Fire, fire, burning bright

First, the good news: my website is up and gorgeous, which means I didn't do it. Check out http://www.carlakellyauthor.com/. Cedar Fort created it, and they let me list other books, too. Daughter of Fortune and Here's To the Ladies also link to Amazon, etc. This blog is also on the new website, which appeals to the lazy in me. I write it here, and it shows up there. Magic. (I never said I was computer savvy.)

Several more of my early Signet/Penguin-Putnam regencies are now listed there, too, and available as ebooks. You're also welcome to leave any comments.

Yep, Daughter of Fortune is out now as paperback and ebook. It was my first novel, and it taught me a lot about the bidness. In The Double Cross, book #1 in my Spanish Brand historical mystery series, I "revisit" the scene of the action in DOF, but one hundred years later. Note to prospective authors: always write about places you love to visit, because then every visit you make is tax deductible. (I am savvy about that.)

Right now, the place not to visit is central Utah. Scary times here. We're now just a canyon away from the Seely Fire, and an hour through several canyons from the big Sanpete County fire. That's if we were inclined to drive to Sanpete County, which we can't do anyway, because all the roads from here to there are closed. There's been a mandatory evacuation of Scofield, so my mind and heart is on that little cemetery so full of "my" guys. Of course, there's no grass to burn in the cemetery, just sand and rocks. You can't get to Clear Creek either, that lovely little community with restored Finnish-style houses to the south of Scofield. Big sigh.

Ash is in the air, the sun went down red last night, the winds are starting to pick up, and the sky to the west, north and east are full of angry-looking, brownish smoke. All this reminds me of Nancy Caesar, MD, a neonatologist at Cox Medical Centers in Springfield, Missouri. I used to be a medical writer/PR person there. Nancy told me once that with all our modern science and cool gadgets, parents just naturally expect a perfect outcome when their child is born. As Nancy put it, we have lost touch with the idea that sometimes things can go terribly wrong.

So it is with fire here and floods in Florida, and other disasters. Sometimes our modernity lulls us into thinking that we're in charge. Guess what? We're not. Fires burn. I remember heated debates on this in the National Park Service, with rangers who want to accomodate tourists who expect a perfect visit in a national park, but who are also aware that fires are necessary. When fires burn, visitors want fires put out immediately. I understand this. What some people don't get is that fire is nature's way of tidying up. When things aren't allowed to burn and the dry and rotten wood piles up, it will burn at some point. It's hard to balance public use of land with the proper stewardship of that land.

The trouble with this, of course, is that we have moved ever closer and closer to forests as population expands, and people have more leisure time for cabins in remote areas, etc. We love our woods. Homes march up hillsides and into deeply wooded areas, often in defiance of the order of things.

We're never in charge, and this will never change. I have a healthy respect for fire. Let me recommend two excellent books on the subject: Young Men and Fire, by the marvelous Norman MacLean, and The Big Burn, by Timothy Eagen. MacLean was given a posthumous award from National Book Critics for his 1992 story of the 1949 Mann Gulch fire in Montana, where 12 smokejumpers perished. In his beautiful, elegiac prose, his subject is death - facing his own mortality - and the science and nature of fire. Magnificent book.

The Big Burn tells two stories: the August-September 1910 monster fire that roared through eastern Washington, through Idaho and into Montana, and the coming-of-age of the newly minted U.S. Forest Service. I used both books when I wrote Borrowed Light. My Wyoming monster range fire also took place in 1910. Julia discovers the terror of fire sucking all the oxygen out of the air, and the overwhelming urge to run in front of a fire, which cannot be outrun.

(Both books are available for cheap as used books on Amazon.)

I can't tell you how often in the last day or two I've thought of what Mr. Otto tells Julia (I paraphrase): "Watch the ridge. Watch the ridge. If the wind changes, watch the ridge. If you hear something that sounds like a freight train, run for the river and don't look back."

We're watching the ridge.

Carla the fangirl

I am a giddy fangirl. Boy howdy, did I have fun last week in Choteau, Montana. I'll have even more fun if I get an answer to a fan letter I left with Rose at the Elk Country Grill.

