues to remember these key items as I write the current novel. I make several charts or graphs, which are actually poster-board sheets I hang on my walls or attach to the front door with magnets. These sheets have various types of information on them.

One sheet shows a column with a rough timeline of the major battles of the eastern theater of the Civil War. My characters are not much concerned with the war battles west of Virginia. A column on the rest of the page notes how my characters were impacted by these events. I should have used more space on the timeline side, as the second column needs more room. Oh well.

Another sheet reminds me of which military units are aggregated to make up larger units, that is: company > regiment > brigade > division > corps > army. I hope I got that right, as I'm not looking at the sheet.

A third sheet shows the configuration and changes there-to of the eastern fighting forces of the Confederacy. The death of major commanders often meant the entire army got reorganized. As units received casualties, they often were combined. New regiments were raised and places found for them.

My intent isn't to document these changes, but to show where they impact my characters. You see, I have assigned most of my characters to actual historical Civil War units. In only one case have I chosen to create a bogus cavalry company.

If Character A started out in actual Company Z of Regiment 1 of the infantry, and his unit was wiped out and combined with another after Battle 100, he might write home about it. If his Company didn't actually participate in a certain battle, I can't write a scene showing him in the heat of the fray.

Alas, I discovered I need to dump a scene I wrote before I learned that a character's historical unit wasn't at First Manassas. Part of the problem came about because I hadn't isolated the company he would join before I wrote the scene. I knew his regiment was in the battle, so I assumed my character's company would be. Only after I picked the company in which he would enlist did I learn that, for whatever reason, it hadn't been on the field of battle. Erk!

I know all this sounds like an awful lot of work. To be truthful, it is! However, my method makes it possible for me to function at least halfway like a human being, and to let loose the stories rolling around in my head. That's worth the extra work!

Let me know if you think the stories are worth the pain, or if I am just too weird for this world.

Rulon Owen Visits Me Again

I decided to take a power nap after a very edifying, but exhausting, weekend. As I dozed, Rulon Owen showed up. I let him in the door, seated him, and performed the amenities. He wasn't interested in food or drink.

Me: Should you be here?

Rulon (his face coloring): Perhaps not, but I won't stay long. I need to give you my thanks for beginnin' my tale. It is . . . easier now to go on.

Me (studying his face): You are going to have a hard time over the next few years.

Rulon: Years? It won't take years to give the Yankees their comeuppance!

Me: I live now. I know a few things.

Rulon: Hmm. You have a point. (He seems abashed.)

Me: I will bring you through it, but expect hard things.

Rulon: Thank you for the warning words. (He tilts his head.) I am a mite chagrinned to see myself as you see me.

Me (not sure if I should grin or not. Thinking better of it.): You're young and strong, and have plenty of vitality.

Rulon (quirking an eyebrow): I am a lustful dog.

Me (tilting my head): That too. I hope getting married helped.

Rulon (mouth twitching. I don't know whether to expect a frown, or what. Finally, he chooses to share a huge grin.): It did.

Me: Good. Now go to war. Get that out of your system.

Rulon: You make it seem like a rite of passage.

Me: In a way, it is. You'll be fine, but don't expect it to be easy, you hear?

Rulon (sobering): You will take care of Mary?

Me (nodding): I will. (I rise to my feet, not knowing where Mary is waiting, not wanting her to wait long.) Expect hard times.

Rulon (rising, his face cautious): You've said that four times, now. You won't tell me details?

Me: No. Go back to your wife. Your time with her now is short.

Rulon. Don't I know it! Thank you, Mom.

And he's gone.

Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward

*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they pass under the rainbow from time to time to visit me in my own time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.

