I was having lunch with my significant other, Herbie, at our favorite old-time diner on Main Street of our little town today. We’re not exactly of the twenty-, thirty-, or even forty-something set. There’s a good reason I write about the 50′s. I don’t have to do much research, just open a diary or high school annual, and ‘remember when’. We were waiting for our lunch–old fashioned meatloaf, green beans, and mashed potatoes–and chuckling over the displays of Coca-Cola memorabilia that decorate the place. I pointed out a sign that advertised fountain Cokes at five cents and remembered the shock waves that went through my family when our favorite soft drink DOUBLED in price. My gosh, how could our family afford to pay ten cents for a six ounce bottle? Somehow that comment led us back along the old ‘Did You Ever” road. Remember playing out in the evening with about fourteen cousins, running under brush and behind fences for hide-and-seek? When no one worried if you were safe? You were okay and they knew it. Remember Saturday afternoons, having a quarter for the movie? A movie that included a cartoon, a newsreel, a thrill-packed serial, and a double feature–one of which would be a hard-riding Western starring Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, or Hopalong Cassidy. And if you had saved your allowance, you might have a spare quarter for a hamburger and a drink at the Hi-De-Ho afterward. I remember when Grandmother got a new refrigerator and I was given the box it came in. That box became Sky King’s airplane, Sargent Preston’s Yukon sled, an Indian canoe, and the Green Hornet’s speedy car Black Beauty. It was the greatest toy ever and cost my parents nothing.

Mentioning the Green Hornet of course led us to a quick review of all our favorite radio shows. We both listened avidly to The Shadow, Inner Sanctum (with the eery creaking door), Fibber McGee and Mollie, and The Great Gildersleeve. Sunday afternoon always meant a sack of apples and peanuts and a session with Bulldog Drummond, Gang Busters and the Lone Ranger. It took a moment to recall the radio actor who was the voice of Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke. I’d almost forgotten it wasn’t always James Arness who played that role. The original sheriff was William Conrad. I still think he was more impressive.

Life, at least in retrospect, was simple. You ate your vegetables, said ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘No, sir’, came home when you said you would, and remembered to do your homework before you went out to play. And no one had to tell you to go outside and play. Unless it was raining cats and kittens, or the snow was too thick to see the house across the street, or (in our case) the wind and sand would flatten you if you stepped off the porch, you were already outside. Your friends’ parents knew yours; your sisters, brothers, and cousins were your first friends; and heaven help you if you sassed the teacher. Mom would hear about it before you got home and there would be consequences.

So Herbie and I were thinking back, how blessed our young years were. How lucky to have extended family that lived within walking distance. To have had granddaddies who were our refuge, friend, and mentor. To have grandmothers who introduced us to the pleasure of tomatoes filched from the garden, the mysteries of homemade biscuits, and the wealth of stories handed down generation to generation. I know my grandchildren are blessed with great parents–after all I raised those parents, how could they be less than perfect? The kids have good health, sensible diets, cultural exposure, and diverse friends. They’re smart, beautiful, well mannered, and greatly loved. But did they ever play hide and seek in the moonlight or float down an imaginary river in an Indian canoe made of a refrigerator box and paddled by a discarded broom handle? No? Well, maybe it’s not too late.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (available for Kindle, hard copy in June)

www.fleetacunningham.com

fgcunningham@yahoo.com

I am so excited to introduce to ABM a new author with a great debut novel. Lael Neill now lives in Central Texas but her roots are in the Northwest. Her book, STONE DREAMING WOMAN,  from Wild Rose Press, has already received high praise on the Amazon.com reader review. It is available as an ebook now and will be out in hard copy in March. I asked Lael to tell ABM readers about her book and how a Texas gal wound up writing about Mounties and medicine women of the early Twentieth Century. This is how our visit went.

FC:  Your story STONE DREAMING WOMAN is set in the period just before WWI in Canada. What inspired you to use that time and setting? Do you have a strong personal interest that suggested the story?

LN: The very first romance that ever caught hold of my imagination and my heart was MRS. MIKE, by Benedict and Nancy Mars Freedman.  I fell in love with the hero, so I wove a story of my own about a Royal Northwest Mounted Police officer and a woman whose background was about as far removed from his as I could imagine.

I grew up in Tacoma, Washington, only about an hour and a half from the British Columbia border.  I am very familiar with western Canada, and I originally imagined setting the story there.  However, the Mounted Police did not have jurisdiction over British Columbia until much later, so I was faced with a choice.  I either had to move the timeline up or I had to reset the story in a different area.  Moving the timeline would have reduced the impact of the basic theme of the story (gender bias), so changing the setting seemed the more logical course to take.

