Sample Saturday - New Project

I have so many ideas running around in my head that sometimes I am compelled to write parts of the bones of one idea or another down. Yesterday, May 3, 2017, marked the beginning of the writing for a piece of fiction (short story, novella, novel?) featuring a younger son of the Owen Family, Clayton, or Clay for short.

In truth, it's not the first I've thought of what to do with the idea of having one of the Owens go to California to start a horse ranch. Two or three years ago, I wrote a short story in which just such a place is mentioned. That piece was publishing in--of all places--an anthology of boxing stories. I plan to publish it as a stand-alone story later this year.

As I mulled over how to place some Owen family members on the ranch, at first I thought it would be a continuation of James's story. We all know how much he loves working with horses. Then, since Rulon's son, Roddy, popped up in the final moments of the aforementioned short story, with the ranch on his lips, I thought it would be Rulon who moved to California.

But no.

It is someone else's turn.

I have figured out the timeline and know a few things that must happen to establish that ranch. And how Roddy gets there. Now the story must stand in line for its turn to be written. I have two or three other pieces of fiction that must be completed first.

But I will share some of what I wrote yesterday. Behold! An Adventure with Clay Owen (and that most certainly is not the title!).

--Copyright Marsha Ward--

Clayton Owen paced the floor of the rustic cabin. One yellow pine board squeaked under his feet each time he trod upon it. Pa needed to get another nail in that one. He drew up, facing the small window with the prairie view and leaned heavily on the sill. The sun had slipped behind the mountain to his back, but the light persisted still.

He turned. Pa sat rigidly in his chair, white knuckles gripping the wooden arms. Ma knitted in her chair, the click of her needles as she fashioned the blue wool into a garment now the only sound above Clay's harsh breathing. Her eyes were on her work. She would not intervene.

"I want to learn the skill. It's only two years."

"You're able enough at the forge. You don't need to apprentice to the blacksmith."

"Horseshoes! I can make horseshoes. I need to know more, Pa."

"How can I spare you for two years? Rulon and Carl are all I've got to help me."

Clay approached his father and knelt before the chair. He laid his hands on the backs of his father's. "You have Bertie. You have Henry and the rest of the hands. You can get by without me for two years."

--Copyright Marsha Ward--

I hope you enjoyed this little Sample. Stay tuned for further bits and pieces as I get back to writing fiction.

Advice for Writers: Write the Book

By Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

The first step to getting a book published is to write it. Here's an encouraging excerpt about that from my new book for writers, The Checklist: Indie Publishing My Way.

The essential step in publishing a book is writing it. Yeah. That. This step will take however long it does, but the sooner you develop habits that help you move forward—without an internal editor on your shoulder to make you write, rewrite, polish, and re-polish Chapter 1—the better. It doesn't matter whether or not you own the most popular writer's software out there, or if you write your 1st draft using Word, Open Office, Pages, or Notepad. The point is to push through and finish the draft, because you can't publish a book that isn't finished.

On my checklist, I allow two to three months for writing. Sometimes I hit it, and sometimes I don't, Because Life. Happens. Did I mention that I have a condition known as ADHD? That's Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. A great many creative people—or Creatives, for short—suffer from this malady in its various forms. The condition is difficult to deal with, but all challenges can be overcome (or so I keep telling myself).

Here's a Truth that you must remember: every writer writes differently. In other words, there is no One True Way to write. Don't let anyone fool you into thinking that their method for writing is the only method of writing.

The corollary to the Truth is that every writer may write each book differently. Okay, I don't want to scare you or introduce unneeded stress into your life, so I won't say much more about that. Just realize that you may need to write a second book using a different method. No stressing about it, okay? Just get this book finished.

Writers write using methods that string along a spectrum that ranges from Plotter at one end to Pantser at the other. Where you may fall on this spectrum (and it probably will shift from time to time and book to book) depends on how your brain is wired. Plotters feel a compulsion to know everything that will happen in a book, so they plot it out, using outlines of varying degrees of exactitude and comprehensiveness. Pantsers (the name comes from the term "writing-by-the-seat-of-your-pants") are also called organic or discovery writers. They want to write the story and discover what happens as their fingers work on the keyboard. You'd be surprised how many top authors are Pantsers. Really surprised.

Pantsers often are stymied by complete outlines. For example, if I write so little as a synopsis of a book, my brain says, "Well, look there, you've written the story. You don't need me anymore," and it shuts down and refuses to cooperate with me in writing a first draft.

There is so much danger in this state of affairs that I cannot plot out a book. I can only figure out who the main character is, a vague estimate of where the book could end, and maybe a couple or three things I hope will happen along the way. I usually know when and where the story will be set, and maybe what the "inciting incident" or "change in the character's life" is. Beyond that, I have to let my mind direct my fingers when I write.

