New review from Stephanie Burkhart

Gonzales pens a story that will tug on your heartstrings with "Dark Days of Promise." Vicki Laramie is struggling to raise three children when she learns her ex-husband is killed in Iraq. Kelly Chase has just left the Army and suffers from PTSD. Can they help each other through their dark days to find happiness?

The story opens with a realistic look at Vicki's struggles. Thankfully, her neighbor, Janine, gives her the emotional and steadfast support Vicki needs to get by. Enter Janine's son, Kelly. He's just left military service, but finds adjustment to civilian life a challenge. Despite their attraction, Vicki and Kelly are challenged at every turn. When something traumatic happens to both of them, will it prove to be the turning point both of them need to move on with their lives?

Gonzales' writing style is easy to read and she handles the first person narrative well. The plot moves at a nice clip.

The best part of the novel is how Gonzales taps into emotions. Phillip is the teenager you want to ground for life, yet he's sympathetic as well, searching for the one person to help "ground" him.  Vicki is honest and real and raw. Kelly struggles with issues many do upon returning from war. The supporting cast is just as endearing. Gonzales isn't afraid to show us their strengths, vulnerabilities, and weaknesses.

The story has a spiritual element, but doesn't come off as "preachy." In fact, Gonzales does an excellent job showing the power of faith in a very natural way. The story is sweet for romance readers, with the main characters holding hands and kissing. In fact, it was nice to read a "sweet" romance that didn't feel forced. Overall, "Dark Days of Promise" offers hope in the face of adversity and is a heartwarming story. I highly recommend it.

For more interesting stuff from Stephanie, go to her blog.http://sgcardin.blogspot.com

Fun Scene---(or st least the first part of it)---as promised!

Chapter

Trevor simultaneously slammed on his brakes and hit his horn. Astonishment coursed through his veins at the sound of a train whistle emanating from his newly acquired truck. He had little time to wonder while keeping his vehicle from swerving out of control. He pumped the brakes again and came to a stop. The goat did little more than look at the bright red truck and continue munching on whatever it held in its mouth. A bag bounced across the street, carried by the morning breeze. Contending with a four-footed creature for the right-of-way on a busy thoroughfare wasn't what Trevor had bargained for on his visit to what he expected would be a quiet adventure to Arbon, Idaho.

The goat bounded after the dancing plastic bag. Trevor let off the pressure on his brakes allowing his truck to roll forward in the goats wake. Entertained by the unexpected distraction, Trevor watched the frolicking animal as it chased the bag and jumped high in the air after it. Amused, Trevor pulled into the fast food restaurant's parking lot. The little black and white critter scampered first one way and then the other after the bag and even slipped on the pavement once while pirouetting in its pursuit. Trevor chuckled; the goat looked like he had airplane wings for ears! The animal skidded to a halt, bleated a moment and bounded toward the brightly colored picnic tables. With acrobatic ease that would make the goat's cousin, the mountain goat proud, the animal high tailed it onto the bright yellow table surface. The goat appeared to square his white neck and shoulders, much like a prize fighter returning to a bout and immediately began prancing and dancing.

A young woman, dressed in her work smock, exited the restaurant and confronted the four footed dancer. Unimpressed by the human's efforts to scare him away, the goat jumped off the yellow table and just as easily mounted the blue table top. Trevor half expected the goat to kick the previous diner's remains off the table to make room for his performance. Instead the goat snatched up the paper plate and started munching away.

The young woman approached waving her arms wildly to startle the animal. He merely stared at her, bleated and continued munching what Trevor assumed was a syrupy plate. Beaten by the uninvited patron, the frustrated young woman returned inside. Trevor watched the goat, several questions running through his mind. Whose goat wandered the streets of this small town? Did they know their goat was terrorizing what appeared to be the only fast-food establishment in town? How long would the goat occupy the table top?

Trevor mentally shook himself. This goat had nothing to do with why he was here. The only thing this interlude accomplished was a much needed break from his long drive. When he took a few minutes to relax, he had to admit he was famished. Maybe with a not breakfast, instead of a granola bar, he would manage to organize a game plan. He had little to go on other than his grandfather's journal. He had all summer to find the mine, if it really existed, and the riches the journal described. One thing at a time, and the first thing was to satisfy his hunger.

Come back to learn who the goat belongs to, and how long the goat will occupy the table top.

Previous first chapter to WIP

A story of love and sacrifice

Lord, help thou my unbelief…

Chapter 1

"I'm sorry Porsche, I just can't continue to support both of you girls. I know this comes out of the blue, but I hope that you can understand why I feel I should help Mercedes finish school. She hasn't vacillated in her chosen field like you have. I just can't justify continuing to throw good money after bad. When you decide what you want, we'll talk again."