Word of explanation - Choteau, Montana, is a small town (1,788 inhabitants) on Highway 287, which roughly parallels the Rocky Mountain Front Range. The view is simply not to be believed, except there it is and I love it. We were on our way to visit son Jeremy on the border and stopped for lunch in Choteau at the Elk Country Grill.

Whenever possible, which is nearly always, I avoid chain restaurants when I travel, or anywhere else, for that matter. The Elk Country Grill fit the bill - no atmosphere, old chairs and tables, handmade quilts lining the walls, and an elk bugling call that lets the servers know when the food is ready in the kitchen. How great is that? The service was fast, and the roast-beefy-potatoey soup definitely did not come out of a can. Rose gets my vote as a superlative maker of pies. Her crust was as good as mine, and mine is quite good. (No, I have never served Humble Pie. Can you tell?)

Anyway, I was chatting with Rose at the register and happened to mention that I like driving through Choteau because it was the home of A.B. Guthrie, probably my favorite writer of the West. He's well-known for The Way West (Pulitzer liked it to the tune of a prize), The Big Sky, The Last Valley, These Thousand Hills, and my personal favorite, ARFIVE. ARFIVE is a brand, and it's the story of the ranching settlement of Montana. I've been known to open the book to favorite passages and read them aloud to an appreciative audience (moi).

I expressed my admiration of AB Guthrie to Rose, and she said, "His daughter Helen comes in here quite often, and she loves to talke about her dad."

Oh gosh, I was so excited. Rose said that Helen was out of town right now, but expected back soon. I said I was going to be back through Choteau in October, on my way to a booksigning in Cardston, Alberta. Would Rose mind if I wrote Helen Guthrie a letter and left it at the Elk Country Grill for Helen, when she returned?

Rose didn't mind a bit. During my visit with Jeremy, I composed a letter to Helen Guthrie, telling her when I would be through Choteau again, and asking if I could take her out to dinner and listen to some Bud Guthrie stories. I left the letter with Rose on my way back home, and am hoping I hear from Helen Guthrie, who (according to Rose) is 78 or so and quite lively.

Oh, gee. I should be finishing Chapter 17 in The Double Cross, my New Mexico mystery, but don't you know I'm going to pull out ARFIVE and reread that section where well-seasoned rancher Mort Ewing goes to Missoula for his ward's college graduation. Such good writing.

Canada was fun, too, for lots of reasons. One reason was that I got to meet Lane Cook, mighty hunter/rancher/Subway owner, in Waterton Park. He's a compact, handsome fellow with killer dimples, and apparently a very good team roper. Lane and his wife and young daughters live on a ranch near Cardston with his parents.

Last spring, the elder Cook was in the chicken house when he heard a sound overhead in a crawlspace. Varmints can accumulate in sheltered places during an Alberta winter, and he wondered what was passing through the Cook ranch and decided to stay awhile. He would have whistled up the family dogs, but they were nowhere in sight. He pulled up the trapdoor and found himself staring at a highly irritated, too-close-for-comfort mountain lion. No joke.

I asked Lane just how close that lion was to his father and Lane said, "Dad told me, 'I could smell his breath and count all his teeth.'"

The way Lane tells it, his father didn't know he could run that fast. He shouted to Lane to get his gun, and Lane shot the cougar. Shaken, the two ranchers started looking for their dogs. They found one of them in that crawlspace over the chicken house, where the mountain lion had been trying to bury it and save it for a late night snack. The other dog, merely a pup, had managed to squeeze himself through the cat flap and was cowering inside the house. He's probably still inside the house.

Lane skinned the mountain lion, went through a mound of paperwork, and is having the pelt turned into a rug. Jeremy knows the Cooks really well. He asked Lane if his daughter, who usually carries a BB gun when she goes to feed her own animals, had her firepower "upgraded." Lane just grinned. "I gave her a 22."

Tough people. Most folks never get that close to a mountain lion and live to joke about it.

I know the most interesting people. I plan to use that story in the book I'm working on right now.

P.S. My very first Signet Regency, Summer Campaign, is now out on ebook. I've seen the ARCs (advanced readers copies) for My Loving Vigil Keeping. You'd think it was my first novel, with all the thrill that gave me.