The period before WWI was a real watershed concerning the role of women in society.  They had fought for and won the right to vote, and were crusading for reproductive rights and gender equality.  The resistance at that time was much greater than during or after the war.  In Jenny’s case, the lack of physicians stateside and the demands of the Spanish Flu epidemic created a vacuum that would have sucked her into a medical practice somewhere out of people’s sheer need and desperation, hence the necessity of setting the story before the war heated up.

FC:  Your heroine Jennifer is a medical doctor in a time when few women, certainly not women with social stature, dared enter the medical profession. And your story shows a lot of medical knowledge. Do you have a medical background? Or did you build the character based on research? The details in your story are impressive.

LN: I do not have a medical background, but my education included detailed a five semester hour honors course in human anatomy.  It both fascinated me and provided enough basic grounding that I could expand my knowledge and understanding on my own.  I also have a trick memory for trivia.  If it’s something I’ll absolutely never have any possible use for, I’ll remember it.  For instance, the little bony bumps we sit on are called ischial tuberosities.

I did have to conduct a boatload of research for the story, though.  Most of it had to do with the state of medical practices and knowledge of the time and if, how, and when things like surgical gloves and stethoscopes changed over the years.  I also had to research firearms of the period and, of course, fashions, though I had some expert help in that regard.

FC:  What led you to set the story in Canada? Surely that made heavy demands on you as an author. The setting is a major feature of the book and contributes to the conflicts the characters face. You weave it seamlessly into prose. Did you know when you started the story that the place would influence the story so much?

LN: The story had to be set in Canada because you don’t find Mounties anywhere else.  And yes, I did know that the setting would influence the story.  Local color is one of the best ways to achieve realism.  Until I moved to Texas I was an outdoors girl, which included fishing, camping, hiking, scuba diving, target shooting, and skiing, so describing the woods, the mountains, the rivers, the salt water, and the seasons comes very naturally.

FC:  I’ve heard it said that one good story opens the door to many more. Will there be more stories with this location and time? Maybe centering on characters we meet in STONE DREAMING WOMAN?

LN: I ’m working on a sequel right now involving Jenny’s younger cousin Elizabeth.  Without giving away too much, the hero is Sergeant Paul Weller, the best friend and sidekick of Jenny’s love interest in STONE DREAMING WOMAN.  Elizabeth and Paul are coming through as a well defined characters in their own right and their story is clamoring to be told.  At this point the working title is SAND ISLAND DIARIES.

FC:  Your first book is a vintage romance. Do you write about other times and places? Can you give us a hint where we might find you next? What audience will you be writing for?

LN: I have a story all but finished, but since I did it as a point of view exercise, it needs a complete rewrite before it goes anywhere.  It takes place in and around New Orleans during the period between the Louisiana Purchase and the War of 1812, the sunset of the age of Caribbean piracy.  The heroine is the daughter of a British naval officer and an aristocratic lady from New Orleans.  Marianne has the temerity to fall in love with her father’s worst enemy, a privateer sailing under Letters of Marque from France.  The target audience for MAGNIFICENT PIRATE is, of course, the same audience who will enjoy STONE DREAMING WOMAN and SAND ISLAND DIARIES.

Even though I am exploring the world of romance writing now, I have always had an abiding love of fantasy.  A huge and very different “swords and sorcery” trilogy lurks in my computer, hopefully to find a publisher someday.  In it, two powerful and very different men on opposite sides of a rebellion forge an unlikely friendship to bring peace to their war-torn country.

FC:  What book/books first inspired you to tell stories?  What story elements did they have in common? All romances? Adventure? Strong and unconventional heroines? Do you remember the first story you created?

LN: The book that first inspired me to tell stories came my way when I was eight years old.  Those of us “of a certain age” remember the WEEKLY READER and JUNIOR SCHOLASTIC magazines we purchased through our schools.  I had never found it easy to go to sleep, so when I read one of the letters to the editor from a little girl who said when she could not sleep she told herself a fairy tale, I decided to try her tactic.  After going through CINDERELLA and SNOW WHITE ad nauseam, I thought, “Well, how boring is this?  Why don’t I tell myself MY OWN stories?”  Thus a writer was born.

I played with writing until I started high school, and when I had a little maturity under my belt the bug bit seriously.  Then at Central Washington University I had the rare privilege of studying creative writing under Dr. Harold L. Anschutz, a totally brilliant professor who loved his subject and loved his students.  He was also my faculty advisor, so after worshiping at his feet for four years, writing was so deeply ingrained in me I knew, like Lady MacBeth, I would never be able to wash it from my hands or out of my soul.