Porsche couldn't believe her ears. Grandmother Wilkes had offered to pay for college tuition for years. Because of Grandmother's assurance that Porsche's college education was going to be at Grandmother's expense, Porsche has spent her money on a car and explore various universities one semester at a time. Now, that decision was coming back to haunt her.

"I understand Grams. It just comes as a surprise."

"I know dear. I wouldn't have wanted this for the world, but my portfolio really took a hit when the company I invested in sold. The new owners are uninterested in the opinion of an old woman or her investment. Maybe you can find a job to pay for your schooling."

"I'm sure I can. Thanks Grams. I love you."

"I love you too, dear."

Porsche ended the call and set her smart phone on the coverlet of her bed before the tears invaded her evening.

In the weeks that followed, she made the most of her remaining days at UNLV. Making sure she didn't miss a single extracurricular activity that caught her interest, hoping that at least one would outshine all the others. It just wasn't happening.

The day she had to call home for money for the third time in a month was the day she decided to return home and take her old job back, working for Uncle Reinhold at the hardware store.

She and her twin sister, Mercedes, had worked summers for him. It was while working for him that she had earned enough to buy an old car. Dad had fixed it up and it served her well. Mercedes would become the only college student in the family and Porsche would be the daughter living at home. She had to earn money to get out of the small town of Arbon before it became too comfortable to leave.

(Okay, this isn't the fun scene I promised---Come back in a couple of days...)

WIP Update

My current project is succumbing to major revamping. The reason? Most readers don't associate with double climaxes even if they think they do. It is a programmed response from years of reading. Solution? Start smack dab in the middle of the first climax. (Okay, I already knew this but momentarily--as in for three months, got mentally stuck on 'what happens when a stranger comes to town.') Yes sir-reee that was and still is a fun scene.

(Me with my mind swirling) Wonder if I should share that scene with ya'all????) It would certainly give those of you who follow my work something to chew on for a few days…weeks…months…

Two edged sword…love it and can't wait and love it but wanting to kill me for not sharing more or getting the book to you sooner.

Humm…Do we understand that it takes longer to build a story that the reader can't put down than it takes to actually read the book?

Then there is finding the perfect publisher, fitting it into their publishing calendar. We could be a good year out with this one…maybe release a prequel on smashwords???

Your thoughts? Opinions? Or did I lose you guys when you didn't get all of The Talisman? You can click on the title here or the tab at the top of the page and read if you're interested.

Come back and help me figure out a good title for this one. Do I need tempt the winner with a free copy when it is released and seeing your name in print?

Celebrate Your Freedom!

Wishing the continuance of our freedoms to pursue happiness to each of you. Please celebrate responsibly.

An Addiction to words is a Tough Habit to Break.

After writing a short and having to carefully choose which words to use, it is possible that I enjoyed a limitless word count for this scene in my current WIP just a bit too much.

Seeing the pool area from inside the house didn't do it justice. The planters were arranged for paramount effect on the viewer inside, but outside, the greenery's varied layers invited the visitor to explore the large pool area without dripping into the waters cool depths. A fountain lavished the far side of the pool area with a constant flow of water, giving the area a refreshing music of sweet ambiance. Nestled within the green of the potted plants, near the shallow end of the pool, stood a cabana of vibrant yellow and blue striping overhead, and a heavy veil of yellows tied back to the corner posts giving them a sturdy yet yielding sway to any breeze that dared stir the air. The scent of roses lingered in the air. Porsche scanned the area to find the flowering bushes of deepest red nestled against the sandstone building. She momentarily craved the opportunity to repose here in this garden oasis, drinking in the sensations of luxury mixed with quiet pleasure.

Sedrick's nudge on her elbow grounded her, bringing her back to their purpose for being here. "He's over there by in the cabana."

Porsche took several steps in that direction, stopping short. Dr. Whipple's description of Mr. Palmer didn't include his apparent age. She had expected an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair. The man before them was anything but old. He sat looking the other direction, oblivious to their approach. His hair was dark and a bit on the shaggy side, definitely in need of a cut. His shoulders were wide and well muscled.

Sedrick stepped around her, walking up to Mr. Palmer without hesitation. She remained where she stood watching. Mr. Palmer turned his chair slightly and returned Sedrick's greeting. Something about him triggered a familiarity that she couldn't place. She stared at him, unseeing, trying in vain to place what it was.

Mr. Palmer's casual greeting and polite smile with which he greeted Sedrick froze when he looked her direction. A strange expression etched his otherwise handsome features.

"Don't worry man. She's a student. I'll be taking care of you and all your man needs. She don't even need to see your bits."

