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.

Research, Writing, and Visual Cues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rulon Owen Visits Me Again

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

Me: Should you be here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he's gone.

Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward

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

Harry or Ezra: The Problem of Minor Characters

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

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

Because I was not sure if the name was correct.

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

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

[Marsha heaves a huge sigh]

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

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

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

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

Thank you!

Rulon Owen is a sentimental fellow

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

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

Rulon

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

Rulon Owen is Not a Patient Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Humph," he snorts. "Plastic."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rulon, are you seeing someone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © 2013 Marsha Ward


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

Something more to enjoy from Spinster's Folly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No!" Julia sat up.

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

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

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

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

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

"I asked does Marie want him?"

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

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

"Julie, shh."

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

Copyright 2012 Marsha Ward

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

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

A New Bit from Spinster's Folly

He stared at the paper until the lines of script began to wiggle before his eyes, pain surging from the part of his hair to his toenails. He knew he looked a fool with his mouth open, but if he was going to breathe again, the happenstance of his jaw having gone slack might help him drag in some air, if he could remember how that was done.

~~~

Do you suppose Bill Henry's had some bad news?

I wrote a new scene today

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

First draft scene from Spinster's Folly

I can always use advice, if you think there's too much of this or a scene needs a little bit more of that. Comments always welcome!

Here's something that needs more polish, so I'm offering it up for your emery compound and buffing wheel (and I might do a little editing of my own as I put this in).
~~~

Bill awoke with an uneasy feeling. As he sat on the edge of his bunk, he paused before pulling on his second shoe. What was bothering him? It didn't take much pondering to know that the path he had planned for his life had gone terribly wrong: Marie Owen was promised to that wretched farm boy, Tom Morgan. That was enough to bother any man anyone.

"Tom," he growled, yanking on his shoe. "What a puny excuse for a man!"

He tied the brogan, rose, and slammed his hat onto his head. Why did she choose Tom Morgan? Doesn't she know how I feel about her? Anger battled grief in his body, his heart pounding like galloping hooves on a hardpan road. He took several deep breaths, trying to get the emotions under control so he could get about his day, but the sense of wrong, the sense of foreboding wouldn't leave him. Maybe something else was gnawing at him.

Try as he might would to shake off the feeling of disaster that lingered like a bitter aftertaste in the mouth, Bill went to breakfast without any relief from the sensation. Even three spoonsful of sugar mixed into his coffee didn't take away the dread.

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder from behind, and immediately the hoarse sound of Chico Henderson's morning voice cut through a bit of his reflective fog.

"Sorry I was a porcupine last evenin'," Chico said. "You don't usually take my money so handily."

Bill attempted to add a light tone to his reply. "You're a sore loser, Henderson." He failed. His voice grated in his ears as though he were drawing a rasp over a tin washboard. He clamped his jaw shut.

"I ain't so much, old son. You were on a winning streak the likes of which I ain't seen before." Chico sat in the chair next to Bill's and lifted his mug toward his mouth. "It took me by surprise, I got to say." After a slurp or two, he cut his eyes toward Bill. "What's tuggin' on your brainpan?"

Bill shrugged.

"Somethin' has you befogged. Out with it."

"I can't say." He shrugged again. "I don't know." He bit his lip. "How could she up and get herself promised to that lump?"

Chico wiped his the last sip of coffee from his moustache. "Was you makin' plans with her?"

Bill hesitated. Then, realizing Chico was the closest thing to a good friend that he had in this country, he blurted out, "It didn't get that far along. I was hoping, but--" He stopped short when the cook, Sourdough Smith, slapped a plate of eggs and beans onto the table before him.

Chico waited until Sourdough stepped back to the stove. "Uh-huh?"

"I had no chance to speak to the girl."

"Why's that?"

"She went on that little expedition with her pa and the boys."

"She come back."

"Maybe so, but she was she's mighty changed. She'd She's put up a wall the size of the Guadalupes."

"You sayin' you ain't much of a mountain climber?"