I became deeply involved in skiing and alpine racing then, so naturally my main characters were skiers.  The stories were both romances and adventures, with brave heroes and strong heroines who knew their own minds and were not afraid to go for broke.  Some of those characters from way back when have survived and cropped up in a Vietnam-era romance I have tentatively called GOING PRO.  It concerns a sheltered young man who retires from the Austrian Olympic team, comes to the United States to manage a ski school, and encounters American culture.  It is a very long and very complex story that may or may not see the light of day.  Writing is like that.

FC:  Will you give us a short scene from STONE DREAMING WOMAN? Something to whet our appetites.

They finished their food, and he helped her clear the table.  She discovered they made as good a team doing something as mundane as picking up dishes as they did saving a life.  She rinsed the bean pot and the bowls, then put all the dishes in the pot and covered them with water.  Then she dried her hands on the flour sack towel and anointed them with her favorite Honey Almond Cream.

“There.  That’s good enough.  We’ll do them with the breakfast dishes in the morning,” she said.  He had moved behind her to return the butter to the cooler, and when she turned she bumped into him.

“Sergeant!  Excuse me!”  A toucher, she laid her palms above the breast pockets of his tunic by way of apology.  Impulsively he covered her hands with his.

“Miss Weston, I can’t thank you enough for what you did today, for being kind enough to come to North Village with me, and for saving Jimmy’s life.  He’d have been in dire trouble without you, Miss Weston…”  He paused awkwardly, stumbling over her name.  “No, I… Doctor Weston?  I’m not certain how I should address you now.  After today, ‘Miss Weston’ sounds so frivolous…”

“ ‘Jenny’ will do quite nicely, Sergeant.”

His gaze leveled on her, and he gave her a deeply searching look that was all grey eyes and hugely long lashes.  “I have a first name too, you know,” he said softly.

“Touché.  Shane.”  She smiled and felt her cheeks flush.  “Then have a good night.”

“You too.”  Her hands lay trapped against his Red Serge.  She turned them beneath his and held them palm to palm for a moment.

“Until tomorrow, then…Shane,” she said awkwardly.

“I look forward to it.”  Then he reluctantly let her hands go, drawing a deep, nervous breath.

“Jenny?  May I call on you, then?  With Richard’s permission, of course.”

“It would be my honor entirely.”  His hands went slowly to the points of her shoulders, and he drew her to him.  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back.  All her senses were full of him, from his warmth to the masculine scent of soap, sunshine, and the wool of his Red Serge.  She let her hands travel to his muscular shoulders, and as he gathered her into his arms, her left hand slipped over the standing collar of his tunic to the slightly long hair at the nape of his neck.  It felt soft, satiny, and much finer than her own.  Then his lips met hers, gently and tenderly, the stimulating touch of warm velvet.  As she flowed up against him, the night turned to fireworks.

The kiss was exactly what she would have expected from Shane: undemanding, powerful, and thoroughly exciting.  Then he held her close and pressed his cheek against her hair and she let her arms encircle his back.  He was a big armful for her.  His lips traveled across her cheek and he nuzzled into her hair.

“Oh, Jenny,” he whispered, sending a shiver from her heels to the top of her head.  Then they kissed again.  This time his red-clad arms engulfed her and she was lost in the incredible power that was Shane Adair.  She went weak all over and plastered herself against his chest.  She wanted to blurt out that she loved him madly, but that was a frightening idea.  She laid her hand against his cheek and backed up a few inches.  His face held high color and he was breathing hard through flushed, slightly parted lips.

“Do I owe you an apology now?” he whispered.  Her arms tightened about him.  Then she raised her head just enough to look up into his eyes.

“No.  That was just as much my idea as yours.  Don’t apologize to me unless it was just a one-time impulse and you intend never to repeat yourself.

He proved to her that he was up to her one-line stingers.  “Chèrie, I’ll kiss you goodnight every night for the next eighty years if you’ll have it,” he said softly.

“In eighty years I’ll be a hundred and five!  Who in their right mind would want to kiss a hundred-and-five-year-old woman?”  The grey eyes tilted again.

“A totally smitten one-hundred-eight-year-old man,” he whispered, holding her hands against his chest.  She laughed softly.

“I swear, one of your ancestors had to have kissed the Blarney Stone!”

“Just wait eighty years and you’ll know that I’ve never meant anything more.”

“I’ll check again tomorrow, thank you.”

“Tomorrow, gladly.”  He raised her hands to his lips.

“Then good night, Shane.”

“Good night, Jenny.”  He leaned down and bestowed a chaste peck on her forehead.

“Sleep well.”

“I don’t think I’ll sleep at all, after this,” he sighed.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”  She backed away from him, letting her hands run softly through his.  Then she was gone, leaving behind an aura of Honey Almond Cream.