Harry or Ezra: The Problem of Minor Characters

I'm in the final stages of creating a new print edition for The Man from Shenandoah. As I was checking my personal copy of the first version for places I had marked that had errors of one type or another, such as a typographical error, misspelled word, point-of-view mistake, and the like, I came across a startling fact with vital importance to the story I'm writing now, but that's issue is for another post. The most important issue was a name that caught my eye, after I had created the portable document file (pdf) version to upload to CreateSpace. I stopped work as though I had been struck by lightning, and did not upload the pdf.

It was the name of a minor character. He'll never be a major character. He'll never have a book of his own. Why did his name strike me with such intensity that I put off the upload until I had a moment to do more research?

Because I was not sure if the name was correct.

You see, I remembered that I had changed it in the past. I knew at one point I had called him Ezra, if only on the character card bearing the names of his brothers and sisters. I had to be absolutely sure the name showing up in the new print edition of The Man from Shenandoah was the same name he'd carried in Spinster's Folly, or any other place he'd appeared in the "Owen Family Saga."

I've finished my research, and it shows that this young squirt carried the name "Harry" in Spinster's Folly as well as in the original print copy of The Man from Shenandoah. His name changed to Ezra in the ebook version, though.

[Marsha heaves a huge sigh]

I'll have to fix that sometime, but I won't rush right out and do it today. With a cast of hundreds of characters in "The Owen Family Saga," it's not a terribly important blemish, although it does raise a rash on my internal editor.

