This is one of those little-bit-of-this-and-that columns. On Monday, I'm having cataract surgery on my right eye. This will be followed two weeks later by the left eye. I flunked an eye exam last fall, so it's surgery for me. This delights my daughter, Sarah, the ocular diagnostician, because she tells me I'll see better soon, and probably without needing spectacles. (Down time is s'pozed to be brief, so I'll soon be back trying to help Ammon and Addie Hancock get out of Mexico before the Pancho Villa-types make it even more difficult. I had to hang four gringo cowboys two days ago, and I didn't much enjoy that.)
I think I'm a pretty good patient, but how would I know? My last surgery happened when I was four years old and had my tonsils and adenoids removed. I suppose I can count the event in 2002 where I broke my arm and the doc put me out, because he wasn't sure if I needed to be sliced and pinned. Turns out he was able to line up everything again, so it wasn't too bad.
The tough part about this means I have to stay out of the pool for a week. Water aerobics is not only good exercise; it is also my source of all knowledge here in Carbon County. No, no, not necessarily gossip. I've only lived here 3 1/2 years, so whenever I have a county-related question, I know I can ask it in the pool and someone will have an answer. Hasn't failed yet.
I did an amazingly extravagant thing after Christmas, and it came in the mail yesterday. A month ago, my daughter Liz shared her history of perfume book with me. We discovered that - supposedly - the oldest actual brand-name perfume that is still in production is something called Jicky, by Guerlain. It came to life in 1889, and was/is popular with Cary Grant and Sean Connery. Yes, a guy fragrance at first, but it became a favorite with the ladies.
It's not cheap, and I'm cheap, so I had no plans to buy any. Then my sons each Amazoned me for Christmas. "Why not?" I asked myself, so I ordered a bottle of the spray cologne. It came yesterday, and me oh my, it is an original scent - mild with overtones of lavender. I've even figured out how I can work a reference to Jicky into the Mexican Revolution novel I'm writing now. Whether I do or not remains to be seen. I've certainly never done any product placement in a novel before.
Oh, those of you who are buying Miss Whittier Makes a List as an ebook - thanks! It's doing pretty well.
One more tidbit, then it's back to Chapter Fourteen. There is a most intriguing website called Shorpy.com that I have to mention. My friend Steve Patterson told me about it, and I'm hooked. It's a random series of old photos - they seem to range from the Civil War era to the 1970s - which have/can be enlarged to show amazing detail. People's comment are equally entertaining. Take a look; you might get hooked, too.
The Wedge of the San Rafael
Someone has to live here, in the middle of desert beauty. Might as well be the Kellys.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Pioneering Made Easy
If you'd had your head hanging out a window recently, you'd have heard my snort and guffaw when I got my latest Deseret Book catalog.
For those of you who aren't Mormon, let me explain. In 1847, Brigham Young led a pioneering company of some 120+ Mormons into the Salt Lake Valley. From 1847 to roughly 1860, Mormons followed the Mormon-Oregon-California Trail to the Salt Lake Valley in covered wagons. From 1856 and for a few years, the poorest pioneers came via handcarts, pulling all their possessions in a small cart. After 1860, most emigrants went to the Missouri River and were freighted to Salt Lake by wagons and teams that had delivered goods to the East, and would otherwise have returned to Utah Territory with empty wagons. And after 1869, most came by railroad.
It's become popular for Mormon youth groups to stage those handcart treks. Typically, they'll borrow or build a handcart, and dress up in pioneer clothing, and push and pull a handcart five or so miles. It's a nice spiritual experience for many, and gives today's more tech friendly, privileged youth a tiny - and I do mean tiny - taste of the rigors of trail travel. Don't get me wrong - I think it's a good idea.
Well doggoned if the Deseret Bookstore Catalog isn't starting a Pioneer Trek Outfitters Guide, where pampered youth can buy ready-made skirts, bonnets, aprons, shirts, blouses, bandannas (12 colors), neck coolers, pioneer hats and trek wristbands. There will also be pioneer dinnerware, a trek journal (probably in tasteful leather which can be eaten if the journey turns into a Donner Party sort of gig), and appropriate hand sanitizer, sunscreen and lip balm.
Oh, give me a gigantic break. Half or most of the fun of reenacting is to make your own period clothing and accessories, and rough it a bit. Neck coolers? Wusses.