I had the fun of reading STONE DREAMING WOMAN while it was still in draft form and know first hand what a great tale it is. I’m really looking forward to the sequel and keep urging Lael to write fast so I can see how it all comes out. Thanks for sharing your time and your ideas with us, Lael. Come back soon and keep us informed about your projects.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE’

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (forthcoming)

When I went to England a couple of years ago, I learned some very interesting facts.  To the average person, they may seem small and insignificant, but to a writer and lover of everything English, I gobbled them up, eager to use them in my books.

Here are a few things I learned:

• Colonel Thomas De Veil started the Bow Street Magistrates Court in 1740 from his home, opposite the Royal Opera House.  It was Henry Fielding, the novelist who sat on the bench at the court, who actually came up with the Bow Street Runners idea, formed in 1754 by his brother John, which became the first paid police force.
• Sir Robert Peel formed the Metropolitan Police in 1829, who were called “Bobbies” in his honor, and Bow Street became the first police station in Britain.  This station is the only police station in London to have a white light instead of a blue light outside because when Queen Victoria would attend the Royal Opera House across the street, the blue light would remind her of the blue room in which Prince Albert died.
• The oldest printing and publishing house in the world is the Cambridge University Press; the oldest bookstore in the world is also located there, established in 1581.
• The first botanical gardens began in Oxford in 1621.
• The Savoy Theater was London’s first public building to be lit by electricity.
• Champagne was actually invented by an English doctor, Christopher Merrett of Gloucestershire, in 1662.  In 1695, a French monk, who also happened to be a winemaker in the Champagne region, Dom Perignon, adopted the process.
• George III purchased Buckingham Palace in 1762 from John Sheffield, the first Duke of Buckingham, who built it in 1703.

Have you any interesting English facts you’d like to share?

~Tiffany

www.tiffanygreen.net

Just over a year ago, as I watched my little town tremble in the wake of the worst wildfire Texas has ever recorded, I wrote that I prefer my drama in book form, not up close and in my own backyard. In the twelve months and a few days since the fire was officially declared ‘out’, we’ve moved on. We had to–there was no way to go back. For instance, within three months the first pile of debris and soot gave way to a rebuilt home and a family was moving in! Celebration time. Of the uncountable trees that fell in flames, more than two million are being replaced by seedlings. The Lost Pines will rise again. It will take time, probably more time than I have left on earth and I won’t be here to see it, but my grandchildren’s children will play in the woods, hear the mockingbirds, and see the land I love bloom again.

Last Sunday at my church we solemnly gave thanks for the recovery effort. One of the most touching things in that service was a small bowl set aside to collect house keys, car keys, pet collars, and tiny remembrances of the things we lost. A single key–an insignificant item in itself–is now the only tangible thing left of a home and the memories it housed. A pet collar–the symbol of a memory that haunts one dear friend who devoted her life to the rescue and rehabilitation of abandoned cats. She saved as many as she could but thirty-eight of her beloved fur-friends died in the fire. She moved away because the pain of rebuilding was too much.One pet collar spoke more eloquently than words of her loss.That little bowl held a sea of tears shed in twelve months and an ocean of memories.

The Sunday service sifted through the ashes of our remembrances. It brought us across the dark moments to the other side, the side where new homes are beginning to fill the gaps left in the wake of the fire. It reminded us that while we suffered a traumatic shock, we could have lost more than homes and possessions. We lost pets but we lost no children. Collections and photographs and heirlooms burned, but no one lost a parent or a grandparent. We survived more than one hundred days of temperatures above one hundred degrees and the worst drought we could imagine, but this year has been cooler and wetter. We are grateful for the relief that winter rains brought us. So we sifted the ashes, we gave thanks for what we salvaged and for the arms stretched across the country offering help, and we turned away from the destruction. This little town, part of Stephen F. Austin’s Little Colony, has been here since 1832. We survived the Texas Revolution, we endured the Civil War, and by golly, we made it through three attempts to burn the town to cinders. I think we can admit to a quiet sense of accomplishment. Texans are known to brag a bit, but I think we’ll just nod, give thanks, and go on about our business this time around. Like that mythological Phoenix bird, we’re rising up and starting over. And that’s all right, too.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (forthcoming)

A guy in a girls world

Ready to be floored, I mean knocked on your butt? I’m a guy, 300 pounds, 6 foot 2 inches, 54 inch shouldered alpha male that adores the visual, the erotic, the wonder and splendor of the female form, scent and touch. Now here comes the shocker: I write romantic suspense. That’s right, amora. No, no. Not the traditional stories of love me, hate me, love me, rather themes constructed around intrigue with a romantic flair at the core.

Impossible you say. Maybe, but you’d be surprised at what’d you’d find between the sheets of my novels. Every release on twelve stories so far has received top/five star reviews from web sites recognized as bastions of feminine mystic (Romance Junkies, Night Owl, Long and Short Reviews, etc). Case in point, my novel BLIND CONSENT even won the Rose award for best romantic suspense. So what’s the problem, right? Well there is an up and down side to being a guy writing in a female domain, IMO.