Writing a Pain-filled Story

Writing update, least you perceive that I'm waiting on my laurels for some humongous event.
While children focused on finishing the school year, yours truly focused on creating an autobiography.
 I'm very aware of those of you who have asked me to write my own story over the years. I've gently refused delving into painful memories of living with the pain. But with WUFC's (Writers Unite to Fight Cancer) founder asking for me to share my story in under 4000 words, I have at last acquiesced. The limited word count allowed me to touch on moments that illustrate my experience with Multiple sclerosis without reliving them intently. Doing so made the hard part of the task much easier. At last the tale is completed and with beta readers.
(Beta readers are skilled authors of my acquaintance that will shred my baby before returning it to me in the course of making it stronger, faster, better than it was before. Okay, maybe not faster.)
Lest you get too excited or begin to place me in hero status, be aware that I have ulterior motives and that it is for a good cause that I write. This autobiography will be submitted, with a nice out-of-pocket fee in WUFC's annual writing contest. Contest winners will be published and sales from the book will be donated to cancer research.
I'm proud to be a part of WUFC at this juncture in my life and will let you know how the piece does later this summer/fall. If it does well, I'll obviously encourage you to purchase the book (I probably will anyway.) And if the piece doesn't win, I'll share it here.
Until then my friends---
Live in the beauty of the sunlight,
Laugh with those who share your lives, and
Love more intently than you have before.

Get Your Crafty Little Hooks in 'em!

Some have asked, "What in the heck is a 'hook' and do I need one?"

Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition has 7 definitions for the noun (we won't mess with the verb for this one.) The definition that we are interested in for this answer is 1 b: something intended to attract and ensnare So this is our goal in writing since there are literally over one hundred thousand books out there vying for the reader's attention.

The successful author must become an adept fisher. If you have met or know a fisherman, you very quickly learn that fishing is an art. The goal is not to catch every fish with a single hook on a single cast but several fish over a period of time. And we all know how fishing stories are all about the biggest fish and the one that got away.

In writing, our goal is to hook the reader, or fish, not once but over and over again. The more often, the better because not only with the fish come back to your fishing hole or book, but he/she will bring friends. We like friends, they buy more books.

(Me, wiggling my brows like the villain in the old silent movies.)

A 'hook', according to yours truly, is that single sentence that catapults the reader into a frenzy of unanswered questions. This is the 'sweet spot', but beware--you, the author, had better be prepared to answer the myriad of questions with a wide net. Don't run scared here. You have the tools, a vivid imagination and hopefully a plot, even if you are, like me, the occasional 'panster.'

I try to weave one of these 'hooks' into the end of almost all of my chapters. They can be as short as: I was pretty crazy. Which engenders the questions like:  Crazy stupid or crazy young or crazy in love or a few other crazies. What does she mean crazy? Crazy how?

On the other hand, the 'hook' can be a bit longer. As in: "It's taken care of, most of it anyway. Let's step into the hallway." Thus the questions hit a wider spectrum. What is 'it'? Taken care of, how? Most of it, what part wasn't? Why do they need to step into the hallway?

The tricky part of a hook is answering these questions in a believable way and without the dreaded INFO DUMP. Did I say that? Yep. But this is a topic for another day.

Let's return to how to handle the 'hook'. In a previous post we see that we are ending a chapter with a hook, but does it have to be the very last sentence(s) of the chapter? No, BUT it is recommended that the chapter end within one hundred (100) words of the 'hook'. Any more than that and the author risks losing the impact of the 'hook.' After all, the 'hook' is a tool used by authors to create that illusive 'page-turner.'

If you are a reader, you're reading this going 'so what?' I love this author and the way he/she writes. He/She never uses these things you call 'hooks.'

Oh contraire my dear friend. Maybe this tool is used so expertly you haven't noticed why you feel compelled to turn the page or buy the next book in the series.

Happy Father's Day Dad

As so many others, today I pay homage to my dad. To the best Dad I've ever had.

 I'm not sure between these two moments captured on film which one was the happier for my dad. I don't think I'll ever know since he died just a year after these photos were taken. What I do know is how much he loved Mom. (Notice the Chershire cat smile and adoration for her as Mom unwraps the only surprise for her under the Christmas tree -- she did all the shopping for the whole family.) Somehow he'd manged to keep this fisher boy night light a sealed secret that my mother cherished until it met with misfortune some twenty years after his death.

I get a kick out of this photo. You can see that Dad wore his hat every day, even in mid winter, thus the "farmer's tan."And the flannel shirt and overalls were his wardrobe staples providing him with the many pockets necessary for farm duties. (Mom made all of his shirts.)

This photo captures his utter surprise at finding much needed boots under the tree. If you can't tell, he isn't wearing any footwear that morning even though I seem to recall he'd already been out to tend cattle.

Chapter Lengths Do Matter

I have often heard the question by new authors, "How do you know when to start a new chapter?" Or "How long should a chapter be?" Or variations thereof whether at conferences, on-line or face-to-face (yes, authors do occasionally leave their writing niches for 'live' human contact.)