The upshot of this research expedition is that even minor characters can cause problems for a writer if the writer is inconsistent in keeping track of the masses. Harry Ezra Morgan, you're a snot-nosed little troublemaker!
~~~

Have you ever come across a name change in a novel as you're reading it? Did it irritate you, or spoil the story in your mind? Or were you compassionate and forgiving to the harried author?

Tell me what you think about typos and other errors in printed or electronic books. How do they color your reading experience?

Thank you!

Rulon Owen is a sentimental fellow

I wrote a paragraph on Monday that might find its way into Gone for A Soldier. As you can tell, it's part of a letter:

My heart hangs heavy in my bosom today. As I listened to the meloncholy music of a comrade playin’ the tune "Lorena" on his banjo, another fellow started in singin’ the words. My dear Mary, I about fell to weepin’. These days have been long and burdensome, and many of our comrades have fallen. I long for the day when I can return to your sweet embrace.

Rulon

It will have more to it, of course, but has possibilities. I'm just excited that it came to me and I wrote it down.

Rulon Owen is Not a Patient Man

I'm outside, slogging through the snow to the garbage can I've stashed on the other side of the road for the winter so I don't have to move it back and forth during periods when the half-dollar size granite rocks are covered ankle-deep with snow. Truth be told, I don't like to trundle the bin over the granite rocks, either. Good thing the cross-road neighbors don't visit very often, I think, hauling my plastic bags by their pull ties to the black monstrosity.

"Looks like you could use a hand," someone behind me says in a deep voice, causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

I whirl around the best I can with two heavy bags impeding my pirouette. My heart pounds as hard as it did the last time someone told me Sean Connery had fallen to his death from a crag in New Zealand.

A grey-hatted man sits astride a reddish horse that nickers softly, its breath streaming from its nostrils like steam escaping from a broken pipe. I back up as the man swings down from the saddle and drops the reins to ground-tie the animal.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice quavering ever so slightly. I don't tote a firearm with me when I take out the garbage. Maybe that should change.

"Mom," he says, relieving me of first one bag, then the other. "You've met me. You should know me by now."

I'm a bit rattled by his choice of words. My sons call me "Mom" in just that impatient tone of voice, making more than one syllable out of the word.

My mind is jumping from one compartment of my brain to another, rattling the filing cabinet drawers I jerk open as I search for clues to help me remember this man.

"I'm younger," he says, turning away from me to study the garbage bin.

Cole? Bob? John? Jim? No. He doesn't resemble the outlaw Younger brothers. My gosh, who is he? I'm beginning to slip into fear.

He sets the bags on the ground and bends his head sideways to examine the lip of the black lid. He raises an arm to test it. Discovering that it moves, he thrusts it upward, and the lid flies back. He chuckles. I'm moving backward, puzzled by his actions. He picks up the bags, chucks them in the bin, closes the lid, and turns to me, dusting his hands together.

"Them parcels have a slippery feel, but the keg is harder. What do you call that material?"

When he raises his hand to tilt back his hat, I finally know him.

"Rulon," I exhale. Rod Owen's oldest boy, and he's much more boyish looking than the man I'd met a couple of years ago. "Plastic. They are both made of plastic, but different types."

"Humph," he snorts. "Plastic."

"You'd best come inside," I tell him, glancing at the horse, and wondering if it's better to tie it to the rail of the back-door deck or the ramp's railing. The back door is locked, but I don't want the horse destroying my Heat Trak electric mat, so I settle for a third choice, the railing on the covered deck closest to the shed. That will hide the animal sufficiently that someone won't come along and elect to take a joy-ride.

Rulon ties the horse where I tell him to, then wipes off his boots before entering my living room.

"Sit down and take your ease," I say, lapsing into a genteel Civil War-era-matron persona. "May I get you a refreshment?" I mentally go over the contents of my refrigerator and cupboards. "I can offer you water, mint tea, pineapple juice...." I stop as his brow contorts in confusion. "Never mind the pineapple juice. How about hot chocolate?" I shiver. "That seems a good choice. I also have a loaf cake."