Positive – I get to write stories that come to me in whispers from my muse. I am very fortunate that my publisher provides tremendous latitude on what I write. I can blend across thriller, mystery, paranormal, heck even SciFi and season the theme with romance from a male POV, as long as the stories envelope the reader.

Positive – I have sensed no prejudice from reviewers for being a man, not a metro guy, but a man man. Never has a reviewer remarked alarm or disbelief they were reading thoughts from the male mind.

Negative – Many of my associates, men and women, and family, were dumb founded when I came out of the closet. Funny thing, but male and female buy my books, not just one but all my stories. No, I don’t beg ‘em too. I just know because they keep coming, contacting me for my new releases.

Negative – Many ladies have difficulty accepting I actually write the stories. I’ve had several inquires via email ask, “Are you really a guy”. Even had a woman at a book sell pick up one of my books and ask, “What’s the story about?” When I said, “This novel was nominated as the best romantic thriller of…” never even got to finish the sentence. “Romance? You can’t write romance. You’re a guy.” Believe me; I’m not making that up. Hard to think such framing exists but it does, and it happens to female authors writing in a male dominated genre. Read an interesting article about twelve women authors that hid their true identity till they became known. One was named Rawlings (Harry Potter series). Her publisher suggested she use only her initials. Once she became famous, well you know that story.

Negative – Sells are affected by stereotyping. Although I write roughly the same number of titles in the RS vs SciFi world, most of my royalties come from the latter, yet the romance market is much larger in its readership. Why not shift totally to the genre with the greater ROI? Hey, my muse is in control. Not me. Should I ignore the fictional worlds that cry in the night to be captured on paper, just because they deal with amora? I don’t think so.

Probably should have listened to my wife eight years ago when I started, but you know how men are when it comes to taking a woman’s advice. What was it? To author my stories with the romantic flair under the alias Michele Davis. She was probably right, thought I’ll never tell her that (g). You can check out reviews, excerpts, trailers, and awards at Davisstories.com.

In 2005, Michael Davis began his writing career authoring 14 romantic suspense and SciFi stories. In 2008 & 2009 he received the Author of the Year Award, and in 2011 the Award of Excellence. His book BLIND CONSENT won the Rose Award for best romantic suspense. Other Top review rated titles include: TAINTED HERO, FORGOTTEN CHILDREN, SHADOW OF GUILT, and WHISPERS OF INNOCENCE. Excerpts, trailers and reviews are available at Davisstories.com

I’m the type of person who has to have the perfect working conditions in order to write.  I wish this were not so.  I wish I could write anywhere, at any time, and under any conditions.  I wish I could sit for five minutes at a bus stop and come up with something fabulous.  This is simply impossible for me.  I need long blocks of time to get in my characters’ heads, and I need quiet.

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Some time ago, I realized I had to get away from a ringing phone, seeing dirty dishes in the sink, a barking dog, and a husband who still could not remember how to use the fax machine.  In other words, I had to have my own writer’s paradise.

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After coming to this realization, I started planning.  What did I want? What could I afford?  What could I envision using as a special place to plot?  And that’s when it hit me.  Whenever I’ve gone to conference or on vacation, I’ve done some excellent plotting in a hot tub.  Relaxing in the warm, churning water with a glass of wine could unlock ideas, get the creative juices flowing, and had characters chattering like nothing else.  Eureka!  I got my answer and created a special place to write in my back yard.

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I must say, it works pretty well.

How about you?  Do you have a special place to read or write?

~Tiffany

www.tiffanygreen.net

I suppose as long as we have people who write, we will have readers who ask, “Where do you get the ideas for your stories?” and some of us will make a stab at answering. This is my version: Some of my best story ideas come from that social no-no EAVESDROPPING. Yes, I know it’s rude. And I was taught not to do it. But what can a storyteller do? You’re having a quiet lunch, the people at the table behind you–total strangers–mention the excitement at a recent wedding when the bride suddenly refused to say “I do’ . Well,I don’t know about you but when it happened to me, the next thing I did was dash home and make notes for ELOPEMENT FOR ONE before I forgot the details. I had a lot of fun finding out why the bride ran away and who she ran to.

Another great place for story ideas to take root is off-beat little feature stories in the local newspaper. I think small town newspapers are the best for this kind of inspiration because they print personal stories that aren’t news-worthy in the metropolitan press. Small town newspapers will give the reader the total guest list of a recent party or a button-by-button description of the gown Mrs. Hoopenlooper wore to the Knights of Columbus ball. The reader gets intimate tours of the engagement parties, baby showers, and small celebrations that are part of daily life. From a small town paper I learned about a valiant librarian who was defying civic leaders and refusing to remove a popular book from the shelves. Outraged mothers were insisting the book was endangering the moral fiber of the young people who might read it and discover–mercy on us–sex, sin and rock-a-billy music. In that librarian’s stand I found the basis of the story that became DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’. I’ve always been grateful to librarians for broadening my world.