Old Friends

I'm probably the world's worst blogger, because this is such an artificial setting for me. As with most people, now and then something interesting happens. When it does, I like to write about it. Mostly, though, life is a series of small things. Because of that, I choose not to bore you too often with my ordinary life. Lately, it's mostly consisted of reading for research about Comanches, visiting grandkids, proofing and re-proofing manuscripts to get them ready for printing. Are you excited yet? Me, neither.

We're going to Montana next week to visit our son, Jeremy. People ask where he lives in Montana, and it's a bit hard to describe, since it's an enclave on the Blackfeet Reservation just a short distance from the border. There is guvmint housing for Customs guys (The Blues) and Border Patrol agents. There's a large building on the border to let people out and back in, and then a short distance north, another building for the Canadian border workers. Nearest shopping is in Cardston, Alberta, about 20 minutes away. Jeremy has three passports - a garden-variety one, a special guvmint one, and a smaller, credit-card-sized one. As he says, unlike Jason Bourne, it's the same name on each passport.

While we're there, we'll visiting Waterton Park, which morphs into Glacier National Park, once the border is crossed. We'll be visiting some places further north, too, including a coal mine. One of these summers, we'll venture farther north to go to the Calgary Stampede. I do like a good rodeo.

This past Tuesday, we spent the night in Mapleton, Utah, with old friends, Jan and Rick. The purpose of the gathering was a book club, which had chosen Borrowed Light for their read. There were 21 of us, with Martin and Rick in a back room. Martin said later that we were laughing so much they had a hard time talking. Ah, yes. That's what a good book club should be. All's right with the world when ladies can get together and talk books.

We've known Jan and Rick since our salad days in Torrington, Wyoming, beginning in 1972. We were all young and dumb and poor, with little kids. Rick was a social worker. Martin taught theatre and English at Eastern Wyoming College. Jan and I were mostly home with kids, but during the summers, I rangered at nearby Fort Laramie National Historic Site. Jan did sing in the community college concerts. She had an amazingly beautiful voice.

We moved to Provo, Utah in 1975, so Martin could start work on his doctorate. He and our kids went ahead and I finished the season at Fort Laramie. One night before I left to join my troops in Utah, Jan and Rick and I drove to Scottsbluff, Nebraska, to see a new movie called Jaws. Scared us all silly. Jan confessed later that she and Rick wouldn't sleep on their water bed for a few nights.

Life moved on. We kept in touch via Christmas letters, and then five or six years ago - maybe more- I stopped in Cheyenne to visit them. We've stayed in better touch since then. When Rick retired and they moved to Mapleton, Utah, we were only a few canyons away. Now we visit our old friends. I never thought they would leave Wyoming - Rick's a native son. He's devote to BYU athletics, so that's why they moved.

Rick had a remarkable career, moving steadily up the state agency ladder until he was the top dog in social work/child advocacy in Wyoming. He did some traveling as a consultant to other states, and is a respected leader in his field. I strongly suspect that Wyoming will never be able to replace that knowledgeable, humble, doggedly determined, fearless man. There are quite a few children who owe their lives to Rick.

Jan, too. When he was out in the field, and not in Cheyenne offices - although it probably happened there, too - Rick brought home broken children to Jan. They would keep them for a few days so Rick could do a more informal, comforting assessment, and have a better idea where and how to place them, for their own safety. Their own children learned to roll with the punches, although Rick says the night he brought home a baby covered in blood was a tough one for his kids. It was the baby's parents' blood.

Jan remembers feeding one little boy four or five helpings of bacon and eggs. Turns out he hadn't eaten in three days. Jan said everytime she asked him if he wanted more, he would just look at her solemnly and nod. These were typical days in Jan and Rick's home. Look up nurture in the dictionary. I'm just sure you'll find a photo of Jan and Rick.

I'm so thankful for people like them. I am reminded of that excellent movie, To Kill a Mockingbird. Atticus Finch has just lost the case for the black man accused of rape. He and the children go home, and then Atticus learns that his humble, innocent client has been shot to death while trying to escape. Atticus goes to give the bad news to the man's family.

Scout is sitting, disconsolate, on the curb, with the neighbor lady joins her to comfort her. As near as I can recall, the lady tells Scout that Atticus Finch is one of these people chosen to "do our dirty work."