I can say this because I was one of the first to organize such a trek, and we did it the hard way. When we lived in Torrington, Wyoming, in 1972-75, I worked summers at Fort Laramie National Historic Site as a seasonal ranger/historian. During the school year, I also taught an early-morning Seminary class for high school-age Mormons, where they learned about our church, the Book of Mormon, and the Bible. One winter, my Seminary class and I decided that since we lived on the Oregon Trail, we would make a handcart and pull and push it in July from Torrington to Fort Laramie, one of the prime stops on the overland trail. It's a distance of 25 miles. When Brigham Young organized the handcart companies, he figured the pioneers could travel that distance in a fairly easy day. A typical day proved to be about a 10-12 mile trip.
We did it two summers, starting early in the morning and arriving in mid-afternoon. We were sunburned and footsore, but we learned a lot about our pioneer ancestors and ourselves. One thing we all discovered was that after a mile or two, NOBODY looked back. We didn't, because it became too discouraging to look back and find out how short the distance was that we had traveled. We started joking each other, "If you're going to fall down, fall down facing west."
We also understood completely when those "real" pioneers described in their journals their joy at seeing the American flag at Fort Laramie. We felt that same joy, after our day of arduous travel. But we only had to walk and pull that handcart for one day, and not the 110 days that it took to make the journey from Iowa City, Iowa, to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Our handcart had ballbearings, so it was easy to pull, and it wasn't loaded with food and all our earthly possessions. It was hard enough, but there was none of that exhaustion, desperation and pain that the real pioneers felt. Or the true joy of arriving in Salt Lake.
Even after some 30+ years, I see some of my Seminary students now and then. We remember that experience, and we are grateful. We learned not to look back and to keep moving, no matter what, valuable lessons.
Storebought clothes, neck coolers and hand sanitizer? Sissies.
For those of you who aren't Mormon, let me explain. In 1847, Brigham Young led a pioneering company of some 120+ Mormons into the Salt Lake Valley. From 1847 to roughly 1860, Mormons followed the Mormon-Oregon-California Trail to the Salt Lake Valley in covered wagons. From 1856 and for a few years, the poorest pioneers came via handcarts, pulling all their possessions in a small cart. After 1860, most emigrants went to the Missouri River and were freighted to Salt Lake by wagons and teams that had delivered goods to the East, and would otherwise have returned to Utah Territory with empty wagons. And after 1869, most came by railroad.
It's become popular for Mormon youth groups to stage those handcart treks. Typically, they'll borrow or build a handcart, and dress up in pioneer clothing, and push and pull a handcart five or so miles. It's a nice spiritual experience for many, and gives today's more tech friendly, privileged youth a tiny - and I do mean tiny - taste of the rigors of trail travel. Don't get me wrong - I think it's a good idea.
Well doggoned if the Deseret Bookstore Catalog isn't starting a Pioneer Trek Outfitters Guide, where pampered youth can buy ready-made skirts, bonnets, aprons, shirts, blouses, bandannas (12 colors), neck coolers, pioneer hats and trek wristbands. There will also be pioneer dinnerware, a trek journal (probably in tasteful leather which can be eaten if the journey turns into a Donner Party sort of gig), and appropriate hand sanitizer, sunscreen and lip balm.
Oh, give me a gigantic break. Half or most of the fun of reenacting is to make your own period clothing and accessories, and rough it a bit. Neck coolers? Wusses.
I can say this because I was one of the first to organize such a trek, and we did it the hard way. When we lived in Torrington, Wyoming, in 1972-75, I worked summers at Fort Laramie National Historic Site as a seasonal ranger/historian. During the school year, I also taught an early-morning Seminary class for high school-age Mormons, where they learned about our church, the Book of Mormon, and the Bible. One winter, my Seminary class and I decided that since we lived on the Oregon Trail, we would make a handcart and pull and push it in July from Torrington to Fort Laramie, one of the prime stops on the overland trail. It's a distance of 25 miles. When Brigham Young organized the handcart companies, he figured the pioneers could travel that distance in a fairly easy day. A typical day proved to be about a 10-12 mile trip.
We did it two summers, starting early in the morning and arriving in mid-afternoon. We were sunburned and footsore, but we learned a lot about our pioneer ancestors and ourselves. One thing we all discovered was that after a mile or two, NOBODY looked back. We didn't, because it became too discouraging to look back and find out how short the distance was that we had traveled. We started joking each other, "If you're going to fall down, fall down facing west."