One place I’ve found to be a gold mine of possible story ideas is the much maligned family reunion. Just get a group of older aunties together and listen. Sitting quietly in a corner, forgotten and ignored, I’ve heard enough family scandal to supply the cornerstone of a ten book series. By the time I’ve figured out why Aunt M doesn’t speak to Uncle J or how it was that Cousin BB had a baby that looked just like Cousin DB’s husband, whole plots, subplots and sequels are falling into place. The bits and pieces of one such reunion gave me the underlying story for the new book CRY AGAINST THE WIND coming out next year. Hope the dear old aunties don’t recognize the source of that one.

Don’t overlook personal experience as a source worth developing. When I was a small girl I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. Granddaddy had a little country band and a radio show on Saturday morning. One of my great treats was to go to the radio station with him and watch the ‘fellers’ do their show. While searching for a way to connect Evie and Dallas, the heroine and hero of BLACK RAIN RISING, I remembered my early trips to that tiny radio station and made it the center location of the book. Thanks for the memories, Granddad.  Writing the book gave me a chance to borrow back a treasured moment from my childhood.

Finally I find that my own hobbies and interests offer a hook that will support a story. I’ve been a classic car enthusiast since I fell in love with a TR-3–the boy who drove it was secondary. I attend car events, belong to a club that puts on classic car shows, and find myself avidly listening to people who own those pieces of engineering art. Out of that fascination I built the story about the disappearing groom and his 55 T-bird that became HALF PAST MOURNING.  I owe a lot of people many thanks for taking the time to help me understand the finer points of driving and how a road rally is planned. Hobbies or passions are ripe for harvesting for story ideas. I’d bet any organization devoted to a collective interest is full of quirky characters just waiting to be plugged into a story.

Where do story ideas come from? Well, perhaps they wait to rain down out of the atmosphere. They may lurk in high school annuals. Some can be overheard in elevators between floors. Possibly they are picked up from  casual encounters in the grocery store. Now I’ve told the absolute truth about where my ideas come from, but I’ve only told it to other writers. Needless to say, when a reader asks, I’m never going to admit my inspiration is anything as mundane as a family reunion or an old newspaper. What do you tell people when they ask the inevitable question?

Fleeta Cunningham

Don’t Call Me Darlin’

Black Rain Rising

Elopement for One

Half Past Mourning

Cry Against the Wind (forthcoming)

A Nez Perce Tale

First off, Thank you for having me here today!

I invented Indian spirits who are shape shifters and integral characters in my spirit Trilogy set among the Nez Perce. To me the spirit element is Native American. It is part of their culture and therefore makes the story more historical than paranormal, to my way of thinking.

Native Americans have long held the belief that animals carry spirits and those spirits were called upon to help with hunts, battles, and the day to day living required when living off the land. These spirits were depicted in drawings, ceremonies with elaborate costumes, and in their stories. Many myths/legends have the main characters of Coyote, Bear, Skunk, and Weasel.

These tales were told around campfires at night. The stories had morals like our fairy tales and fables. Only the characters in the stories were rarely human and always they told of lessons. Sometimes lessons for children and sometimes lessons for adults. And always they told of human foibles through the animals.

Here is a Nez Perce tale

Coyote was a wise man, and Fox was slow-witted. Coyote said to Fox, “Now we shall have to get up some scheme to procure food. You are slow-witted, just like your father. My father was not that way: he was wise. I have taken after my father.”

They were in their camp; and Coyote said to Fox, “If you keep perfectly still and do not move, we shall get some food.” Then Coyote began thus: “I wish that I and my friend could hear the sound of five packs of food falling at the door!” Then they heard five sounds: “tlitluk, tlitluk, tlitluk, tlitluk, tlitluk!” Coyote jumped up and ran out, and there he saw five packs lying at the door. He took the three largest ones for his share, and left the two smallest ones for Fox. The large packs that Coyote got were all dry meat without any fat, but the two little packs contained fine meat. In three days Coyote had eaten all his poor meat; while Fox had a great deal left, because his was so very rich. On the fourth morning Coyote was hungry, and kept his eye on Fox to see if he had eaten all his share. Now, Fox had eaten only one of his packs, so Coyote jumped over and took the other. Then he said to Fox, “You are a fine fellow never to divide up with your friend!”