The answers are seemingly as varied as those answering the question. So, here are my few cents worth (Those that have read or will read my work in the future can watch for these.)

#1 - In my opinion, there is no such thing as a chapter that is too short, as long as it contains a complete scene - I've read one that was less than a page. Although I love writing and verbalizing a bit too much to accomplish this feat of excellence.

#2 - I personally like to have a chapter run about ten pages but I've read one or two that were closer to thirty.

#3 - Since most readers assume that a chapter break is the best place to put a book down, the author is facing the dreaded loss of interest by the reader. So as Jack M. Bickham says in his book, Scene and Structure, " always end them(the chapter) at a point where the reader can't put the book down." So, the simplest way to avoid the dreaded 'lay down'  is with a carefully crafted 'hook.'

#4 - Generally speaking, your chapters in a specific work should be relatively similar, but don't be afraid to step outside the box if the plot benefits from it.

#5 - IMHO, A chapter needs to have a chapter goal, whether stated or inferred, usually only one point of view or viewpoint, and ends in a jarring disaster.

Note: The jarring disaster is not the same as your story climax.

Now, before you etch these guidelines in stone and thereafter set the stones in cement, remember that every guideline is simply that, a guideline and at times, to keep your reader involved, needs to be broken. Don't break the rule or guideline just because you're feeling lazy or can't figure out how to make it work. Remember that writing is work and you better be doing it for the love affair with the writing craft, not the perceived accolade or cash at the end of the proverbial rainbow. Just like in real life, where there is rarely a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so it is with writing and if everyone could do it, we would all be authors and not readers.

Goal - for Dark Days of Promise to go viral. I hope you all catch it and feel better because of it.

Horsey Sauce ain't like Momma's used to be.

Excerpt from a novel - Houdini's Vice - that is being deleted but it shadows an experience I had. Mom used to grow horseradish in the garden for Dad, but we kids, or at least I never had it.

                          

Porsche wrinkled her nose remembering her first experience with the spicy condiment. She had attended a work luncheon her first year away at school. She ordered a Rueben plate. The horseradish arrived on the side and not wanting to offend her host, Porsche had dressed her sandwich with a generous dollop. The first bite hadn't been bad with just a hint of heat. Her second bite, a borderline unlady-like one at that, hadn't proved as benign. The heat started at her nose, tickling at first. She inhaled and the rush to her sinuses cleared them for the landing of a B52 bomber in the dessert, it was time to send in the rain in the form of her tears. She blinked them back feeling like the country bumpkin she knew herself to be. Frantic for relief, she grabbed her water glass intending to flood the barren wastes of her facial cavity. It proved the wrong thing to do as water only makes straight horseradish all the more potent. Could she have done more to send the steam out through her ears? She doubted it and even though years had passed, even the mention of horseradish made her cringe. Trevor was insane if he liked the stuff.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" Ilene laughed. "You look like I just fed you peas and liverwurst. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Porsche waved off her mother's concern. "I just don't like horseradish."

"What?" Ilene asked in surprise. "You used to love horsey sauce when you were a kid."

"Mom, horsey sauce with a horse crazed child and horseradish are two very different things." Porsche hurried out of the kitchen not wanting to explain her run-in to her mother.

(Photos belong to other websites.)

Writers Unite to Fight Cancer

So excited to be invited to join WUFC (Writers Unite to Fight Cancer) for such a good cause.

Memorial Day

Rolling through this weekend with a huge swelling in my breast. Thanking our armed forces for their defense of what I hold dear. Liberty. Freedom.

Scenes such as this inspired Dark Days of Promise. I don't know this man, but thank you.

Photo copied from markymarkinexile.blogspot.com

Compliments, Felicitations, and Dissertations

What woman in her right (or left) mind doesn't appreciate a heart-felt compliment?
I wondered that as I dismissed yet another kind felicitation. Am I insane? Well, that is debate-able, and on some days I would proudly proclaim "YES."

Okay, so what is this awesome compliment that I felt so unworthy of, you may ask. It was this--I'll try to summarize. Yes, as an author, and according to this compliment, I am very well qualified to do so.

Where was I/ Oh yeah, the summary of the compliment...You (as in I) should write children's books. That is where you excel. You have truly missed your niche in the writing field. Those stories you used to tell your children were riveting, and they still remember them.

I should have smiled demurely and answered "Thank you." But no, not this one. I had to lapse into a full dissertation on the skill required to write a children's book, complete with the value of reading levels and illustrations. Oh, when will I learn that sometimes (and I wonder if this was one of those times) a compliment is meant to lift the troubled soul. To bring a smile. Or to just make one feel good.

Hump...
So, to women everywhere...Next time a compliment comes your way, smile and say "thank you."
(You can always dissect the critter later.)