We also understood completely when those "real" pioneers described in their journals their joy at seeing the American flag at Fort Laramie. We felt that same joy, after our day of arduous travel. But we only had to walk and pull that handcart for one day, and not the 110 days that it took to make the journey from Iowa City, Iowa, to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Our handcart had ballbearings, so it was easy to pull, and it wasn't loaded with food and all our earthly possessions. It was hard enough, but there was none of that exhaustion, desperation and pain that the real pioneers felt. Or the true joy of arriving in Salt Lake.
Even after some 30+ years, I see some of my Seminary students now and then. We remember that experience, and we are grateful. We learned not to look back and to keep moving, no matter what, valuable lessons.
Storebought clothes, neck coolers and hand sanitizer? Sissies.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
I hereby resolve...
I should resolve to be more prompt with blogs, but I have to tell you that's not going to happen. I'm still not convinced that anyone particularly cares what I do, so I face 2013 with the same amount of skepticism I ended with in 2012.
Some fun things did happen before Christmas. I grudgingly agreed to do a few booksignings at some Seagull store, and I did have a good time, or what passes for a good time at a booksigning. I'm well aware that most royalties for authors, at least authors of fiction, are generated through ebook sales. With that in mind, what's the point of booksignings? The "grudgingly" part comes because we're never quite sure about the weather in the canyon between Carbon County and the rest of Utah. It can be the white knuckle express.
And yet. On December 22, I had a lovely encounter with two readers, Amy the mother and Dondy the daughter, whom I had met at a fun bookclub meeting last summer in Mapleton, Utah. They like to read, and they both enjoyed My Loving Vigil Keeping, to the point of wanting to visit Scofield Cemetery in the spring, when the snow is eventually gone.
Dondy did say she probably won't make the trip, because she's expecting twins in spring. She's having a girl and a boy, and here's the part that we laughed over: She's almost convinced her husband that the boy should be named Owen, after the hero in Vigil Keeping. I was tickled. I'll have to ask her if I can attend her son and daughter's blessing. She said she wasn't making any headway on getting her husband to agree to Angharad for their daughter, though.
Amy and Dondy stayed and chatted a while and we all had fun. Heavens, I hated to see them leave, because not only are they charming, but they were calling over browsers in the bookstore and telling them to buy my books! I told them I'll have to take them on all booksignings.
I'm about halfway done with Safe Passage, a novel set in 1912, after the Mormons have been ejected from their Mexican colonies by the Mexican Revolution. Our hero has to return and find his wife. Safe Passage is the working title, but could change.
For those of you who are interested, Signet has released The Lady's Companion as an ebook. This was my second Rita Award-winner, and a bit of a ground breaker. My Signet editor claimed it was one of the few books where the heroine "slides" and finds her true love in the bailiff on the estate where she is functioning rather poorly as a lady's companion to the widow of a Peninsular War hero. According to my editor, what usually happened was the lady would discover that her lover was really a duke or marquis in disguise, and not a lowly bailiff. Nope. I never mess around like that. David Wiggins is a bailiff. He was a thief, a rascal, a bastard, a sergeant major reformed by the aforementioned widow.
And if you're still interested, CamelPress in Seattle has just reissued Miss Whittier Makes a List, another moldy-oldy Signet. This is reissued as paperback and ebook. Hannah is a Quaker miss, bound for Charlestown, South Carolina, from Nantucket. When her ship is blown out of the water by a French privateer she becomes the unwilling guest of the Royal Navy.
Here's the funny thing about Miss Whittier: I wrote in in 19th century Quaker-speak, of course, which some well-intentioned but boneheaded copy editor turned into Elizabethan English. I spent a lot of time changing it back to Quaker-speak and convincing Signet that really knew what I was doing.
Well. When I finish Safe Passage by the end of January, I'll return to the high seas for another Harlequin Historical. Not sure what the title is yet, and the plot is barely there, but I'll have fun, and hopefully you will, too, if you're not opposed to reading a more va-va-voom book. After that, I'm off to the Double Cross again in the royal colony of New Mexico. I do get around.
Happy New Year to all of you. I'll try to resurface in a couple of weeks, and I will try to be more prompt with answering comments.
Some fun things did happen before Christmas. I grudgingly agreed to do a few booksignings at some Seagull store, and I did have a good time, or what passes for a good time at a booksigning. I'm well aware that most royalties for authors, at least authors of fiction, are generated through ebook sales. With that in mind, what's the point of booksignings? The "grudgingly" part comes because we're never quite sure about the weather in the canyon between Carbon County and the rest of Utah. It can be the white knuckle express.