Five times they repeated the magic act and got food, but the sixth time Coyote wanted to see who brought them the meat. So he said to Fox, “I am going to see the man who gives us meat.” Fox replied, “You had better not try to do that, because this is the only way we can get food.” But Coyote was determined to see. He stood at the door, and cut a peep-hole so that he could look out with one eye. Then he repeated the wish; and when the packs fell, he saw a man going up over the ridge who wore long hair in a wig. This man was Deer Tick. Coyote shouted after him, “Oh, you man with the wig, you go over the mountain!”

Think you they got food again from the man Coyote had shamed? [When this rhetorical question is asked, the chorus is "No!"]

Spirit of the Sky is my recent release. It’s the third book of my Spirit Trilogy that is set among the Nez Perce of NE Oregon. This book takes place as the non-treaty Nez Perce are fleeing the Army and avoiding being placed on the Lapway reservation.

Blurb for Spirit of the Sky

To save her from oppression, he must save her whole tribe. To give her his heart, he must desert his career…

When the US Army forces the Nimiipuu from their land, Sa-qan, the eagle spirit entrusted with watching over her tribe, steps in to save her mortal niece. Challenging the restrictions of the spirit world, Sa-qan assumes human form and finds an unexpected ally in a handsome cavalry officer.

Certain she is a captive, Lt. Wade Watts, a Civil War veteran, tries to help the blonde woman he finds sheltering a Nez Perce child. While her intelligent eyes reveal she understands his language, she refuses his help. But when Wade is wounded, it is the beautiful Sa-qan who tends him. Wade wishes to stop the killing—Sa-qan will do anything to save her people.

Can their differences save her tribe? Or will their love spell the end of the Nimiipuu?

Excerpt

She smiled and his heart leapt into his throat. He thought her beautiful from the first moment he saw her standing in the river fiercely protecting the child, but watching her tense face relax and smile, he was smitten. A light and pleasing calm washed over him for the first time in a very long time. He could only bask in the moment briefly. They were enemies.

“I am from the sky, and I watch over the Nimiipuu.” She nodded her head and flashed him with yet another smile. “You may call me Angel.”

“Only if you call me Wade.”

She nodded. “Let me check your wounds. You have moved around.”

“Why are you taking such good care of me when your warriors left me for dead?”

Her sunshine gaze peered straight into his eyes. “You saved my niece at the village and the wounded from the Bannock scout. You do not have the thirst to kill like the other soldiers.” She bowed her head and removed the blood encrusted bandage from his shoulder. “The Nimiipuu need you.”

Her touch warmed his body, tingling the areas around his wounds. He glanced at her small, delicate hands hovering over his injuries. He shut his eyes, and then opened them. Her hands shimmered as if in a fog. His pain subsided, in fact, his body felt well rested.

A soft lyrical chant rose from her lips as she continued to hover her hands over his wounds. Her eyes remained closed, her light lashes resting on her sun-kissed cheeks. He’d never seen a woman as beautiful as this. He had to learn her true origins and return her to her family.

Buy Link:

http://www.thewildrosepress.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=191&products_id=4850

Bio:

Wife, mother, grandmother, and the one who cleans pens and delivers the hay; award winning author Paty Jager and her husband currently ranch 350 acres when not dashing around visiting their children and grandchildren. She not only writes the western lifestyle, she lives it.

She is a member of RWA, EPIC , and COWG. She’s had eleven books and a short story published so far and is venturing into the new world of self-publishing ebooks.

Her contemporary Western, Perfectly Good Nanny won the 2008 Eppie for Best Contemporary Romance and Spirit of the Mountain, a historical paranormal set among the Nez Perce, garnered 1^st place in the paranormal category of the Lories Best Published Book Contest. Spirit of the Lake was a finalist in the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence.

You can learn more about her at her blog; www.patyjager.blogspot.com her website; http://www.patyjager.net or on Facebook; https://www.facebook.com/#!/paty.jager and twitter;  @patyjag.

Contest! I’m giving away a $5 Amazon gift certificate to one lucky commenter.

Blog Tour Contest!

Each blog stop has a picture of an eagle in the post. Follow the tour and send me the number of different pictures you saw while following the tour. To learn where I”ll be go to my blog(http://www.patyjager.blogpsot.com) or website(http://www.patyjager.net) If there is more than one correct entry I’ll draw a winner on May 21^st to receive a $25 gift certificate to either Barnes and Nobles or Amazon, a handmade custom ereader cover, and chocolate. Send your entry number to: patyjag@gmail.com by May 21^st.

References

Nez Perce Tales, By Herbert J. Spinden, 1907
From Blue Panther Keeper of Stories.