I feel that way about Rick and Jan. What a noble man. What a courageous wife. He's had successes, and failures, and he has not forgotten them. His job took an enormous toll, but I'm grateful that those helpless children in Wyoming had a prince for an advocate.

Well done, Rick and Jan. You're the best.

I have another set of old friends that I'm in touch with again. Last fall, after a visit to our younger son in northern New Mexico, I started a historical mystery set in 1780 in that area, when the Comanche were at long last beginning to be tamed in that area, or at least, were focusing their considerable energy toward the poor folk in Texas. Spain was pulling back what little border security there was, which meant the citizens of northern New Mexico were pretty much on their own.

I was supposed to be writing that third book in my last Harlequin contract, but I was drawn to these new "friends" of mine. I wrote 15 chapters, then returned to the novel due in January. When I finished that, I wrote My Loving Vigil Keeping, which comes out in August.

My New Mexico story was only on a back burner. I showed my 15 chapters to an acquisitions editor in Seattle, and she liked them, too, to the tune of a four-book contract for my Spanish Brand series. Now the decks are cleared to finish the book. I'm writing it in the style of a Spanish fable, which has turned into a gently humorous approach or a serious subject: life on a dangerous frontera. Widower Marco Mondragon is the brand inspector (yep, they've been around for 400+ years),and his new bride is Paloma Vega. And now there is Toshua, an older Comanche who is just about to enter the story. Paloma is terrified of Comanches, and Marco has told her to nurse the Indio back to health. Marco knows Paloma is braver than she thinks.

They're my old friends now. I've known them since October. Looks like we're going to be in each other's company for a goodly time. If I need a point of reference for their particular kind of courage, I'll just think of Rick and Jan, and other old friends who have influenced my life probably even more than I know.

Beware the Coddling Moth

Ah, 'tis the season. My daughter, Liz, took a call this afternoon from our next door neighbor who told her, "Tell Martin it's time to spray for coddling moths." Kathy hung up, and Liz was mystified. I suggested to Liz that quite possibly our little hamlet of Wellington, Utah - home of the gotcha speed trap - is also a center of espionage. It sounded like code to me. We have a password in our family, which I dare not divulge, or I would have to kill you. It is not coddling moths, however.

When Martin returned, he cleared it up. Apparently the coddling moth is something that attacks apple trees, ours specifically. Kathy works for the Carbon County extension agency, which deals in coddling moths. He also told us that last year, Kathy delivered this message: "Time to spray for moddling cloths." I'm not sure which one I like more.

Barring a real kerfluffle from the coddling moths, the garden is mostly planted now. I was sent on an errand this morning to locate zucchini seeds. Believe it or not, they were hard to find. Fast forward to August, when everyone has waaay too many zucchini, ranging from tiny to submarine. In August, you can't even give away zucchini. It's the only time of year people lock their cars around here, for fear someone will sneak a zucchini or ten into the backseat. It appears that people are planting way too many zucchini right now, which leads to overpopulation in August.

I'm no gardener. I leave that to my husband, who enjoys gardening. We have a perfect division of labor. He plants it (I helped when forced, but I whine a lot), and I cook it and can it.

Massive change of subject. Usually my transition is much more polished, but hey, there are coddling moths, er, coddling close by, and I need to get this done. I've added book covers to this blog. The good folks at Cedar Fort - Angela Olsen principally - did the lovely one for Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand. Some equally talented folks in Seattle did the one for Daughter of Fortune, also an improvement on the original.

Mrs. Drew will be out in September. It's one of my Signet reprints. Roxie Drew earned me my first Rita Award from Romance Writers of America. Daughter of Fortune, set in 1680 in the Spanish colony of New Mexico, is my first novel, published in 1984, I think. It's a bit hard to find now. A while back, a hardback copy was for sale on Amazon for $200+, but I can't imagine anyone actually paying that. Anyway, it'll be available in paperback and ebook from Camelpress in July, I believe.

Be kind. It's a first novel. Then, as now, when I sit down to write, I receite my mantra: "This is not Hamlet and I am not Shakespeare," before I start to write.