The process is really kind of cool.

That doesn't mean it's your process. It's mine. And it can change. Slightly.

Different books I've written have called for different degrees of foreknowledge, so I have ranged a bit from the Pantser end toward the Plotter end, but never so much that my brain turned off.

Go with what works for you in writing your book, but do go forward.

The Checklist: Indie Publishing My Way is now available for only $4.99 on the sites of all major ebook vendors:

Kindle | NOOK | Kobo | Apple iBooks | Smashwords 

Coming soon in Print!

Behind the Scenes: Discovery

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

I'm so relieved to discover that the Characters in My Head are not dead! They're talking to me again.

Maybe they aren't the characters for the book I thought I was supposed to write, but these are just as important.

I've also discovered some names in my pretend genealogy, revealed as I wrote this morning. Finding out the names of Rod Owen's parents is almost as exciting as finding my own ancestors!

Rulon Peter Owen married Nellie Marie Yancey. Their only surviving child is Roderick Owen. I don't know yet if he has a middle name, but his son, Rulon, does.

I knew the name began with S, for that was revealed to me as I wrote Gone for a Soldier, when Rulon signed his name in a letter to his wife, Mary. A couple of days ago, I learned that his middle name is Scow, the surname of his maternal grandmother, Phoebe Scow Helm.

I know. All this sounds really freaky. This is part of the discovery process of some writers when they dig deep into their characters' lives. It's really quite thrilling to us, and not spooky at all.

Now go read a good book this weekend. May I suggest my latest full-length novel, The Zion Trail? Someone just posted on my Facebook profile that she's finishing up reading it. Oh, she said such lovely things that make my knees quake and my heart beat faster! Here's a part: "Great read. Wonderful history. Endearing characters. Better and better with each turned page."

You may purchase The Zion Trail in ebook formats or in print:

The Zion Trail

$3.99 for ebooks; $12.99 for print books
Ebooks: Smashwords | Kindle | Nook | Kobo | Apple iBooks Store  

Print books: CreateSpace | Amazon | Barnes and Noble

Sample Saturday - Mended by Moonlight

Hi! Welcome back to Sample Saturday. I've been able to get my main character, Ella Ruth Owen, to talk to me again. Good thing! Mended by Moonlight is on my publishing schedule for this year.

Ella Ruth has gotten herself a paying position at a convalescent hospital in Charlottesville, Virginia, and she starts the job today!
~~~

"What on earth have I gotten myself into?" Ella Ruth whispered to herself the next morning as she debated on what a "Matron" would wear in a Yankee hospital. She began to pace the room, attired only in her shift. Nothing came to mind. The doctor had given her no instructions, no advisement at all except for an arrival time. If she didn't solve her attire dilemma soon, she would be late. She was already cold. Heaven forbid she should start to shiver before she even left the house.

Lula stood patiently at the open door of the wardrobe, silently awaiting her direction.

Ella Ruth turned and strode toward Lula, whose eyebrows had raised expectantly in the last few moments. The girl would soon give an exasperated huff and adopt a less restrained attitude. Ella Ruth threw up her hands.

"What do I wear," she asked. "I have no experience of Yankee hospitals."

"Your uncle, Doctor Allen, he didn't complain none when you wore your ordinary dresses," Lula said, her expression starting to harden.

"All right. All right," Ella Ruth conceded. "Find me something."

When Lula touched the skirt of the gingham dress Momma brought into her room last week, a purple gingham dress sprigged with white flowers, Ella Ruth burst out, "No!" and then took a breath and thought better of railing at her servant. "It's not warm enough," she said in a more moderate tone. That was true enough. Momma meant for her to wear it come spring.

Lula had the temerity to grin. "I's joking with you, Missy. Here's your old wool skirt, plenty good for the Yankees and with wear enough in it for the whole winter."

Ella Ruth nodded, not sure whether she should be outraged or thankful that Lula could dredge up a sense of humor for the occasion. The black skirt would suit. She could wear the black bodice from yesterday, as well.

"I reckon you'll want this apron, Missy," Lula said as she held up a very large white number that surely came out of Cook's wardrobe.

"Where did you get that?"

Lula chuckled. "Cook has three. She won't miss this one."

Ella Ruth felt her nerves settling. Of course she should wear a protective garment over her clothing. Who knew what she would encounter at the hospital? Soiled bandages always made a mess, and if any of the Yankees suffered from illness instead of wounds, there might be more unpleasantness to face.

"Thank you, Lula," she said, and her shoulders relaxed. She gave her head a tentative shake. No pain. Perhaps hard work was to be the cure for her headaches.
~~~

While you're waiting to find out how Ella Ruth's first day on the job goes, be sure to pick up a copy of my latest novel, The Zion Trail:

The Zion Trail

$3.99 for ebooks; $12.99 for print books
Ebooks: Smashwords | Kindle | Nook | Kobo | Apple iBooks Store  

Print books: CreateSpace | Amazon | Barnes and Noble

And here's the newest piece to read, my novella, Blood at Haught Springs:

Available as an Ebook only
$2.99 at the following online retail outlets:
Smashwords all formats | Kindle | Nook | Kobo | Apple iTunes Bookstore

Sample Saturday - May 7, 2016, Mended by Moonlight

Welcome to Sample Saturday. I'm sharing this week from my work-in-progress (WIP), Mended by Moonlight.