Rulon sits, perched uneasily on the edge of my chair. "I believe I've tasted that 'hot chocolate' somewhere. Don't it take quite a time to brew it?"

I think of the luxury we have in our time. Instant beverages from a foil package. "No, this is special," I say. "It won't take very long. Will you take cake, as well?"

"I reckon," he says. "Thank you, Mom."

I leave him alone, knowing he's not even going to offer to assist me in preparing the repast. That is a woman's work, and Rulon is decidedly not a woman.

He's more handsome than I had remembered, full of face and not worn down by privation. He wasn't cautious in moving his body. "He hasn't been hit by shrapnel yet," I whisper, the truth dawning on me. This is the pre-war Rulon.

When I enter the room again, carrying a tray with cups of hot chocolate and plates of cake, I notice he's fidgeting, flicking one thumbnail with the other and biting his lower lip. I set down the tray and serve him. 

He samples the chocolate, but it's hot and he blows on it.

"Tell me about the family," I say. I want to know the timeline I'm dealing with.

"Ma and Pa are well. Brother Ben's got himself a job at the mill." He grinned. "He's sparkin' Ella Ruth Meems. Figures to marry her right soon." He sips at the beverage.

My heart contracts, squeezing hard. I don't know Ella Ruth. I imagine I'll get to know her this year, probably too intimately for comfort.

"And you?" I manage to ask, forcing my lips into a smile. "You're getting long in the tooth and not wed yet."

"I am not," he sputters. "I mean, I aim to marry, just as soon..." His voice fades as his head drops. He tries to mask his chagrin by chugging the chocolate, but it's still hot, and he sputters anew, then coughs.

I hand him a tissue. He looks at it coldly, then sets his drink down on the table and wipes his mouth. He nibbles at the cake.

"Rulon, are you seeing someone?"

"Yes!" He barks the word. "Yes," he repeats, and breathes heavily. "I come to ask you to get on with writin' my tale." 

He's rushing his words now, spilling them out so fast I feel obliged to stop him, but I can't, not yet.

"I'm forbidden to wed her until you write out the words and make it real. I can scarcely stand this waiting, waiting, everlasting waiting. She won't let me--"

"Rulon!" I cut him off. "You can't do that."

He's breathing hard now, nearly gasping with pain. His yearning is almost palpable, his drive to possess filling my room with the musk of desire, and I won't tolerate the dark aspect of his need.

"Get yourself in hand! Of course she won't permit you taking liberties. She's only a bit of a girl, and doesn't realize how she's pushing you to your limit."

"You know that?" he groans and narrows his brows as he gazes at me. "You know her?" He moves one leg awkwardly.

I acknowledge his distress. "I think you'd best stay the night here. I'll call my neighbor about sheltering your horse."

He slumps forward, nerveless, and I am glad he has set down the chocolate. "I'm a cur," he whispers, then groans again.

"No, you're a young man full of yourself. It will do you good to be removed from Mary for a while."

He shuts his eyes and compresses his lips, then nods slowly. "I'll stop here for the night, on one condition." He looks up at me, his eyes full of challenge. "You have to start writin' down the words."

Now it's my turn to nod. "I'll begin inside of a month."

Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward


*This is a work of fiction. I don't really talk to time-traveling characters from my novels. I do like them a lot, though, and am glad they pass under the rainbow from time to time to visit me in my own time and place. To order autographed copies of my novels, The Man from Shenandoah, Ride to Raton, Trail of Storms, and Spinster's Folly, visit my website at marshaward.com.

Something more to enjoy from Spinster's Folly

The course of writing a novel doesn't always progress on one continuous, straight path. Sometimes, you might be running along, working on Chapter 14, and a character speaks up with a tidbit of information that has to go into Chapter 2. That means a detour is in order, so you must jog over to a trail that takes you back to that place in the story so you can put it in. Then, while you're returning to the place where you left off, you might notice a character waving his arms at you to get your attention for a scene that has to be written in Chapter 9.

It doesn't always happen this way, even to the same author writing another novel, but it happens often enough that one has to be prepared to accept the delay, instead of being dismayed when such a thing does occur.

With that explanation, let me offer part of a scene that Julia Owen demanded that I write for Chapter 2.
~~~