Life is Too Short Collection Review

This is not the kind of book you will usually find me reading. I'm generally the romance reader, not the sappy Harlequin types but the romance with a touch of humor, inspiration, intrigue or even time-travel. I'm not sure if that is because I'm a professional reviewer of those genres or if I'm a reviewer of those genres because that is what I generally gravitate to. Probably a touch of both.

Whether you are a woman, a wife, or a mother this book is one you will relate to. Actually those who have a significant other in their lives that fits into one or more of these roles will enjoy this book as well. Connie has a way of adding humor to those sometime difficult roles from a personal perspective.  The book is broken up into sections for easy referencing although it is an enjoyable read, with more than a few tidbits of wisdom generously sprinkled in, from cover to cover.

What woman (or man) can't benefit from these self-help nuggets? Whether it is learning to find joy in the moments that make up our sometimes bumpy journey in life, learning to appreciate the differences that make men/women relationships what they are, or reaching for the ideal mother that somehow we expect ourselves to be(and never quite managing the miraculous feat.) Connie Sokol puts it all into perspective and manageable bite size pieces to accomplish the goals the reader didn't know they even had. This collection stands as proof that sometimes--life is more entertaining than fiction and certainly worth the effort to make it better. This book undoubtedly deserves a  ***** (5 star rating).

Take a dip with me, the water's fine.

'Tis the season for judging and contests. Won't you take a dip with me? Who knows, think about all those long posts, emails, text messages, journal entries that you've written... maybe you are an author that just hasn't had the courage to spread your wings and try to fly.
I'm encouraging you to get involved and try. If not in the actual writing, why not visit the RONE Award voting  and check to see if that novel you read last week, last month or last year has been nominated. You are invited to cast your vote, and believe me, the RONEs are about what the readers think!

(Of course I would love to have you vote for Dark Days of Promise when the Inspirationals are up for voting in a couple of weeks.)

Second Annual WUFC Writing Contest

 

The Second Annual WUFC  Writing Contest is open for submissions from April 16th, 2013 - August 15th, 2013. 

Writers Unite to Fight Cancer (WUFC) is a group of authors who raise money for cancer research.

This year's theme will be the Drive to Thrive.

Everyone over the age of 18 is eligible to enter. May have been published before, or be a first time writer. Subject matter may be on any topic as long as it follows the theme of the Drive to Thrive.

Entry Fee is $30.00 per submission. There is no limit to the number of submissions allowed. The funds raised from entry fees and sales of books above the cost of production will be donated to the combined cancer research program at Southwest College of Naturopathic Medicine and Arizona State University under the Direction of Robert Waters.

Categories / Genres:  Word Counts limited to 4000 words.

Fiction - Short Stories or partial novels - all genres middle grade up to adult: Mystery, Fantasy, Science Fiction,  Dystopia,  Historical,  Steam Punk,  Inspirational, Paranormal, Speculative, Romance, Suspense, Western

Non-Fiction - Memoir / auto-biography, Self-help, Motivational, Inspirational, Spiritual, Essay or Editorial.

(Partial novels / books  must have a resolution within the text submitted.)

Do Not Submit: Horror, Erotica, Poetry, gratuitous violence, Foul or Vulgar language.

Maximum Word Count for all submissions is 4000 words.

Finalists and Winners will be given the opportunity to be published in the 2nd WUFC Writing Contest Anthology if they are willing work with one of our editors – at no charge.

All entries must be received by midnight 8/16/13. Send submissions to:

Margaret L. Turley, Administrator                      1146 N. Mesa Dr. #102-233
writersunitetofightcancer@gmail.com                               Mesa, AZ  85201
Website: http://writersunitetofightcancer.com     480-586-7902 – cell phone

RONE Awards --Round Two--

It is my pleasure to announce that my debut novel, Dark Days of Promise has made it to the second round of judging. Round Two is voted on by readers like you. Please visit the InD'Tales site (link included) and vote. My book is in the Inspiration Genre later in the judging, but it would be awesome if you would vote on all of your favorite categories. Who knows, you might just find some new and exciting reads!
http://www.indtale.com/2012-rone-awards

Logline Update:

This is what I get for sleeping on it. This story is a romance and as such, the target audience is predominantly female.

Whoa! That means that the readers will more readily relate to a main character that is female, not male. Oh Trevor, you poor underappreciated man! Will you forgive this feminine author and her female wiles? Complete with changing her mind on many occasions? I promise I will tell your side of the story as well…

(Trevor, after shaking his head and his fist at me.) Do I have any choice? But I reserve the right to be unpredictable if the mood strikes me. Don't you dare try to make me into the typical romantic lead, fawning over a brainless heroine. I won't save her if you do.