In September, Signet is releasing Libby's London Merchant as an ebook. Ditto with One Good Turn in November, the sequel to Libby. I don't do sequels too often, but that was a much-requested one.

Right now, I'm reading about Comanches, preparatory to completing Book One in The Spanish Brand series. I'm calling it The Double Cross. You'll have to buy it to find out why.

There's a flutter at the window. Coddling moths must have escaped from the apple trees. (Now there's a secret code phrase. If Jeremy Ritter will drop by for dinner some night, I'll share it with him for the next Bourne movie.

My heroes

There was a little article in this morning's Deseret News about Florence Smith Jacobsen, who is 98 years old now, and going strong. Years ago, she was general president of the LDS Church's Young Women's Mutual Improvement Association. It's a worldwide organization for LDS young women ages 12 to 18.

She also served as Chuch Curator. It was in this capacity that I had my only encounter - via letter - from Sister Jacobsen. It was in the mid-'70s, when I was a seasonal ranger at Fort Laramie National Historic Site, located in Eastern Wyoming. As curator, Sister J asked me to do a little survey of local historic sites that were also of interest to Mormons, who pioneered what became known as the Mormon Trail in 1847. Specifically, she wanted me to drive to Chimney Rock, near Bayard, Nebraska, and see what kind of historical site it was, and how the state of Nebraska was maintaining it.

One day, we put our three youngsters in the car and drove to Bayard, Nebraska, about 40 or 50 miles from Torrington, where we lived. The historical site was maintained by the state with rustic restrooms, and a signboard, as I recall. I took photos. It was rudimentary, at best.

What happened then, I've never forgotten. You've probably seen photos of Chimney Rock, a distinctive formation that most folks traveling west from 1847 on, wrote about in their journals. It was a milestone of sorts to those trail pioneers, because they knew they were approaching the heart of the west.

Sam was our youngest child then. I think he was about two years old, a sturdy little guy. Martin set him down and Sam and his older sibs started walking toward Chimney Rock. It was some distance from the signboard, but away they went, glad to be out of the car. I watched them. Eventually, I called them back, because it was time to leave. The older two turned around, but Sam kept walking. And walking, on those short legs. He was quite determined to reach Chimney Rock (It was still at least a mile away), and didn't take kindly to being stopped.

In my mind's eye in 1974, I could see other little ones like Sam, walking and walking along the Mormon/Oregon/California Trail, 120+ years before our fact-finding visit. In their case, they had no choice, no warm home to return to, no safe bed to sleep in, no guarantee that there would be anything for them at the end of the trail, or even if they would ever arrive in the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Sam humbled me that day with his determination and courage. I've never forgotten it, and I still silently thank Sister Jacobsen for creating a memory. What a chuff I am. I have tears in my eyes as I write this, and I'm not particularly sentimental.

We also stopped at Rebecca Winter's grave, on the return to Torrington. In 1854, I believe, Rebecca Winters, one of the saints headed to Utah Territory, died of cholera. Her grieving family buried her by the trail, and stretched out a wagon tire iron, to arch over her grave. Years later, when the Burlington Northern Railroad was surveying the route by Scottsbluff to lay track, they came upon that tire iron arch, which had been crudely inscribed with Rebecca's name, date of death, and destination.

Kindly railroad officials managed to located Rebecca Winter's family in Salt Lake. Her descendants returned and put up a very nice marker, which also included words from that Latter-day Saint trail anthem, "Come, Come, Ye Saints:" It's the verse that reads, "And should we die, before our journey's through, happy day, all is well. We then are free from toil and labor, too, with the just we shall dwell. But if our lives are spared again, to see the saints their rest obtain, oh, how we'll make this chorus swell, All is well! All is well!"

The railroad kindly did a jog around Rebecca Winter's grave. Today, there is a nice area, plus more of a marker, as Rebecca Winters continues to touch passersby. All is quite well at that monument to pioneers.