Bill snorted derisively. "Chico, you trying to make me smile? I'm not in a smiling mood."

"I'll say you ain't!" Chico took a plate from Sourdough's hand and shoveled a mouthful of eggs beneath his moustache. Then he mumbled through the food, "You oughta talk to her. Speak your mind."

"You think Rod Owen would stand for that?"

"The ol' man don't got to know."

"Humph."
~~~
 
Yes, I've got Bill pulling on shoes instead of boots, because not all cowhands of the period wore boots. However, I'll have to check for consistency. If he wore boots in The Man from Shenandoah, he'll have to wear boots in Spinster's Folly, as well. Maybe someone can look that up for me. I'll give you a shout-out in the acknowledgements. :-) 

Copyright 2012 Marsha Ward

Finding Character Names

I've got a unique collection of character names. I never run out. Someday, in some book, I will actually use them as names for villains.

Want to know where I get this endless list from?

Spammers. Those who send me emails that end up in my spam folder. Their names are so great, especially for villainous characters: Dacia Ramonita. Concepcion Griselda. Griselda Concepcion. Ramonita Dacia.

See there, I got four names just from the last two spammers who tried to sell me bogus Viagra. Like I need that stuff!

Marie wonders about her suitor pool

Here's a scene from Spinster's Folly that I'm playing with again.

The night before Rod Owen trailed his beef cows to the Cuchara, Marie tossed and turned. Julianna elbowed her once, then went back into slumberland, but Marie's mind seemed to bubble with imaginings like a pot boiling over a too-hot stove. It wouldn't allow her the relief of sleep.

She wondered whether she dreaded or anticipated the next few days. If Pa liked Tom's prospects and proposed to add him to the family, the young man's reaction would play a big part in Marie's future. He might accept Pa's suggestion with enthusiasm, and jump into making and carrying out plans for a wedding and a life together with Marie. If, on the other hand, Ed Morgan's son had no notion of marrying her, his disinclination could spell spinsterhood for her.

Who else was there for her to marry? She lay very still, searching every nook and cranny of her brain for prospects. She'd seen the Dominguez brothers once or twice when they had stopped in to water their horses as they traveled on their way to Pueblo town. Enrique and Patricio Dominguez cut blazingly romantic figures, with their wide-brimmed hats and differently-styled clothes, their teeth-flashing smiles and flirtatious comments. She thought the pair of them was tremendously exciting. Given the chance, which one would she choose to wed?

After thinking on the exotic brothers for a time, she sighed and discarded the wild idea of being courted by such a man, knowing Pa would never agree to a marriage in that direction. That left her with a suitor pool made up of Tom Morgan, grubby freighters from Pueblo town, hard-rock miners from the north and the west, or her father's cowhands.

Tom had his distinctions. Despite being a farmer, he washed his hands before eating and wore fresh clothing to social events. He kept his medium brown hair trimmed above his collar, and it was never greasy. He had his flirtatious moments, but he'd always treated her with respect. Maybe too much respect.

Marie turned on her side, and let her mind examine that topic. Tom had never sought her out as an object of courtship, although she suspected his pa and her own had intended for some years for them to marry one day. She and Tom had never discussed the subject. During their journey to the West, Tom had acted the same way toward her as he had toward Ellen Bates and Ida Hilbrands--both of them betrothed girls. Tom could be merry, but he could be boring, as well.

Enrique Dominguez would never be boring. She didn't know how much English he spoke or understood, but it would certainly be interesting, no, it would be exciting, to live in his house, learning a new language, having servants, being married. . . .

She inhaled sharply and pulled the quilt over her head. What was she thinking? She was as bad as Julianna, trying to picture what goes on behind a couple's closed door. She'd seen horses mating, and a human encounter must involve the same elements. That wasn't her business yet. She'd learn all about it first hand, once she married Bill.

Bill? The hot flush of burning cheeks drove her out from under the covers. I don't mean Bill. I mean Tom. Lawsy! What am I thinking? She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to banish the errant image that persisted in her brain of Bill Henry's contrite face when she'd lashed out in anger at him the morning her horse had bolted.

The image lingered, however. She could not banish it in favor of Tom's bland visage. Then a series of Bills lined up before her inner eye: Bill, looking stricken as she berated him, the color of his eyes deepening almost to black, as though he willed them to shelter his soul. Bill, saying, "I didn't mean you." Bill, his moustache twitching on the left side of his mouth as she turned away from him.

Marie shook her head, trying to drive the specters away. Bill Henry should not be in her mind when she was, in all likelihood, going to end up the bride of Tom Morgan.
~~~