Porsche's logline:  Being headstrong and resourceful isn't always the best choice for a twenty-four-year-old woman unwilling to recognize her need to overcome her personal injuries and trust the one man responsible for her collapsing world before she can find true happiness.

(Trevor) So I'm responsible for her world collapsing around her am I?  I like it!

-Update - Writing helps - Logline -

For those of you who are not writers, let me advise you that your favorite authors work hours on necessary tasks that you may not ever be aware of just so that you, the voracious and occasional readers have hours of reading pleasure.
That said, I have recently read on another blog (I visit and read so many, I can't remember whose it was so let me just insert the post author's name, Jenny Hansen.) For years since I began writing seriously, I've wondered how in the heck to write a decent logline. For those of you who do not know what this is, let me summarize in my own words. (This isn't written in stone, so don't quote me.) A logline is one sentence that not only hooks the reader but tells who the main character is (without using his or her name), summarizes their story goal and the obstacle (read villain) that they must overcome and what is at stake. That is a lot of info to cram into one sentence! Oh, and did I mention that an acquisition editor that reads thousands of these every day, will toss it in the circular file (read trash) if it is a run-on sentence? Oh yeah, love and support your favorite authors and let them know it by stalking/following them. The stalking/following deal includes those who borrow books as a rule rather than buying the books.
Okay so I was looking through my files earlier this week for an unrelated item and came upon the saved info.
^^^^^^SCREECH!!!
Jenny instructed authors to begin a book by writing this logline, not trying to write it after the story is completed! Oh! So this is the tool I need to keep my characters from high jacking the plot!
Enter the chapter I shared here earlier this week. Time to write the logline to keep Trevor in line (He has been a frequent visitor to my writing dreams for years. He has a lot to say and I have tried -- much to his frustration -- to tell only a bit of his story. He is demanding center stage. Oh yes, he is willing to share the stage… as long as I am very clear on who the hero is!)
He is ecstatic that I am writing a log line to keep me in line.
So, without further ado…I think I've given it plenty…Here is the logline for Trevor's Story.

It takes more than a shove to steer a confident and headstrong, retired CEO of twenty-six in the right direction; it will take the nudge of an inquisitive mind and a spunky physical therapy student to learn to live again after the forces of nature threaten his fortune and his life.

Update - April 8, 2013

Since moving, I have found an old file that needs my attention and with any luck, the book will be ready for beta readers and the publisher later this year. So, this morning, I revamped and included what I've learned about goats, or rather wether goats which are castorated male goats. I'll share Chapter 1. Let me know what you think.

Chapter 1

Trevor simultaneously slammed on his brakes and hit his horn. Surprise coursed through his veins at the sound of a train whistle emanating from his newly acquired truck. He had little time to wonder while keeping his vehicle from swerving out of control. He pumped the brakes again and came to a stop. The goat did little more than look at his bright red truck and continue munching on whatever it held in its mouth. A bag bounced across the street, carried by the morning breeze. Contending with a foot-footed creature for the right-of-way on a busy thoroughfare wasn't what he'd bargained for on his visit to what he expected would be a quiet adventure to Arbon, Idaho.

The goat bounded after the dancing plastic bag. He let off the pressure on his brakes allowing his truck to roll forward in the goats wake. Entertained by the unexpected distraction, Trevor watched the frolicking animal as it chased the bag and jump high in the air after it. Amused, Trevor pulled into the fast food restaurant's parking lot. The little black and white critter scampered first one way and then the other after the bag and even slipped on the pavement once while pirouetting in its pursuit. Trevor chuckled; the goat looked like he had airplane wings for ears! The animal skidded to a halt, bleated a moment and bounded toward the brightly colored picnic tables. With acrobatic ease that would make the goat's cousin, the mountain goat proud, the animal high tailed it onto the bright yellow table surface. The goat appeared to square his white neck and shoulders, much like a prize fighter returning to a bout and immediately began prancing and dancing.

A young woman, dressed in her work smock, exited the restaurant and confronted the four footed dancer. Unimpressed by the human's efforts to scare him away, the goat jumped off the yellow table and just as easily mounted the blue table top. Trevor half expected the goat to kick the previous diner's remains off the table to make room for his performance. Instead the goat snatched up the paper plate and started munching away.

The young woman approached waving her arms wildly to startle the animal. He merely stared at her, bleated and continued munching what Trevor assumed was a syrupy plate. Beaten by the uninvited patron, the frustrated young woman returned inside. Trevor watched the goat, several questions running through his mind. Who's goat wandered the streets of this small town? Did they know their goat was terrorizing what appeared to be the only fast-food establishment in town? How long would the goat occupy the table top?