Anyway, I sent photos and descriptions of what I found at Chimney Rock and the Winters' grave to Sister Jacobsen. I couldn't resist, though, and my native cheery temperament took over. I told Sister J that I was really sorry, but Chimney Rock was eroding, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

Sister Jacobsen filled her Church Curator's role with great accomplishment. She was responsible for saving the Lion House, the home for many of Brigham Young's plural wives. It had been headed for demolition, but she made a proposal to preserve it that was wise, and led to its renovation, rather than ruin. It remains a lovely landmark in downtown Salt Lake City. She also suggested the creation of the church's Museum of  History, which is a wonderful place today. She also supervised the renovation of the interior of the Manti Temple. which I have always considered one of the most amazing pieces of historic architecture in the United States. We happen to be fortunate enough to live in the Manti Temple district and spend quality time in there.

So my hat is off to you, Florence Jacobsen, and you, Sam Kelly, for touching my heart in many ways. You're my heroes.

Hi diddle dee dee, a writer's life for me

Ah, crazy times in the writing world. I came home from Salt Lake today and found a leetle box from Harlequin, which usually means one of my books has been translated into another language. The book cover was for Beau Crusoe, the book I wrote that still makes me blush a bit, but I had not a single clue what the language was. Usually I'm good at languages, but this one defeated me. A serious look at the small print on the inside cover revealed the language: Turkish. Wow. This means I've been translated into nine languages now: English, German, Italian, Korean, Japanese, Swedish, Dutch, Spanish and now Turkish. Anyway, I have three copies of Beau Crusoe in Turkish. Know anyone who speaks Turkish?

My reading epiphany came years ago when I finally read War and Peace, which was a superfine book. Trouble was, all the time I was reading it I kept wondering, "If this is so good in English, imagine how much good it must be in Russian."  Now I have no ego that my translated books even hold an unlit match to Tolstoi, but I do wonder how they read in other languages. The only ones where I'll have a glimmer is when Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand and Reforming Lord Ragsdale come out in manga in Japan. Comic books of Regency novels!  To quote probably Jane Austen, "I'm diverted."

A kind reader was curious about status of forthcoming stuff. Here goes: Enduring Light is now at the publisher's, and I think the plan is a January 2012 release. I've seen a draft of the cover, and it's gorgeous. Julia is just the cutest thing, and Mr. Otto approves. I had so much fun writing Enduring Light that it must be illegal in at least 24 counties. Driving home through the canyons today, I started daydreaming and wondering who I would cast as Mr. Otto, Julia and James in the movie version... Maybe I should pay attention to the road, eh?

Coming Home for Christmas is a three-story anthology I wrote for Harlequin. It will be out November 15, I believe. My editor and I thought about this one and decided on a family during that trusty, rusty Regency era, with three members trying to get home for Christmas. I ramped it up a bit this way - the first story is about a ship's surgeon stranded in San Diego in 1813, on the far side of the world with no rescue at hand. The next story is his daughter's story, when she is Doing Good in northern Turkey during the Crimean War, and also trying to get home for Christmas. The third story is her son's story. Like his grandfather, he is a surgeon, but in the U.S. Army, on leave from Fort Laramie and trying to get home to Philly for a Christmas wedding. The three-generation thing worked quite well, and I had fun. It's handy when wars line up so neatly for my characters in three generations. I'm going to enter the first short story, "Christmas in Paradise," in Romance Writers of America's Rita Awards contest, in the novella-length category.

I'm currently writing The Hesitant Heart, set at the aforementioned Fort Laramie during 1876, that summer of the Rosebud battle, the Custer fight, and the Starvation March. Nuff said about that, because I prefer not to discuss what I'm currently working on.

Now to the saga of Choosing Rob Inman, which begins in Dartmoor Prison just as the War of 1812 is winding down. I turned it in in November of 2009, and heaven knows what hole it dropped into. All I know is that it will be coming out in the middle of 2012, and has been renamed Marriage of Mercy. I kid you not. If I searched for years, I doubt I would have come up with a worse title. Tell you what: if you buy a copy, write Choosing Rob Inman on a 3x5 card and paste it over Marriage of Mercy. For all that, it's a good book. Maybe someday it'll end up translated into Urdu.

Marian's Christmas Wish is now up on Amazon and will be out in September. Why September? Maybe to beat the Christmas rush. This is a reprint of a book that came out in 1989, I think, but which is hard to find now, hence the reprint. It will also be available in ebook format. Also out for Christmas, but so far only in ebook format, will be a collection of four of my earlier Christmas stories: "The Christmas Ornament," "Object of Charity," "Make a Joyful Noise" (a personal favorite), and "The Three Kings," rather a dark tale.