Feeling the overwhelming fatigue brought on by two days of mourning, Julia Owen only half listened to her husband tell her his plan to leave early Thursday morning on a three-day journey to sell beeves. Getting to sleep was of higher importance than staying awake until Rod ran out of steam, turned on his side, and began to snore. She hoped this was not a night when Rod felt amorous. She had barely been able to go through the motions of her chores today, and had no strength left to spare for her husband's needs.

Then a question worked its way into the forefront of her mind. She opened one eye, waited for Rod to take a breath, and asked, "Why are you herding cows down to Chester Bates this week? I recall his letter made an offer to trade them for wheat. He won't be harvestin' for a month or more."

"I have a pressing matter to take up in that country, and I reckon it won't wait until then." Rod scratched his chest above the neck of his nightshirt. "I figure I may as well make one trip as two. Chester will bring us the wheat."

She whispered, "If you're goin' after James, that's entirely the wrong direction." Pain at the unexpected loss of her son made her body quiver.

"I know that, woman." Rod's voice had taken on the soft gruff tone he used in tender moments when he felt vulnerable.

Annoyance that he didn't expand his answer drove Julia to shift her weight, rise on her elbow, and open both eyes to stare down at him. "What aren't you tellin' me?"

After a long moment, Rod turned his eyes away and said, "I have an errand."

"Roderick Owen, don't you be speakin' nonsense to me. What errand takes you away from work at this season?"

When his hand flew to his head, she barked at him, "Don't be a-worryin' that scab or it won't never heal. What's the truth?"

"It's a little errand for Marie," he admitted, tucking his hand under the covers.

"Marie?" Surprised, Julia almost missed Rod's failure to explain himself further. When she had gathered her wits sufficiently to notice his silence, she poked him in the ribs. "What business does the girl have in the Cuchara country?"

Rod sighed. "She accused me of neglecting her welfare. She wants a husband."

"No!" Julia sat up.

"She made it plain she's woman-grown and expects me to get her one."

She looked at Rod. "You're not--"

Rod cut her off. "She said young Tom is twenty. I had no notion he'd got to that age."

Julia shook her head and sighed in turn. "Your matchmaking has an ill reputation." She sank back onto the bed. "Does she have her cap set for Tom Morgan?"