Trevor mentally shook himself. This goat had nothing to do with why he was here. The only thing this interlude accomplished was a much needed break from his long drive. When he took a few minutes to relax, he had to admit he was famished. Maybe with a not breakfast, instead of a granola bar, he would manage to organize a game plan. He had little to go on other than his grandfather's journal. He had all summer to find the mine, if it really existed, and the riches the journal described. One thing at a time, and the first thing was to satisfy his hunger.

Easter Morning

Wishing each and every one of you a good day on the glorious morning!
HAPPY EASTER!!!
Come back tomorrow for more Talisman --- no joke, I'm just getting started, but you? Hhhmm...do you want more? Let me know what you think this week. I'm thinking I've tickled your tastebuds just enouigh. Maybe you're wanting more and maybe not, but I'd love to know what you're thinking.

Indefinite Delay

Due to a family move over the Easter weekend, further posts of The Talisman will be postponed.

Wip - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part B

Rhea's heart dropped. No wonder Trish had returned home. Her life-long dream had been shattered. She had turned to plan B, whatever that was. Rhea gasped. Plan B, ride off into the sunset never to be heard from again. Could that be Plan B? It didn't seem that farfetched when she considered Grammy and her outlandish stories.

Tap, tap, tap.

Rhea flinched and looked at her window to discover Vance standing there. Rhea put her hand in motion, rolling down the window.

"Morning, Mrs. Larsen." Rhea could still remember changing this boy's diapers twenty years ago but still he used the formal address.

"Morning." Rhea interfused her thoughts and righted her demeanor.

"What brings you by this morning?"

"I'm looking for Trish."

"What? Miss Play by the Rules sneaking around behind your back or something?"

"Or something. She didn't come home last night…"

It didn't take long to discover that Yedi wasn't in his stall or that Trish hadn't returned her saddle and tack.

Vance pulled out his cell phone, astonishing Rhea with not only the number of people he called asking if they'd seen Trish but the clarity of the conversation via the wireless.

"Looks like nobody's seen her since yesterday morning."

"It didn't sound to me like anyone had seen her. Who said they'd seen her?"

"Me." Vance said as though the one syllable solved the puzzle.

"You," Rhea pounced on the clue. "Where? When?"

"Right here yesterday morning. She seemed fine."

"What did she say? Where did she go?"

"Whoa, Mrs. Larsen. She said 'Morning, I'm going riding.' That was it. She didn't say where she was headed or when she planned to be back."

"Which way did she go?"

"Down the road, but that isn't going to help us any. She was on horseback and she knows the valley as good as I do. It wouldn't surprise me none if she turned up in a day or so, telling us she'd followed the Oregon Trail or the Old Stage Coach Trail."

"Did she take supplies?"

"I didn't notice any other than her canteen, but really, I pulled out of here before mid morning to get to that sale in Idaho Falls on time. She coulda come back by and Mom wouldn't have seen her if Trish came to this north gate."

"Young man, you are not helping," Rhea accused.

"What's to help? If Trish wants to vanish up one of these canyons, she's likely to do it and see more deer and elk than hunters do. She's a survivor. You know that. Heck, she taught me about most of those canyons."

"And her father taught her."

"Don't worry about her."

"I can't help it. It's womankind's nature to worry and to top it off; I have a bad feeling about this."

"Why?"

Rhea reached through the open car window, grasped the piece of bad news and handed it to Vance. "This, is why."

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Present Day

Part A

Rhea woke with a start. Why was she sitting up in her chair and in the living room? Trish!

Rhea scrambled to right herself, plucking her reading glasses from their precarious perch at the end of her nose with one hand while fumbling for her romance novel that had slid between the chairs generous cushions. The grandfather clock ticked with its usual disciplined beat. She reached to turn off the lamp on the side table. The first pale glimmer of dawn beckoned at the horizon across the valley. Pushing the footrest closed, she stood and moved carefully through the waning darkness to see the clock's face. Five o'clock. She had fallen asleep waiting for Trish to come home.

This wasn't like Trish. Yesterday had been her birthday but she hadn't seemed overly distraught about it. She'd left the house early to go riding.

Maybe she'd gone with Vance. No one at his home had answered the phone last evening and Rhea had left more than one message. Of course if Vance and his mother were anything like herself, the light on the message recorder could go unnoticed for more than a day.

Where was Trish? Cell phones were wonderful gadgets and maybe after this, she would get one, but service was spotty at best in this valley and thus her decision to keep the landline. It was too early to call. Vinita, Vince's mother worked the late shift and wouldn't be up until after eight. That left her one choice, to go over and try to catch Vance before he got too engaged in training or left to deliver a horse. Why did Trish have to agree to go into business with Vance? He was so young and full of dreams, not to mention being cock-sure of himself.

Rhea mentally shook herself. Trish and Vance and their huge dreams were not the issue this morning. Finding Trish was.