Ella Ruth's mother has arranged a consultation for Ella Ruth with a physician at the new soldier's hospital to investigate the cause of her persistent headaches. Unfortunately, Momma delayed telling Ella Ruth about the appointment until the day she was to appear.

Of course, this has resulted in "words" being exchanged between the two women.
~~~

Mended by Moonlight

"It will do you good to take a drive in the fresh air," Momma said.

"The cold air, you mean."

"Bracing air. You've been indoors too much, my dear."

"All right. I'll go, if Thomas may drive me. There's no need for you to put yourself out to accompany me," Ella Ruth said, and went to get her heavy cloak without waiting for her mother's agreement.

During the buggy trip, Ella Ruth sat stiffly beside the elderly servant, glad for the lap robe that prevented him from seeing how tightly her hands were clasped together. Where are my steady nerves? Did they leave me when Ben died? So far today, her head had not tormented her. She hoped the physician would conclude that if she were allowed to mourn in peace, the headaches would disappear.

When Thomas turned the horse into the drive to the hospital, Ella Ruth saw that a comfortable sum of money had been expended to construct the buildings. Where did they get the money? she wondered. Surely the Union is as bankrupt as we are from the expenses of the war.

Thomas drove up to the largest building, halted the horse, and carefully alighted from the seat to help Ella Ruth down from the buggy. She told Thomas to stay with the horse, took a deep breath to steel herself, and walked through the front door.

Inside, light played on white walls of a small, empty vestibule. She pulled a bit of paper from her reticule and pushed through another door to encounter a hallway where a young man with no arm to fill his pinned-up left sleeve strolled past the door.

"Excuse me," she said, embarrassed to hear how timid her voice sounded.

The young man turned toward her and inclined his head slightly. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Might you inform me where Doctor . . ." She consulted the paper in her hand. "Where I might find Dr. Marshall?"

"Are you the new Matron?"

"Um, I-- I have a consultation arranged with the doctor." She twisted the paper between her hands, disconcerted by the man's direct gaze.

"Ah. He'll be in the wards this time of day." He gestured toward a set of double doors on the right. "It would be more proper if you waited in his office. That's down the other way, the last door on the left."

"Thank you, you're most kind," she said to the first Yankee soldier she'd seen since Ben died. "I'll wait."

She turned away and fled down the corridor. She badly needed to sit.
~~~

I hope everything will go well at the consultation for Ella Ruth. Do you think the doctor will be able to discover the cause of the headaches?

While we're waiting to find out, pick up a copy of my new novel, The Zion Trail:

The Zion Trail

 $3.99 for ebooks; $12.99 for print books
ebooks: Smashwords | Kindle | Nook | Kobo | Apple iBooks Store print books: CreateSpace | Amazon | Barnes and Noble

Sample Saturday: Mended by Moonlight 2

Welcome to Sample Saturday. This tidbit is from my work-in-progress (WIP), Mended by Moonlight. Ella Ruth has suffered a nightmare.
~~~

"I'm not subject to nightmares," she protested, brushing her hair away from her face. Her muscles ached from struggling. Her head ach-- No, it felt fuzzy, but did not ache at present. She slipped off the edge of the bed, wanting no more of it for now.

The cold air in the room raised goose flesh along her arms. She hastened to the fireplace and tried in vain to stir the dead embers to life.

"I'll get Thomas to build a fire, Missy," Lula said, and started to leave the room.

"Wait." Ella Ruth held up her hand. "Is it night? How long did I sleep?"

Lula turned in the doorway. "It be cloudy outside, Missy. You slept about a hour. Do you want a fire?"

Ella Ruth began to pace, rubbing her bare arms. She had to get out of this confining room.

"No. Help me dress. I will take a walk in the garden to warm me."

"The garden pretty bare this time of year," Lula protested. "Nuthin' to see out there."

"Nevertheless, I need the air." She paused and looked at her servant. "Did Momma leave?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You will say nothing of this . . . bad dream to anyone. Do you understand?"

Lula nodded, a baffled look on her face.

"No one. Tell me you understand."

Yes, ma'am. Missy, I don't tell tales."
~~~