And yet. On December 22, I had a lovely encounter with two readers, Amy the mother and Dondy the daughter, whom I had met at a fun bookclub meeting last summer in Mapleton, Utah. They like to read, and they both enjoyed My Loving Vigil Keeping, to the point of wanting to visit Scofield Cemetery in the spring, when the snow is eventually gone.
Dondy did say she probably won't make the trip, because she's expecting twins in spring. She's having a girl and a boy, and here's the part that we laughed over: She's almost convinced her husband that the boy should be named Owen, after the hero in Vigil Keeping. I was tickled. I'll have to ask her if I can attend her son and daughter's blessing. She said she wasn't making any headway on getting her husband to agree to Angharad for their daughter, though.
Amy and Dondy stayed and chatted a while and we all had fun. Heavens, I hated to see them leave, because not only are they charming, but they were calling over browsers in the bookstore and telling them to buy my books! I told them I'll have to take them on all booksignings.
I'm about halfway done with Safe Passage, a novel set in 1912, after the Mormons have been ejected from their Mexican colonies by the Mexican Revolution. Our hero has to return and find his wife. Safe Passage is the working title, but could change.
For those of you who are interested, Signet has released The Lady's Companion as an ebook. This was my second Rita Award-winner, and a bit of a ground breaker. My Signet editor claimed it was one of the few books where the heroine "slides" and finds her true love in the bailiff on the estate where she is functioning rather poorly as a lady's companion to the widow of a Peninsular War hero. According to my editor, what usually happened was the lady would discover that her lover was really a duke or marquis in disguise, and not a lowly bailiff. Nope. I never mess around like that. David Wiggins is a bailiff. He was a thief, a rascal, a bastard, a sergeant major reformed by the aforementioned widow.
And if you're still interested, CamelPress in Seattle has just reissued Miss Whittier Makes a List, another moldy-oldy Signet. This is reissued as paperback and ebook. Hannah is a Quaker miss, bound for Charlestown, South Carolina, from Nantucket. When her ship is blown out of the water by a French privateer she becomes the unwilling guest of the Royal Navy.
Here's the funny thing about Miss Whittier: I wrote in in 19th century Quaker-speak, of course, which some well-intentioned but boneheaded copy editor turned into Elizabethan English. I spent a lot of time changing it back to Quaker-speak and convincing Signet that really knew what I was doing.
Well. When I finish Safe Passage by the end of January, I'll return to the high seas for another Harlequin Historical. Not sure what the title is yet, and the plot is barely there, but I'll have fun, and hopefully you will, too, if you're not opposed to reading a more va-va-voom book. After that, I'm off to the Double Cross again in the royal colony of New Mexico. I do get around.
Happy New Year to all of you. I'll try to resurface in a couple of weeks, and I will try to be more prompt with answering comments.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Just a very little
If any of you are in/near Salt Lake City on Saturday, December 8, I'm having a booksigning at the Seagull Bookstore in Fashion Place Mall. I'm going to have a drawing for some of my hand creams. I'll probably bring along a jar of Christmas Splendor, and maybe one of Beau Brummel. The Beau's hand cream seemed appropriate for the Regency era, of course. I think it smells a bit like London men's clubs.
I started making soap, hand lotion and hand cream this fall, and boy howdy, is it great stuff. Bath & Body Works isn't getting another dime from me. I emailed a friend about it, and she's getting a jar of Bay Rum hand cream for her Sam. It's Mr. Otto's favorite, as well as any number of my nautical guys. Maybe cuz I like it. My soap is still pretty homely, but it lathers well, and does the job.
I have another booksigning in Helper, Utah, on December 15, at the Western Mining and Railroad Museum, from noon to 3 p.m. The museum will be selling My Loving Vigil Keeping, since it's about coal mining. Then on Saturday, December 22, at the Seagull Bookstore in Sprngville, Utah, from 11-2, I'll have another booksigning. That will round out 2012. January will see - sort of - me getting cataract surgery, and there are three bookclubs where I'll be speaking, too.
Now it's back to Safe Passage, where Ammon Hancock is having the darnedest time finding his wife.
I started making soap, hand lotion and hand cream this fall, and boy howdy, is it great stuff. Bath & Body Works isn't getting another dime from me. I emailed a friend about it, and she's getting a jar of Bay Rum hand cream for her Sam. It's Mr. Otto's favorite, as well as any number of my nautical guys. Maybe cuz I like it. My soap is still pretty homely, but it lathers well, and does the job.