How many sleepless nights did you endure, wondering about your future? Or are you still engaged in such a struggle?

41 Words

Yesterday I was able to tinker with a scene and write 41 words. Unfortunately, I didn't notice the word count at that time. Probably because I don't have a proper place for writing it down. I used to, then the year changed, and the darling little writer's calender I was using is no longer available. I must find something else, really soon! I have the beginnings of a new scene written in a notebook, which I didn't have time to locate and grab the other day as I left the house.

And how is YOUR New Year coming along?

From Chapter 13, Spinster's Folly

A bit more for your enjoyment:

It seemed to Marie to be a shameful thing that she kept nodding off, but she couldn't help it. Bess's gait was most easy, and she was so tired. The strain of the day's events, not to mention the blow to her face when she fell, had built up a great lethargy, and she kept giving in to the need to sleep.

She awoke with a jolt when a chill wind hit her cheek. She shivered. The moon's light had diminished due to an obscuring bank of clouds. With the wind picking up, she feared it would soon rain, so she urged Bess to overtake Mr. Alderson once more.

"Will we camp before the storm comes?" she asked him, a note of anxiety making her voice sound high and thin to her ears.

Mr. Alderson looked up at the sky and tilted his head. "I imagine we do need to seek shelter. Look for any trees, or a butte we can camp beside." He patted her hand. "We'll be safe. Don't worry."

"I can't help a bit of nerves."

"So you can't. Let me relieve your mind. I'll do the worrying from now on." He smiled in the dim light and gave her hand a final pat before turning away.

Marie heaved a sigh and let Mr. Alderson take the lead again. Perhaps all would be well with Mr. Alderson doing the thinking. After all, she was entrusting her entire life and future to him. She felt a bit of her burden lifting from her shoulders. Yes, all will be well.

After a while, she heard a laugh from Mr. Alderson.

"See there? I believe we've come upon a stream. We'll have good shelter there."

Soon they were dismounting near the bank, and found the wind was cut somewhat by a stand of oak trees that lined the creek.

"I'll water the horses. You find wood and build a fire," Mr. Alderson said.

Marie nodded, grateful that the rain hadn't yet started. She'd still be able to find dry kindling for her fire. She hurried to her task, and gathered enough kindling, sticks, and branches for a small fire. Mr. Alderson could search out more wood later, if they needed to keep the fire going for long. She hoped he had a hand ax in one of his saddlebags, in case he needed to cut a large branch.

After arranging her wood to her satisfaction on a patch of earth she had scraped bare, she put a piece of cotton wool underneath, and struck flint and steel together until the resultant sparks set the tinder to smoldering in a couple of places. She carefully blew on the best spots, then pulled back when they burst into flame. She pushed the tinder together so the flames would intensify, and soon the kindling was ablaze. It didn't take long until her sticks were also afire, and she rocked back on her heels to admire her work.
~~~

Have you ever built your own campfire? When and where?

More from Spinster's Folly

Here's a bit more from my forthcoming novel, Spinster's Folly, for your enjoyment:

Marie slid from the saddle into Mr. Alderson's arms. She stumbled a bit, but with his aid, she recovered herself.

Mr. Alderson clasped her tightly, pressing kisses on her brow, her cheeks, then finally, on her lips. Marie responded, relief at getting away clean feeding her fervor. At last, they broke apart and looked at each other.

“I am so gratified that you came,” Mr. Alderson said. “We really should be on our way.” He hugged Marie again, then whispered, “My companions may miss me. I'm not sure they were asleep when I left the camp.”

A tingle of fear swept down Marie's spine. “Let's leave now,” she agreed.

Marie remounted with a boost from her swain, then he got up on his horse, signaled with his head the direction they would take, and they left the meadow for the path through the trees and out of the Owen claims. Soon they found the well-traveled road, and made their way north.
~~~