While you're waiting to see what situation Ella Ruth will get into next, I'd like to suggest that you pick up a copy of my new novel, The Zion Trail, available at all major online retailers. $3.99 for ebooks; $12.99 for print books.

ebooks:
Smashwords | Kindle | Nook | Kobo | Apple iBooks Store
print books:
CreateSpace | Amazon | Barnes and Noble

Sample Saturday: Mended by Moonlight

Welcome to Sample Saturday. Today's tidbit is from my forthcoming work, Mended by Moonlight. Ella Ruth Allen Owen is not faring well in the aftermath of the American Civil War. She's been struggling with headaches, but now, a new malady is plaguing her.
~~~

Momma did not press Ella Ruth to accompany her on the day's visits, and Ella Ruth retired to her room. Lula had a cold cloth waiting, and Ella Ruth sank into slumber, fending off the painful headache until she remembered no more.

Bye and bye she found herself struggling in the candle-lit parlor with a bolt of lavender cloth that unwrapped above her head, swirling her into its folds until she was caught tight, arms pinioned to her sides. She tried to fight, to wriggle out of the binding fabric, but it held her fast, until she fell in a heap and dissolved into tears.

She awoke then, screaming and thrashing against her encumbering bedclothing.

Lula bent over her, trying to sooth her with soft words as she tugged at the bedspread and sheet.

When she felt the bedclothes release her, Ella Ruth sat up, panting and whimpering, until the her panic subsided.

"Missy, it was a bad dream, no more. You be fine soon."
~~~

Will Ella Ruth really be all right, as Lula promises? She has vowed to remain in mourning in honor of her husband, Ben Owen, but will her parents force her to abandon the secluded life she wants to live?

Stay tuned. While you wait, be sure to pick up a copy of my new novel, The Zion Trail, available at all major online retailers.

The Zion Trail - currently in ebook formats

(Print coming March 25):
ebooks: 

Smashwords | Kindle | Nook | Kobo | Apple iBooks Store 

Sample Saturday: The Zion Trail

Welcome to Sample Saturday!

Before I get started with a tidbit from The Zion Trail, I'd like to report that I've finished writing the novel and the editing is complete. That means the production work, that is, ebook formatting, is underway. All you have to do is go over to that box at the top of the right column and sign up for my Readers Mailing List so you will know the exact date on which a shiny new ebook will be available. (Enjoy the special bonus novel you get for subscribing, while you wait for the new one.)

You may notice there's a Contact Form below that. If you prefer to hold a book in your hands for reading, it's a good idea for you to also use that form to tell me you'll buy a print edition, because unless I know there is a demand for a physical book, it won't happen, folks. Use one or both of those forms today!

Back to the Sample. In this tidbit, Lije Marshall's mother has sent him to the barn to retrieve his little sister, Mary Eliza, because it's lunch time (called "dinner," according to the naming-of-meals at the time, which is 1843 in rural Pennsylvania).
~~~

“Mary Eliza, Ma wants you,” I called into the vastness of the barn. My voice echoed a bit, then I heard my name whispered. The sound came from above me. I went toward the ladder that led upward and into the loft, fear blending with anger. Mary Eliza was forbidden to climb the ladder, for she was only three years old, and the height was dangerous if she fell.

I started up the ladder. When my head came level with the loft floor, I saw my sister a foot away, arms clasped around a beam, hugging it for all she was worth.

The sight of my plump sister clutching the beam cleansed the anger and the fear in my heart. In the midst of the instantaneous wash of relief, I asked, “Pumpkin, what are you doing? It's time for dinner. Come over here and Lije will give you a horsey ride.”

“Lije, I scared.” Her voice shook so that I hardly recognized it. “I scared,” she repeated, remaining frozen to the beam.

“Here, now,” I said, climbing slowly up the rest of the ladder. “Lije will come up and get you out of this dusty old loft.”

I put out my hand to lift myself over the lip of the loft, and she closed her eyes and screamed.
~~~

What on earth is the matter with that girl? What do you think has alarmed her? Comment below.

As you wait for next week's Sample, go ahead and buy one of my short stories. The Usual Game takes a look at a working man in the early days of the State of Arizona, who does something unusual one night after work. Get it from one of the vendors below:

The Usual Game (An Arizona Short Story) is available at the following online retailers: Smashwords all formats | Kindle | nook | Kobo | iTunes Bookstore

Trust Your Process

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

For several years, I've been worried that I was not doing something all the books on writing said I was supposed to do in the process of writing my novels, but it seemed to work out okay anyway. Recently, I read a book about writing. Suddenly, lights flashed, bells and whistles blew, and I got a huge confirmation that I'm really okay with what I do. The book is Writing Into the Dark: How to Write a Novel Without an Outline, by Dean Wesley Smith. I'm a pantser, so I never outline anyway, but the truth is, I don't do extensive edits and rewrites, either. That latter fact is what had me so worried.