I have another booksigning in Helper, Utah, on December 15, at the Western Mining and Railroad Museum, from noon to 3 p.m. The museum will be selling My Loving Vigil Keeping, since it's about coal mining. Then on Saturday, December 22, at the Seagull Bookstore in Sprngville, Utah, from 11-2, I'll have another booksigning. That will round out 2012. January will see - sort of - me getting cataract surgery, and there are three bookclubs where I'll be speaking, too.
Now it's back to Safe Passage, where Ammon Hancock is having the darnedest time finding his wife.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
It's war
Oh my word, editors are even more corn-fusing than
readers. Let me walk you through my encounter with an editor at Penguin Random
House yesterday. (Signet is a Penguin imprint.)
a few years ago, Signet asked me to return my copywrites for those 16
traditional Regencies I wrote for them years ago, to reissue now as ebooks. I
have been parceling them out to three publishers – Cedar Fort, Camel Press in
Seattle, and back to Signet. Signet has reissued several of these now, and they
look fine.
The dilemma is The
Wedding Journey, a novel set in 1812 Spain when Marching Hospital #8 (think
MASH unit) is trying to make it to safety behind the lines of Torres Vedras in
Portugal. It’s a tough little story, with appealing characters. Research was fun beyond belief, but a challenge, because it's hard to find good stuff about combat medicine in the Napoleonic Wars.
In late November, my Signet editor (she’ll remain
nameless) sent me a proposed cover copy for the ebook of The Wedding Journey. It’s lovely – a handsome barouche with wedding
flowers all over it. The only problem is that it reflects absolutely nothing
that happens in the novel. Nothing. Zilch. Nada.
Here was her first email on Nov. 20: “I’m attaching the cover we’ve created for
THE WEDDING JOURNEY here!”
My reply: “Well,
it’s pretty, but has absolutely nothing to do with the book, set in Spain when
the army is retreating and evacuating a mobile hospital. Could you try again?”
Her reply the name day: “It is a fine line because there isn’t really art that will show those
particulars of the plot. Do you think that something less fancy like a bouquet
of flowers would work better?
My reply: “I
would probably put a wedding bouquet on a cannon. That would give a better idea
of the novel.”
Fast forward now to November 27. From my editor:
“I’ve discussed
this with our editorial director and we both feel that the cover is a nice mix
of the wedding theme and the war elements of the story. How else can we portray
that kind of detail without making an ugly cover? And I prefer this very
striking cover to the landscape covers which are getting generic for the
Regencies at this point.
Additionally, I
want to remind you that you and I worked very hard to completely rewrite The
Wedding Journey copy [she’s referring to the original back cover blurb] so it
accurately reflects the storyline – which the original copy mostly glossed
over. When we have the accurate copy available on the etailer page with this
striking cover, I think it presents a very intriguing package for readers. Do
you agree?
Please let me know
your thoughts!”
By now, I see what’s going on. They have no
intention of changing that cover, but they want me to be happy, happy with it.
I mean, I have to be happy. Jeez Louise.
My reply: “It doesn’t matter what I think, because
obviously no one’s going to change that cover. It’s lovely for a wedding in the
British countryside, but not for what the book is about. I just don’t care
anymore.”
And I didn’t. I know when I’m licked.
Her response:
“Hi Carla,
We absolutely want
you to be happy with your cover. Is there a time tomorrow you’re free to chat
so I can get a better idea of what you’d like?
Realistically, I
don’t think we’ll be able to find the art for something like a cannon with
flowers on it or the army tent background that I know you had originally
suggested. But we can talk through some other scenes.
[She invited me to look at other covers they had done for ebooks, and I
dutifully did.] Let me know if there is a
good time and number to reach you!”
Numb by now, I gave her a good time to call me and
my number. This morning, I figured out a perfect solution: just use two
silhouettes of a man and a woman looking at each other. Just the heads. I nosed
around on the Interwebs and found exactly what she can use.
This is the email I sent this morning:
“Jesse, here’s your
dilemma: I looked through that blurb copy, which now actually gives away a bit
too much about The Wedding Journey, but which is better than the original. If
you insist on keeping your drawing of a barouche and flowers, which never once
appear in the novel, it also doesn’t match in any way the new, improved
copy. Believe me, I understand the issue here: no one can spend any money on
these covers. Here’s a workable solution and one that surely the art editor can
find by just looking around on the Internet. I did it this morning. Use two
silhouettes, one a man with slightly curly hair (I found of those), and a
woman. Silhouettes were all the rage in Regency England. Just use two
silhouettes. That gets us around the barouche and flowers which have absolutely
no place in the novel, and the back cover, which talks about war in Spain. Two
silhouettes. And if you can’t find two silhouettes, then one silhouette of a
woman. Simple.”