Oooo, horrible transition (read, none) to this next paragraph -

You know what question I get a lot about Borrowed Light? People want the recipe for Cecils with Tomato Sauce. Here it is:
1 c. cold roast beef or rare steak finely chopped
salt and pepper
onion juice
Worchestershire Sauce
Flour
2 T. bread crumbs
1 T. melted butter
Yolk of one egg, slightly beaten
Season beef with next salt and pepper, onion juice and W Sauce; add remaining ingredients, and shape into the form of small croquettes, pointed at ends. Roll in flour, egg and crumbs, fry in deep fat, drain and serve with tomato sauce. (Julia substituted ketchup, for the sophisticated palates of her guys on the TTP.)

And that's it for me. Back to The Hesitant Heart.  One more thing: I'm speaking at a writers' conference at Utah Valley University on October 6. It's an advanced romance writing class. I called it "Now What? Writing and Selling." Not sure what I'll say yet, beyond don't quit your day job, and always keep a copy. I'll have something useful by October 6. I promise.

Truly random natterings

I have a writing board by my computer. At least, that's what I call it. You know, those easel thingees you used to prop up letters or information or notes, while you're writing. When I finish a writing project, I generally deep six the chapters outlines, etc., that have gathered there, and clear the decks for the next book. What this does it get me down to the metal surface of the writing board, where for years I have affixed various thoughts that either appealed to my twisted sense of humor or - hopefully - a more tender side.

On the funny ones, I added this little poem from the Wall Street Journal when my kids were the age where this made total sense:
Heavens Above
If children moved away at twelve,
We'd wring our hands and grieve;
Thus God provided teenage years
To make us glad they leave.

(It's attributed to Steve Cornett, who must've had a doozey of a week with his teens)

This bit of fluff came from the Orlando Sentinel:
What do you know about Holland? The British wit Alan Coren wrote this about it: "Apart from cheese and tulips, the main product of the country is advocaat, a drink made from lawyers."  That still makes me chuckle.

One of my favorite authors was Ellis Peters, who wrote the wonderful Brother Cadfael series. This bit of wisdom is from One Corpse Too Many, where the good monk teams up for the first time with under sheriff Hugh Beringar, creating one of crime fiction's best duos:
"You did the work that fell to you, and did it well. God disposes all. From the highest to the lowest extreme of a man's scope, wherever justice and retribution can reach him, so can grace."

The historian in me that never lurks too far below the surface always appreciates this, because it is monumentally true of people and times. It's from the introduction to The Age of Napoleon, which was co-authored by Will and Ariel Durant, surely one of history's most interesting - and possibly unlikely - couples:
    "All in all, in life and in history, we have found so many good men and women that we have quite lost faith in the wickedness of mankind."

And this, by a wise man, indeed, Bishop Gregory of Tours, many, many years ago, from his History of the Franks:
   "A great many things keep happening, some of them good, some of them bad."

As I embark on chapter five of The Hesitant Heart, a novel set at Fort Laramie in 1876, I am always in agreement with this wisdom from Galsworthy: "Idealism increases in direct proportion to one's distance from the problem."   I've done many years of research on the Indian Wars, and let me assure you, this was a common complaint on the frontier, when soldiers flinched as folks sitting comfortably back home were in huge sympathy with the Indians on the plains. (Now don't think of me as hard-hearted. I'm a total realist, and I look at the Indian Wars from the 19th century POV. The US Army acted as an agent of the federal government, nothing more.)

This comment from the great Ray Bradbury is something I am always mindful of, when I write. I hope all writers are:
    "I held the bird in my hands, one hand cupped over the other. I could not feel the weight of the bird and would not have known it was there or even alive except I could feel its heart beating. So it is with a good story or poem. You should feel the heartbeat, without feeling the weight of what you are reading."

To conclude on a lighthearted note: "Don't put off 'til tomorrow what you can do today. That way, if you liked it, you can do it again tomorrow."

Now to fill up the writing board with new chapter outlines... It's all good.