Smith explains the difference between Creative Voice and Critical Voice, and says we should not give in to the prompting to use the Critical Voice (editing) during our writing process. The job of our Critical Voice is to stop us cold from engaging in risky business, and writing is very risky business!

Instead, he holds to Heinlein's Business Rules:

Rule #1: You must write.
Rule #2: You must finish what you write.
Rule #3: You must refrain from rewriting unless to editorial demand.
Rule #4: You must put your work on the market.
Rule #5: You must keep your work on the market until it sells.

Smith gives tweaks of the rules if you are indie publishing. He also writes strange words like "practice," and "trust your process." That last one set off the bells and whistles for me.

I will say the book rambles a bit and could have been tightened, but despite its structural flaws, I found it very affirming to me. There is a bonus section in the back from another book, Killing the Top 10 Sacred Cows of Publishing. The chapter about rewriting was the whipped cream on top of the milkshake for me: his process is exactly what I've been doing all along. I write the first draft. The second draft is spell checking, then I send it to beta readers. For the third draft, I touch up the things the readers found. Then I'm done.

I know you're all crying "Heresy!" but it works for me.

Thoughts?

Sample Saturday - Something Fresh

Here's something fresh and new, written early this morning:
~~~

"You needn't think to spend your entire life mourning for that Owen boy."

Ella Ruth Allen Owen hunched over the black bonnet she held on her lap with whitened thumbs and first fingers.

"I simply cannot allow it. Black makes your skin appear so sallow."

What does the color of my complexion matter? Ella Ruth thought as her mother continued to express her cutting opinion. Ben is gone. Dead. I'd gladly join him if I could do so.

It hardly seemed possible that six months had passed since that dreadful day on which Roderick and Julia Owen had paid her a visit and given her the awful news. Ben dead at Waynesboro!

She put a hand to her forehead. "Mama, please stop.  My head aches so. I cannot go with you today." With that, she got to her feet and stumbled out of the parlor, blinking back tears of rage.

When she was safely behind the locked door of the strange bedroom she doubted would ever feel like home, she threw the bonnet to the floor and collapsed into tears.

Her maid Lula, having entered through the unlocked dressing room door, found her there, crumpled atop the bedspread, an hour later.

"There, there, Miss Ella Ruth. Your mama, she's gone off on her visits. Let me turn down the covers and bring you a nice cold cloth for your head."
~~~

That's all for now. Buy a book. Read a book. How about Gone for a Soldier. (Links to other vendors on the "Books" tab at the top of the page.)

See you next week!

Sample Saturday & Fourth of July

Fourth of July. Celebrate safely. Remember why we have this holiday.

I'm going to start writing and see what comes out of my fingers.
~~~

Alex clicked his tongue at the horse and flipped the lines on its rump. It started off, pulling the buggy into a jerky progress down the lane.

He looked sideways at Ella Ruth. She sat stiffly on the seat, hands clasped so tightly together that he could see the white skin stretched over her knuckles.

"You don't need to go," he said. "If you'd rather not--"

"Mama would be mortified if I didn't attend," she whispered. She glanced in his direction, although she didn't meet his eyes before she faced forward again.

This was a bad idea. He clenched his teeth to prevent a reply he would regret. Only recently had the girl begun to wear deep lavender-colored attire instead of black. Against her wishes. How he ached to take her into his arms and give her comfort. That wasn't possible. Not now. Not yet. He had to bide his time until Ella Ruth came to know him better, to trust him.

That's going to take a long time, boy, he told himself. Working side by side at the surgery doesn't mean she'll forgive Yankees any time soon.

Ella Ruth cleared her throat as they turned into the road. He looked at her, expecting her to say something, but nothing came.

They rode in silence toward Charlottesville, toward the celebration of American Independence the city fathers had reluctantly approved, after much discussion, which was faithfully reported in the newspaper.

"My mother does love me, you know." Ella Ruth finally spoke her mind. "She wants me to be in society again."

Even if it's Yankee society, Alex thought. He wondered why her parents were so desperate to get her to see people other than patients that they allowed her to be seen in public in the company of the Yankee doctor. The Yankee military doctor.

Thank the Lord for whatever bent their minds in that direction.

"Mama says I've pined long enough." Ella Ruth bent her head and picked at one of the pleats in her skirt.

Something in the brokenness of her voice and her carriage told him she hadn't yet mourned long enough, hadn't finished grieving for her dead husband.

Alex looked at the roof of the buggy overhead. I'm sorry you're not here, Ben Owen. I mean to take good care of her in your absence. But only when she'll let me.
~~~

Okay, that's enough of that. Have a wonderful holiday weekend! Buy a book. Read a book.
marshaward.com

Sample Saturday - Something totally different

Welcome to Sample Saturday. From time to time I get the hankering to bust out of my usual routine and do something a bit different. That's how I feel as I'm setting this post up, so here's a thing I don't usually do. I'm announcing future plans.