I didn’t hold out much hope, but I think I’ve been
proved wrong. Here’s the email I got later this morning:
“Thanks so much for
your feedback. We think we’ve incorporated your suggestions into these new
concepts, while still keeping the overall look that our Art and Marketing
departments have created to brand the Regency releases. We want them clearly
visually branded as Signet Regencies with this art style, which is why design
options are so limited. I’m attaching the original artwork and two options more
in the tone of the story. I think the second incorporates your silhouette
request really strongly, and both steer clear of traditional bridal flowers or
themes. Let me know what you think?”
I think they’ve done it. The open road and the
lowering clouds really fit the book. Generically, the landscape could easily be
Spain. I honestly did not think Signet would try to find a solution. It’s nice
to be proved wrong. I emailed back and told her that the open road and lowering clouds really fit the tone of the novel.
So, dear readers, if you have a hankering to be
published in the national and international publishing world, do be careful
what you wish for. Dealing with editors who are convinced and won’t bend are as
numbing as some readers who are wicked mean. But now and then, there’s a
glimmer that they really do want me to be (ahem) happy. And I am. They could just as easily have left that #^&^% barouche and flowers on a Spanish battlefield.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Dagnabbit, but I'm disgusting
Sometimes, readers make my back molars throb. This morning I was snooping around on Amazon and reading a few readers' comments about my books. What to my wondering eyes should appear but a real doozy. Boy howdy, was it mean-spirited. It was for Marriage of Mercy, that Harlequin that no one at Harlequin read because the title and back blurb have zippo, zilch, nada to do with the book. All in all, it's a pretty good read.
Ooh, not to someone named Tyson. She gave it one star, and the title line of her review was "Disgusting." The first sentence was "Carla Kelly is disgusting." Well, that got my attention. Some folks think I'm tolerable. Anyway, she didn't like the book because it was way too sexy for her tastes (umm, it's not that bad). I was supposed to be known as an LDS writer, so how dare I do that?
I don't generally respond to icky stuff like that, but I did this time. I thought I was reasonable. You judge:
"Tyson, I don't usually comment on book reviews, but I take exception to character assassination. I'm not primarily known as an LDS writer; that's your fiction. I wrote some 30+ Signets and Harlequins before I started writer for a more LDS audience [should have added 'on occasion']. I currently write for three publishers. If you want to review a book, fine. I can take that; poor reviews are part of the job. If you felt Grace was pathetic, that's certainly your choice. But to call me disgusting is rude and unmannerly. I would never call you disgusting. I don't know you and it would be the height of rudeness to make such a comment about you. You might be interested to know that when Borrowed Light came out, my first LDS-themed novel, a reader used to my other books wrote a death threat. Amazon kindly removed it. So I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. Just watch your language when you attack writers rather than books."
Writing for a variety of publishers is a ticklish situation, granted. That rather odd phrase "clean read" gets bandied about a lot in Mormon fiction. Before my foray into LDS fiction - something I don't read much - I never had heard that term. I currently owe two Regencies to Harlequin over the next 18 months or so. And there's that delightful publishing company in Seattle willing to let me try my hand at historical crime fiction. I probably still have a few more books in me for LDS-themed fiction, too. I'm toying with a sequel to My Loving Vigil Keeping. (I mean, I know what's going to happen to Della and Owen, so maybe I should share it.)
Maybe my books should come with a warning label: Harlequins are PG-13; ditto The Double Cross from Camel Press; early Signets are mostly PG; Cedar Fort's books are PG. That could satisfy readers who get their knickers in a twist when characters do more than hold hands.
So let the reader beware, I suppose. Just don't call me disgusting. Some folks think I'm fun to be around. I'm sure Tyson is a nice person. Even if she/he weren't, I wouldn't be so cruel.
Back to Safe Passage, a book I'm writing about the Mormon Exodus from Mexico in 1912. This could be a bit tough for Tyson, too, because the main character and his wife are estranged and have real issues to work through, as they try to avoid getting killed by guerillas in Mexico. Disgusting ol' Carla Kelly has fun.
Ooh, not to someone named Tyson. She gave it one star, and the title line of her review was "Disgusting." The first sentence was "Carla Kelly is disgusting." Well, that got my attention. Some folks think I'm tolerable. Anyway, she didn't like the book because it was way too sexy for her tastes (umm, it's not that bad). I was supposed to be known as an LDS writer, so how dare I do that?