Rod shifted one of his legs. "I've had him in mind for years."

"I asked does Marie want him?"

He shifted the other leg. "She didn't say me nay." After another long pause, he continued, "I'll know more when I get the two in the same room."

"What?" Julia sat up again, her back stiff.

"Julie, shh."

"You're takin' my daughter down country with a passel of cows?"
~~~

Copyright 2012 Marsha Ward

I hope you enjoyed this little digression. The novel is coming along well, with over 75% written. I'm lining up "beta readers," who will each give the finished manuscript the once over, and offer me suggestions for places that need beefing up, or toning down, or deleting altogether. In the meantime, I have a cover designer working with me on the novel's cover, which is going to be spectacular. When it's all put together, I'll launch Spinster's Folly with a Book Blog Tour and other fun stuff.

Thank you for visiting. If you wish, please leave me a comment. Every writer needs feedback!

I wrote a new scene today

No, I'm not going to post this one or I'll lose my flow. I just wanted to let y'all know I'm writing and not sluffing off.

A Big Brother's Role

I'm skipping back to Chapter 3 of Spinster's Folly to explore the role of a big brother in a girl's life. Here's a fragment where Marie's oldest brother, Rulon, fills his role perfectly:

After she had eaten and cleaned up, Marie prepared her bed at the foot of a tree, and then sat on her quilt for a while, her back against the trunk. Rulon strolled over and squatted beside her.

"You all set here?" He picked at his teeth with a flayed willow twig.

"Yes sir. Almost as comfy as my bed at home." She hugged herself. "I reckon I'll sleep after a bit. I can't bring myself to close my eyes yet."

"It's a pretty night," he said, looking at the stars. When he looked at Marie again, he tilted his head to one side. "Are you sore, Sis? You've been in the saddle for a long stretch, and you're not used to the sort of work you've been doin' today."

Marie smiled wryly. "You caught me out, didn't you? I'm also burned and windblown and flybitten. I'll make a handsome prize for Tom Morgan."

"No, Sis," Rulon said, drawing out the initial vowel as he shook his head. "You're a beauty despite a tad bit of sunburn. Tom Morgan's a fool if he won't see that tomorrow."

Marie rolled her eyes. "Big brothers always say such dainty things."

"The truth ain't a dainty thing." Rulon smiled. "Granted I'm your big brother, and I might be a mite partial to you, but there's no denyin' you're a gem of a woman, Marie. You stand the competition on their noses, girl."

Marie couldn't help but laugh.

"There now." He patted her hand. "That's what I like to hear."

"Rulon, who do you reckon is my competition?"

"Just a figure of speech, Sis. There is no competition that stands up to you."

"There is no competition at all. I'm the only girl left single hereabouts." Marie ducked her head so Rulon wouldn't see hopelessness in her eyes.

He put two fingers under her chin, raised her face, and looked at her for a long time. "Marie. That is an unfortunate circumstance. You are worth more than any three girls back home. Don't forget that. Not ever."

Marie hoped the deepening darkness prevented Rulon from seeing the tears that suddenly caused her vision to swim. "That's sweet of you to say," she whispered, catching his hand. "No wonder Mary thinks the sun rises and sets on you."

Now Rulon ducked his head. "Go on!"

"I reckon I think that, too, Big Brother." She pushed him on the shoulder. "I'm sleepy now. You needn't watch over me tonight."

He touched her on the tip of her nose. "That's what big brothers are for." He got to his feet. "Good night, Sis."

"Good night, Rulon."

If you have a big brother or big brother surrogate who has always protected you in a pinch, what have you done to pay back his affection and concern? If you haven't made that overture yet, isn't it time to do so?

I just dropped the price...

on The Owen Family Saga Sampler.

Although it's quite a nice collection, it is, after all, a sampler, with three chapters each from the first three books of the Saga, and a bonus chapter from book four, Spinster's Folly. Therefore, I've reduced the price from $2.99 to $.99 on both Smashwords.com and Amazon.com. The catch?

There are two: 

I may not keep the price this low forever.

Amazon's price change process is not instantaneous. It takes them up to 48 hours to make the adjustment. Smashwords, though, has already changed the price on its site, so don't wait. Get thee over to their site, buy The Owen Family Saga Sampler, and get yourself introduced to that fabled Owen Family from the Shenandoah.

In the meantime, I'll continue my recovery from unplanned surgery so I can finish the fourth book.

UPDATE:

Amazon has changed the price, so go there, if it's more convenient for your KINDLE purchasing.

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?

In Honor of Valentine's Day

And as a part of the * Romance blogfest here, I'm posting a scene from my first novel, The Man from Shenandoah, where Carl Owen gets his first look at Ellen Bates since he returned from service in the Civil War. I've edited it slightly to make it a bit more accessible to first-time readers:

Carl Owen turned his horse off the main road toward his brother Rulon’s house. The sun had come out bright and strong, and it felt good and warm on his back. He grinned as he recalled his conversation with his father. “Hush, we’re going west.”

As he reached the corner, Carl saw a group of mounted men dashing up the cross street in front of him. Panic rose in his throat and sqeezed it shut as he recognized the Yankee patrol that had jumped him and beat him when he'd been on his way home from the war. He wheeled his horse to find a place of concealment. Then he realized where he was, turned the horse again, and tried to calm his pounding heart. The soldiers were probably racing through the streets of Mount Jackson to make a ruckus, and he felt foolish to be caught in their trap.

“Easy, boy,” he told his horse. “It ain’t likely they’ll take after me in town.”

The Yankees drew up at the far end of the street, then turned and started back to town. As they thundered toward him, Carl noticed a young girl opposite him, evidently trying to decide whether to cross. She hesitated a moment, then bolted out into the street. In the middle, she looked around at the approaching soldiers, tripped, and fell into the road.

Without thinking, Carl spurred his horse into the street, leaned out from his saddle, and plucked the arising girl from the muck. The horse carried them across the road while the Yankees whooped and whistled as they rushed by, venting their disappointment. Carl got down the street, turned a corner, then pulled up, set the girl on her feet and slid from the saddle.

“Hush my mouth! That was the foolest thing I ever seen a body do!” Carl made no attempt to stop the hot words from tumbling out of his mouth. He glared at the girl, standing in the street with her chin up and her eyes flashing, auburn hair disheveled, the front of her clothes mud-caked and dripping. “You surely could have been killed, and that’s a fact! You keep clear away from that gang of Yankees, you hear? Darn fool girl, anyhow.” He remounted and left her standing there, pridefully biting back tears of relief. Then he rode away, shaking mud and slime off his arm, and muttering to himself.

Love at first sight . . . or not so much?

*Since I'm not exactly sure my existing published novel qualifies under the rules, I'm not making a whole lot about this post. However, I hope you enjoy it.

Happy New Year!

To all my readers and friends: May this New Year bring much happiness and fulfillment into your lives.

From Marsha, the Owen Family, and all their friends.

USA BOOK NEWS ANNOUNCES WINNERS AND FINALISTS OF THE “BEST BOOKS 2010” AWARDS

Mainstream & Independent Titles Score Top Honors in the 7th Annual “Best Books” Awards

LOS ANGELES – USABookNews.com, the premiere online magazine and review website for mainstream and independent publishing houses, announced the winners and finalists of THE “BEST BOOKS 2010” AWARDS (BBA) on October 26, 2010. Over 500 winners and finalists were announced in over 140 categories covering print and audio books. Awards were presented for titles published in 2010 and late 2009.

Trail of Storms by Marsha Ward (iUniverse) was named the Finalist in the Western Fiction category.

USABookNews.com is an online publication providing coverage for books from mainstream and independent publishers to the world online community.