When I finish writing The Zion Trail, I will work on a piece that will fit in the "Owen-verse" after Gone for a Soldier.

I call it "a piece" because I don't know the length yet, and the "Owen-verse," shorthand for the "Owen Family Universe," refers to works that specifically fit within "The Owen Family Saga," and works that are somehow related, but don't deal with the principal family members. Clear?

For example, The Zion Trail actually is a distant part of the "Owen-verse," since Elijah Marshall and Julia Owen are first cousins. However, I don't plan any characters to cross over from the Saga, nor will I label it an Owen story.

With all that said, I'm undecided on how to label companion works to indicate they are connected to the Saga, but not part of the Saga. If I call something "An Owen-verse Story" or "An Owen-verse Novel," would you understand what I mean?

I'm open to suggestions.

Back to my plans. The new piece will deal with a character from Gone for a Soldier who is not an immediate family member. I trust the story will bring the character hope and happiness. And since this is Sample Saturday, I'll give you a sample of artwork for the cover.

Thanks for coming. I'll have a regular sample for you next week.

The Zion Trail - Sample Saturday

Welcome back to Sample Saturday. Lije Marshall and the family continue their preparations for their trip.
~~~

Before noon rolled around, we had readied the wagon and put both horses in harness. John led them to the front of the house while I went to the kitchen to tell Ma we were ready.

"What will you wear, son?" she asked, looking me over. "Those clothes will do for travel, but there's the matter of the service to consider."

I slapped my forehead and climbed the ladder to get my Sunday duds. I wrapped them inside my bedding, then performed the same task for John, tying our bundles closed with bits of string. When I'd brought them down to the ground floor, I went to say my goodbye to Pa.

He sat up in bed, propped against two pillows. I wondered if he should be upright, but perhaps he would get into a more restful position once we had left.

At his invitation, I hugged him with care, then shook his hand. I saw a curious hunger in his eyes as he kept my hand in his.

"I wish I were going with you, son. Pay good heed at the preaching." He gripped my hand firmly, then released it, and I understood he hungered for spiritual sustenance.

"I will, Pa," I assured him, and took my leave.
~~~

Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoyed today's sample. If you did, you'll probably want to sign up for my quarterly newsletter, "Marsha's Musings." Subscribers are among the first to learn of developments in my writing and publishing schedule. You also learn about sales and discounts, too. Click here for the subscription form. See you next Saturday!

The Zion Trail - Sample Saturday

Welcome back to Sample Saturday. Lije Marshall and the family prepare for their journey.
~~~

By the time Pa dismissed us to go about our assigned tasks, Mary Eliza had awakened and sat by herself at the table. I patted her on the head as I proceeded on my way outside, and felt her squirm under my hand. I paused and squatted to look into her face. "We're going on an adventure, Pumpkin."

"A 'venture, Lije?"

"You'll see at lunchtime," I told her, and left her with those teasing words hanging in the air.

John and I did our usual chores that morning. Then, as we worked on the farm wagon to make it ready to carry us over the hilly roads to our destination and serve to house us, as well, he asked, "Do you think the Mormon preaching service will be different from Reverend Silcoe's?"

I took a moment to think, then said, "That's hard to guess. We'll have to wait until we get there."

"Maybe they won't be partial to singing. I liked it when we sang the other day, Lije. It made my tummy feel better."

I grinned at him, then wrapped my mind around his suggestion. It sobered me. I hoped the Mormon folk liked to sing. Our hymn had comforted us all. After a while, I used careful words to answer him. "Think on King David and how many psalms he wrote. I believe the Lord God enjoys singing and holy music. At least, I hope He does."

He was quick to agree. "Me too!"
~~~

Thank you for visiting. Reverend Silcoe's name will change soon, as he is one character whose naming right has been sold to a reader. I hope you enjoyed today's sample. If you did, you'll probably want to sign up for my quarterly newsletter, "Marsha's Musings." Subscribers are among the first to learn of developments in my writing and publishing schedule. You also learn about sales and discounts, too. Click here for the subscription form. See you next Saturday!