It appears that Marie's feeling of relief at being free of her odious situation is mixed with fear of being caught. What situation in your own life could be akin to Marie's?

Don't be shy in commenting about anything else you wish. You don't need to answer the question posed above.

I'm Writing!

Today I pushed to write the final scene in Spinster's Folly. No, that doesn't mean I've finished the book, just that last scene. There's still a lot to put between where I left off and the ending. However, this scene is powerful! Here's a tidbit from the draft:

"I reckon I love you," Bill said. "I reckon my affection for you began to growin' that first day we met, with you all shocked and discombobulated, with leaves and dirt and such on your dress. Despite your dishevelment, I knew that underneath, you were the most beautiful girl in the world."

"Don't mock me!"

"I'd never do that."

Marie bent her shoulders forward and hugged herself. "I don't want your pity."

Bill sat for a long time, looking down at the hatful of fire. Finally he lifted his head and gazed at Marie. He swallowed, then spoke, his voice steady, but with a marked gentleness. "I bear you no pity. Only the devotion of a revived man who's heart was tore out when you left. It was bruised and battered when your pa told me he was marryin' you to the farmer, but it shattered in pieces when you left with Alderson. I thought never to see you again."

Marie turned her head aside, unwilling to see the hurt in his eyes. "Going with him was my great folly," she said, her tone bitter. "He bore me no love, as he had led me to believe."

"He's nothing but a confidence man, a very practiced confidence man."
~~~

Have you ever been seriously betrayed? How did you feel about it?

I'm ready to write again

Yes, it's true. I'm feeling very good, and although I have a huge life project that will be going on for several months, I WILL WRITE. In the meantime, please enjoy this little tidbit from the upcoming Spinster's Folly.

Marie tiptoed across the plank bridge toward the stable. She still hadn't decided whether to take her black riding horse or Bess, the gentle mare she'd ridden on the Cuchara expedition. Both were good mounts, but the remembrance of Bess's easy gait and comfortable ride weighed heavily in her favor. Besides, the black could be uppity of a morning, and Bess never was. In the end, Marie chose the more comfortable horse, and led Bess from the darkness of the stable so she could tie her bundle behind the saddle.

Do I have all I'll need? she questioned herself before she mounted. She'd brought no trinkets or baubles, but only a change of clothes, the cooking utensils she'd selected earlier in the day, the poke weighing heavily where she'd hidden it inside her bodice, and food and water for the journey. She left behind a letter, written on the sly, saying she was heading north with "my own true love," and that the next time anyone from the homestead saw her, she would "be a married woman."

Once in the saddle atop Bess's broad back, she surveyed the meadow, with the embers of all the campfires scattered across it, looking for the surest route through them. If she bent her way south around the Bates's camp, then between the Campbells and the Hilbrands, she should soon be out of harm's way.

Gently putting her heels to the horse's sides, she sat forward, and Bess moved out into the night, nickering softly.

"Oh hush, Bess," Marie whispered. Perhaps she should have blindfolded the mare and led her? It's too late for that, she acknowledged to herself, and merely patted the mare's neck and whispered soft encouragement.

Once she heard voices, and froze, reining Bess to a halt. She listened, and located the sounds as coming from the far side of the meadow. A couple up late, romancing? She couldn't tell, as no clear words came to her ears. Judging the late-night chatterers to be no threat to her, she clucked to Bess, and got the animal moving again. In only a few moments more, she would be through the visitors' camps, and well away.