I don't generally respond to icky stuff like that, but I did this time. I thought I was reasonable. You judge:
"Tyson, I don't usually comment on book reviews, but I take exception to character assassination. I'm not primarily known as an LDS writer; that's your fiction. I wrote some 30+ Signets and Harlequins before I started writer for a more LDS audience [should have added 'on occasion']. I currently write for three publishers. If you want to review a book, fine. I can take that; poor reviews are part of the job. If you felt Grace was pathetic, that's certainly your choice. But to call me disgusting is rude and unmannerly. I would never call you disgusting. I don't know you and it would be the height of rudeness to make such a comment about you. You might be interested to know that when Borrowed Light came out, my first LDS-themed novel, a reader used to my other books wrote a death threat. Amazon kindly removed it. So I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. Just watch your language when you attack writers rather than books."
Writing for a variety of publishers is a ticklish situation, granted. That rather odd phrase "clean read" gets bandied about a lot in Mormon fiction. Before my foray into LDS fiction - something I don't read much - I never had heard that term. I currently owe two Regencies to Harlequin over the next 18 months or so. And there's that delightful publishing company in Seattle willing to let me try my hand at historical crime fiction. I probably still have a few more books in me for LDS-themed fiction, too. I'm toying with a sequel to My Loving Vigil Keeping. (I mean, I know what's going to happen to Della and Owen, so maybe I should share it.)
Maybe my books should come with a warning label: Harlequins are PG-13; ditto The Double Cross from Camel Press; early Signets are mostly PG; Cedar Fort's books are PG. That could satisfy readers who get their knickers in a twist when characters do more than hold hands.
So let the reader beware, I suppose. Just don't call me disgusting. Some folks think I'm fun to be around. I'm sure Tyson is a nice person. Even if she/he weren't, I wouldn't be so cruel.
Back to Safe Passage, a book I'm writing about the Mormon Exodus from Mexico in 1912. This could be a bit tough for Tyson, too, because the main character and his wife are estranged and have real issues to work through, as they try to avoid getting killed by guerillas in Mexico. Disgusting ol' Carla Kelly has fun.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Black Friday
It's Black Friday and I'm going to the store. Don't try to stop me. We're out of milk. Then I'll go home and write.
What happened to Thanksgiving? I was going to just bite my tongue and not write anything about this big fat travesty where people bolt down their turkey or whatever it is people eat now on Thanksgiving, then go stand in line for five hours at Toys 'R Us so they can buy something a few dollars off the usual price. According to the Deseret News, one woman also rented a moving van to carry away all this swag. Jeez Louise.
Maybe I'm a bit grouchy because our younger son didn't make it here for Thanksgiving. I'd been looking forward to seeing him, but he felt he didn't get enough time off from work for the drive. He asked me if I was mad, and I told him no, but that I was disappointed because I wanted to see him. And that's true. Plans change. We still had a nice Thanksgiving.
I had my own fun by watching that high-larious WKRP in Cincinnati episode about the turkey promotion. No one was better at comic timing than Gordon Jump who gave that immortal line (wait for it, wait for it): "As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly." Ah, yes.
My personal Thanksgiving moment came as it usually does. I thought about the special kind of courage it took to get into a ship - a small one - and sail across an ocean to land on a shore no one of them had ever seen, and at a rough time of year. I'm forever grateful that the Separatists also took the time to draw up a compact that set out some simple rules for survival. It was the first governing document for Plymouth Colony and served notice that social order would be the rule of the day. Thank you, gentlemen.
My real Thanksgiving epiphany came about ten years ago, in December. I had flown to Charleston, South Carolina, to see my son graduate from the U.S. Border Patrol Academy. After the ceremony, he and his classmates (half of the ones they started with) flew out immediately to their posts. I had a few days to kill before my flight home, so I drove to St. Augustine, Florida, for a little research, and then back to St. Simons Island, Georgia, where I had spent some of my happiest childhood time.
I drove to Fort Frederica National Monument, built between 1736 and 1748 by James Oglethorpe. He had been sent to form the buffer colony of Georgia, to protect the more-valuable Carolinas from Spanish Florida. There are remnants of a few buildings - the barrack, the magazine, the fort itself - and foundations. The old moat is now a grassy swale. It's a lovely spot.
Ordinarily, Georgia isn't too cold in early December, but it was chilly that year, and there was a brisk wind making it colder. After a stop in the visitors center, I walked through the village down what I believe was called Orange Street. I walked to the edge of the village, past many foundations, and past the fort, until I was standing on the shore of the Frederica River.