The Zion Trail - Sample Saturday

Welcome back to Sample Saturday. In this tidbit, Lije Marshall and part of the family are being sent on an adventure.
~~~ 

On Friday morning, Ma ask Sarah, John, and me to come into the downstairs bedroom, as Pa wanted to speak to us. I glanced at Ma's face as I passed into the room, noting the tense look she made no effort to hide. I felt the clutch of panic squeezing my gut. Was Pa gathering us to bid his final farewell?

As I neared his bedside, I examined his countenance. There was the look of pain therein, but his color was good. I found none of the gray cast that would indicate approaching death. When he spoke, his voice had strength, and I knew relief. Then I paid attention to his words.

"You'll leave at noon today. Elder Caldwell gave me the address of the worship service, which I'll give to your mother. Sarah is to stay to care for my needs. Emily, prepare the food this morning that you'll require during the journey. John, help your brother get the wagon ready."

Pa looked at me, straight into my soul. "Take good care of your mother, Elijah. Lend a good ear at the service. You must tell me all you hear."

Despite his sorry state, Pa was not letting any grass grow before he heeded counsel to guide his family in its religious course. We were being sent to meet other Saints and to learn from them.
~~~

Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoyed today's sample. If you did, you'll probably want to sign up for my quarterly newsletter, "Marsha's Musings." Subscribers are among the first to learn of developments in my writing and publishing schedule. You also learn about sales and discounts, too. Click here for the subscription form. See you next Saturday!

The Zion Trail: An uncomfortable lunch

Lije Marshall and his siblings try to have a normal lunch in the absence of their parents.
~~~

Lunch was a strange affair, with Pa and Ma absent from the table. I looked over at Sarah, sitting at the head of the table, and waited for her to say grace.

She sat with her eyes downcast. After a long interval in which she made no indication that she would speak a prayer, I glanced around at John and Mary Eliza, cleared my throat, then bowed my head and gave my best imitation of Pa's blessing over the meal.

We ate in silence, for the most part. Even my little sister seemed disheartened by our father's injuries. When had he ever failed to be up and working throughout the day? I sensed that we all felt aimless, lacking the guidance of our good parents in our daily activities. Yes, we knew our chores, but the absence of he who cared how well we did them left us with a feeling akin to doom.

At least, that was how I felt.

Mary Eliza began to whimper, wiping her tear-filled eyes with the back of her hand.

"What's the matter, Pumpkin?" I asked.

"Is Papa," she paused to sniff. "Is Papa going to die?"

"Of course not," I replied, trying to muster an enthusiasm I didn't have. "Ma is the best nurse there is. She'll help him to get well." My dubious little sister stuck out her bottom lip. "Are you sure?"

"Cross my heart," I said to the accompanying action. I didn't add the rest. I didn't hope to die, and I didn't want Mary Eliza thinking any longer of death.

Sarah stirred in her chair. I barely heard her whisper. "It's my fault."

I turned and pegged her to her chair with my frown. "We'll talk later," I muttered. This wasn't the time nor place. The little one was too upset as it was.

"You're sure he'll heal up?" asked John from across the table.

I stifled a groan. Was I sure of that myself? "He's down for a couple of days, John, but his life isn't under threat." I hoped my words were true.

I sopped up the remains of the soup with my last morsel of bread, stuffed it into my mouth, and looked at my siblings as I chewed. Sarah stirred her uneaten soup. John tapped his bowl with the edge of his spoon. Mary Eliza pulled on her still-protruding bottom lip. I swallowed and sighed, my mind racing for something to distract them from their unhappy state.

Sarah should take charge, I thought. She's the eldest.
~~~

Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoyed today's sample. If you did, you'll probably want to sign up for my quarterly newsletter, "Marsha's Musings." Subscribers are among the first to learn of developments in my writing and publishing schedule. You also learn about sales and discounts, too. Click here for the subscription form. See you next Saturday!

Snippet from a New WIP

It's way past time for me to post here. I've had a long run of health adventures the last four months or so, and I'm still trying--unsuccessfully--to limit the usage of my left arm so it will heal from an injury. Good luck to me on that!

The short excerpt below is from a novel I began in the eighties and never finished. It's on my list of goals to be published in 2015, so I've been using my new Dragon NaturallySpeaking software to enter the typescript into my writing software. I've come to the end of the previously typed out work, so I have to start creating new stuff. However, I thought you might like a look at this scene fragment from The Zion Trail, for which I revealed the cover on this post. Warning: the tidbit includes mild swearing.

By the way, the narrator is Elijah Marshall, the younger brother of Sarah; and the name of the character called Henry will be changed before the novel is published. I only need to decide what I want to call him!
~~~

I was slopping our sow and her brood when I first became aware of the voices. The pigpen was built up next to the hen house, and Sarah must've come out to check for any late-laid eggs. But somebody had joined her in there, and from the words that wiggled through the cracks, that somebody's hands weren't gathering eggs.

Curious, I found a knot hole in the side of the coop, and took a sight around the interior.

Henry Stiles, the brawny blonde farmer from down the road a piece, had his arms around my sister, and she wasn't struggling any. In fact, from the look on her face, I figured she was mighty content.

"Then they started in telling Pa about their religion," she told Henry. "He's still sitting there, listening to every word they say."

"But they are not from around here?"

"They come from Illinois. Some place called Nauvoo."

"Ah hell!" Henry dropped his hands from Sarah's shoulders. "It's those damned Mormons!"
 ~~~

Yes, my friends of other faiths, this book is going to explore Elijah Marshall's trials and tribulations in getting to his Zion, that is, Deseret--more commonly known today as Utah--to join the other Saints. I hope I can count on you to be along for the journey.