Tales of the Nez Perce by Donald M. Hines,
Ye Galleon Press; Fairfield, Washington, 1999

If you’ve taken literature classes or screenwriting classes or spent any amount of time digging into the background of Star Wars, you may have heard of Joseph Campbell’s  discovery of the ‘Hero’s Journey’, a pattern found worldwide in myths, fiction and drama. Christopher Vogler gives an excellent overview of it at his website, so take a peek once you’ve finished here. The steps are popular in plot development, though my historical romances aren’t going to have the sweep of say, Lord of the Rings or Gilgamesh.

Some people believe that the Hero’s Journey also holds true within the workings of the human mind. I’m not a psychologist and won’t try to address that, but I’ve observed some parallels to the Hero’s Journey in my writing life.

1. The Ordinary World: Where the protagonist lives at the story’s beginning. The world of bills, carpools, hairballs and dirty laundry. There is, as in all the best stories, an element of discontent, even with the presence of friends and family.

2. The Call to Adventure: The heroine is presented with a problem or challenge to respond to. In other words, it’s time to sit down at the computer and figure out what my characters are going to do next.

3. Refusal of the Call: Bilbo Baggins tells Gandalf that he cannot possibly go on an adventure because he left home without a pocket handkerchief.  I click on a picture of George Clooney from his ER days — only for research, I swear!

4. Meeting the Wise One: Alas, neither Gandalf nor George Clooney ever shows up in my living room to offer guidance (or in George’s case, ‘inspiration’, ahem) for what happens next in my story. So I’m stuck having to, as Vogler summarizes it, “reach within to a source of courage and wisdom.” Uh huh. Tell that to my ADHD muse.

5. Crossing the Threshold: According to Campbell, this is the point where the hero turns his back on the ordinary world to follow the quest or adventure from Step 2 above. According to me, this is the point where I can no longer put off actually typing new words in my WIP.

6. Tests, Allies, Enemies: The protagonist faces tests, meets allies, and confronts enemies. Tests: hunting for obscure but necessary information about Victorian life while trying to arrange a family get together this coming weekend. Allies: Writer friends or owners of websites devoted to historical minutiae like Victorian apothecary shops. Enemies: Telemarketers. Even if I don’t answer the phone, they still make the blasted thing ring.

7. Approaching the Inmost Cave: In books, the protagonist hits a setback and needs a new approach. Often that’s where the Turn or Ephiphany occurs — the hero discovers or realizes something that shifts his paradigm and hopefully raises the stakes (and reader interest) even higher. Or it’s where the characters hijack the story away from the synopsis, and I either have to scratch hours worth of work or figure out how the rest of the book is going to go, leading to…

8. Supreme Ordeal: Campbell called this the Dark Moment, the point when all seems hopeless.  Internally, the hero faces the decision to go on or abandon the quest completely. I either have to rewrite or force the characters back on track. This point calls for chocolate, wine, or both.

9. Reward: The heroine gains the talisman or knowledge she sought at the adventure’s start. The quest is fulfilled, I write the scene as originally planned. But there’s a catch. The reward, whatever it is, can still be lost. Or it’s not what the heroine truly wants. Or when I re-read it, my original idea just isn’t quite as good as I thought it was.

10. The Road Back: A return to the ordinary world, having learned from the Ordeal of Step 9. I’m dissatisfied with the plot originally set out, because that stupid alternate idea keeps interrupting my flow.

11. Resurrection: The climax of the story, where the protagonist has to use everything he or she has learned. Somehow, the conflict between what my characters want and what I originally wanted is resolved and I can move forward with the story.

12: Return with the Elixir: Sometimes called the Real Reward. The ‘elixir’ is a metaphor for knowledge that the protagonist can use in the ordinary world to help others. For me, the elixir means that my book will be different than I originally envisioned it, but hopefully better. Or it means I need another glass of wine. So I turn off my computer and return to my real world.

At least till tomorrow. Ssssiiiiigghhhhh.

What sort of things help you shake yourself out of the everyday? A hobby? Visit someplace special? Go to the movies? I’d love to hear from you!

~Ann

Here are the first sentences of some of the greatest books ever written.  At least, from the point of view of Easton Press.  See if you can identify the book from which the following first sentences originate:

1. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

2. They’re out there.

3. When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.

4. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

5. The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was expounding a recondite matter to us.

6. The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest.

7. “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

8. The cell door slammed behind Rubashov.

9. There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

10. It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered before the adverse hosts could meet. 

Give up?

Need a hint?

Finished yet?

Googling the answers?

Okay, okay.  Here are the answers.  See if they surpirse you.

1. Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

2. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Ken Kesey

3. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee

4. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

5. The Time Machine, H. G. Wells

6. Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

7. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

8. Darkness at Noon, Arthur Koestler

9. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

10. The Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore Cooper

I find it interesting how we have come to realize the importance of a gripping first sentence.  As a reader, I like to be hooked from the very first word and taken on one heck of a ride.  What about you?

~Tiffany