I was the only visitor that early morning. I only had to stand there a little while to "get it." If there had been trouble from Spanish Florida, and they did have some serious trouble in 1742, there was no help anywhere - no thundering cavalry to ride over the hill and save the day; no way to get a message through quickly to Charleston that gee, we're in a tight bind here. These inhabitants, soldiers and settlers, had to rely entirely on themselves. The only thing between them and disaster was, well, them.
It took real courage to be a Separatist, or a Pilgrim, or a settler on a remote Georgia island. Faith was a real component, too: faith in themselves and each other, and faith in God who wouldn't desert them in times of desperation.
I've not certain I'm that brave, but I like to think about it on and around Thanksgiving. It's more important to know what's inside my mind and heart than how much money I can save on a driveable pink Power Wheels car. I'm getting a little worried about some of my fellow Americans. If we forget our past, we'll be in our own tight bind.
So this is my shout-out to those hardy souls who had that special courage it took to scratch a foothold on the absolute edge of a mighty continent. I remember you, even if fewer and fewer Americans do. Maybe as long as some of us remember, it will be enough. But I'm worried.
What happened to Thanksgiving? I was going to just bite my tongue and not write anything about this big fat travesty where people bolt down their turkey or whatever it is people eat now on Thanksgiving, then go stand in line for five hours at Toys 'R Us so they can buy something a few dollars off the usual price. According to the Deseret News, one woman also rented a moving van to carry away all this swag. Jeez Louise.
Maybe I'm a bit grouchy because our younger son didn't make it here for Thanksgiving. I'd been looking forward to seeing him, but he felt he didn't get enough time off from work for the drive. He asked me if I was mad, and I told him no, but that I was disappointed because I wanted to see him. And that's true. Plans change. We still had a nice Thanksgiving.
I had my own fun by watching that high-larious WKRP in Cincinnati episode about the turkey promotion. No one was better at comic timing than Gordon Jump who gave that immortal line (wait for it, wait for it): "As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly." Ah, yes.
My personal Thanksgiving moment came as it usually does. I thought about the special kind of courage it took to get into a ship - a small one - and sail across an ocean to land on a shore no one of them had ever seen, and at a rough time of year. I'm forever grateful that the Separatists also took the time to draw up a compact that set out some simple rules for survival. It was the first governing document for Plymouth Colony and served notice that social order would be the rule of the day. Thank you, gentlemen.
My real Thanksgiving epiphany came about ten years ago, in December. I had flown to Charleston, South Carolina, to see my son graduate from the U.S. Border Patrol Academy. After the ceremony, he and his classmates (half of the ones they started with) flew out immediately to their posts. I had a few days to kill before my flight home, so I drove to St. Augustine, Florida, for a little research, and then back to St. Simons Island, Georgia, where I had spent some of my happiest childhood time.
I drove to Fort Frederica National Monument, built between 1736 and 1748 by James Oglethorpe. He had been sent to form the buffer colony of Georgia, to protect the more-valuable Carolinas from Spanish Florida. There are remnants of a few buildings - the barrack, the magazine, the fort itself - and foundations. The old moat is now a grassy swale. It's a lovely spot.
Ordinarily, Georgia isn't too cold in early December, but it was chilly that year, and there was a brisk wind making it colder. After a stop in the visitors center, I walked through the village down what I believe was called Orange Street. I walked to the edge of the village, past many foundations, and past the fort, until I was standing on the shore of the Frederica River.
I was the only visitor that early morning. I only had to stand there a little while to "get it." If there had been trouble from Spanish Florida, and they did have some serious trouble in 1742, there was no help anywhere - no thundering cavalry to ride over the hill and save the day; no way to get a message through quickly to Charleston that gee, we're in a tight bind here. These inhabitants, soldiers and settlers, had to rely entirely on themselves. The only thing between them and disaster was, well, them.
It took real courage to be a Separatist, or a Pilgrim, or a settler on a remote Georgia island. Faith was a real component, too: faith in themselves and each other, and faith in God who wouldn't desert them in times of desperation.
I've not certain I'm that brave, but I like to think about it on and around Thanksgiving. It's more important to know what's inside my mind and heart than how much money I can save on a driveable pink Power Wheels car. I'm getting a little worried about some of my fellow Americans. If we forget our past, we'll be in our own tight bind.
So this is my shout-out to those hardy souls who had that special courage it took to scratch a foothold on the absolute edge of a mighty continent. I remember you, even if fewer and fewer Americans do. Maybe as long as some of us remember, it will be enough. But I'm worried.
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