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!

Ella Ruth is Contrite *

After working in a hot office all afternoon, I sat with my front door open and a fan circulating the cooler outside air as I caught up on recorded reruns of The Closer. When my security light went on, I looked over to see if a deer was crossing my lot, but nothing was apparent, so I went back to the episode.

A few moments later, a movement caught my eye, and I glanced over to see the figure of a young woman standing in the light. She was dressed in an outfit with a long, bell-shaped skirt, so I knew immediately that one of my characters had come to visit.

Turning off the TV, I approach the door. The blonde girl with the anguished features appears to be Ella Ruth Allen, whom I had chased away previously after her outrageous behavior toward me. I'm not sure I want her in my house again, so I hesitate before greeting her. After a long moment, I succumb to Christian principles and speak.

Me: Yes? (I know. A bit short, but at least I sound half-way civil.)

Ella Ruth (in a shaky voice): Ma'am. I know I behaved badly on our previous acquaintance, and I am sorry for my ill-mannered comportment. May I come in? I am so worried.

Me (unlocking and opening the screen door): Worried? With a rich, influential pappa?

I perform the usual ceremonies of getting her seated and asking if she requires anything to eat as she dithers, making polite replies and little gasping noises. I understand the mental electrical storm that creates a condition of dithering, and become more kindly disposed toward her.

Me: What brings you to my door, Miss Ella Ruth?

Ella Ruth: Benjamin. (She begins to cry, and I bring out the box of tissue and hand it over. She wipes her eyes and begins to rush through a blubbering account.) He gave me an ultimatum and I rejected him. I did not think he was seriously planning to talk to my pappa so plainly and dash my dreams so rudely. I said some unkind words and turned on my heel and left him. Then he left me!

Her wail of distress seems genuine enough. I dredge through my memory, and recall that when Ben came to visit me, I had not finished writing the scene that occurred behind the mill. I did so later. The scene had indeed progressed as she outlined.

Me: Well. That is unfortunate. What does he write to you?

Ella Ruth: Ma'am, he does not write. Not a word. I do not know if he has been in a battle, or injured, or fallen prey to illness, like I hear other men have. He went in my own cousin's infantry company, but I hear nothing from George, either. Please ma'am, what am I to do?

Me (somewhat flummoxed): What are you to do? What do you want from him?

Ella Ruth: Oh ma'am, I want to know that he is well and sound. I bear him such a great deal of affection. My heart is sunk low to know that we parted on unfriendly terms.

Me: It sounds like you need to re-establish a connection with him. Have you asked his mother for news?

Ella Ruth (uncertainly): Mrs. Owen? Mrs. Julia Owen?

Me: The very one. If anyone has heard from Ben, it will be her.

Ella Ruth: Oh ma'am, she will not bear kindness toward me. I am sure of it.

Me: Then you have already approached her?

Ella Ruth (in a tiny voice): No. Ma'am. I am frightened of her.

Me: You're frightened by the kindest woman in the Valley?

Ella Ruth: She is formidable, ma'am.

Me: No she isn't. I've written her as a kind, giving soul. She is really very pleasant, very easy to know.

Ella Ruth: She will heed Ben's plight before my own, ma'am.

Me (feeling the disbelieving expression on my face): You really should talk to her, Miss Allen. Straight out.

Ella Ruth: May I not approach the new Missus Owen? The new bride at Hilbrands' store?

Me: Mistress Mary? What does she have to do with this?

Ella Ruth: Perhaps she will be amenable to asking Mrs. Owen for news of Benjamin.

Me (sighing): That way is quite roundabout, Miss Allen. I see that is your plan, however. Suit yourself. Ask Mary for help. You can only hope her happiness will color her response to you.

Ella Ruth: Her response?

Me: New brides often wish to share their happiness and help others achieve some for themselves, as well. You might find yourself fortunate. It just seems like such an involved and convoluted way of gaining news about Ben.

Ella Ruth: Miss, um, Mistress Mary is closer in age to me. I believe I can talk to her, persuade her to help me.

Me (rising and spreading my hands in acceptance): Like I said, suit yourself. Good evening, Miss Allen.

She leaves, and a bolt of lightning sears the sky. I wait for the thunder, but it rumbles in the distance, and I go back to my television watching, a tense feeling squeezing my abdomen. What will come of Ella Ruth's plan?

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.

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.