Rhea paused long enough in the kitchen to grab a couple pieces of toast, she'd need it to think straight and if the day demanded more? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. With her purse strap over her arm, butter slicking her fingers from the toast and keys in the other hand, Rhea hurried through the brisk morning air to her car. The old Pontiac Grand Prix turned over and burst into the gentle roar of power tweaked by local teens. Taking her foot off the brake she let the power roll the heavy car down the drive before coaxing the engine to speed down the dirt road. Oh Trish, where are you?

Ten years ago, Rhea would have thumbed through Trish's notebook, looking for friends and boyfriends whose couches Trish would happily crash on in a case like this. But not today. Trish had come home after weeks of phone calls from Rhea, begging her to reconsider.

Trish had reconsidered all right, right into Vance's dream of horses and training grandeur. What had become of Trish's dream to become a defense attorney? Rhea mulled the possibilities around in her head. Maybe something had happened at the law offices of Mikelson, Hoffman and Bauer. Trish had seemed happy enough until that last phone conversation. Rhea shook her head; she'd not held the power to sway Trish's decisions since high school. Something or someone else must have been the cause for Trish's willing return home.

Deep in thought, Rhea took the corner a bit too fast. The papers on the passenger seat slid. Rhea slapped her hand on them to keep them from falling to the floor. Letting off the accelerator, Rhea pulled safely into the yards of Vance's dream-come-true. As Rhea lifted her hand to put the car into park, the papers slipped to their earlier destination, the floor. It was only then that she took the moment to read. She didn't have to read much to discover the reason for Trish's rash decisions. The letter informed the reader that Trish had not passed her bar exam.

WIP - The Talisman - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Part C

Quinn stirred the fire, getting it going again. He figured it was about three in the morning. The horses squealed alerting him to what had woken him in the first place. He didn't usually wake at this hour unless he had good reason. This spring the job for Leavitt had stolen many nights sleep, what with the wolves running the range. The men had opted to work in pairs this year, all but Quinn. He preferred to work alone to protect his secrets, even if it meant less sleep. Leavitt paid well for these occasional short jobs of gathering his livestock from the rough passes of this ridge. Passes no one knew as well as Quinn.

He checked the horses. The stallion pawed at the ground, testing the tether line. Quinn checked the knots and tightened the line. It would be unwise to try to traverse this country without a horse. Though not wide eyed, the stallion seemed ready to bolt at the slightest altercation. Quinn soothed the animal, running an appreciative hand over his sleek coat. The stallion's head was fine, his eyes speaking of intelligence. Could this stud be stolen property? Maybe he was used for breeding as he certainly wasn't a cowpony. This was the type of animal Quinn would happily breed his mares against. Too bad the mare he rode on this trip wasn't in season. If she were, no doubt there would have been a bit more squealing on her part.

Quinn had spent years bartering good breed mares for his training services. Noble was notorious for not recognizing a good animal and even worse at caring for them. Quinn had rescued more than one prime mare from the man.

 Finding all well with the horses, he returned to the campfire. The woman had named herself Trish, not what he would have expected.

He filled the quiet hours of darkness watching her sleep. Her long hair had a hint of red in the firelight. Her features were gentle, her cheekbones high, her nose slightly upturned. He wondered how old she was. The dirt and grime smeared along her cheeks and chin masked her age quite adequately, a comely woman, not overly attractive.

Why would a woman dress like a man? Her clothing choice wasn't the only thing that seemed odd. Her shirt had fancy stitching and a collar like that needing a cravat of sorts, but she had none. And her pants: she looked to be plumb poured into them. Of course though it had been merely a glance, he had noticed the curves of her figure. Zelda had once been slight like Trish, and he'd liked Zelda that way. But time at Pierre's saloon had changed her.

When Quinn had first watched Trish from the cover of a downed tree nearby, she had seemed so small and needy under Old Curly's cruel captivity. Curly had threatened to take a poke at her and her whole bearing changed. Trish had become a she wolf, fighting for her life. A reaction totally opposite of how he knew Zelda would have reacted. Obviously this woman was cut from different cloth.

Trish had proved her capability to use a weapon quite well; he had the broken tooth and a nasty bump on his head to attest to it. He glanced at the dead man. She had finished him as well. A daughter, even one with amnesia wouldn't turn on her father unless… How long had Curly had her trussed up? Had he hit her or threatened to rape her before? If he had, he'd gotten what he deserved. Nah, it didn't make sense. Curly was as old and dirty as years of nothing but trails could make a man. Trish, on the other hand was clean in spite of the dirty smudge on her face and arms.

In Quinn's experience women generally needed taking care of. Trish apparently did too. Of course when she'd been free of her tethers, the tables had turned.

She turned over in her sleep, pulling her blanket up and exposing her feet. He appraised her boots. The heel seemed high and the fringe… Common sense, even that of a lady, deemed such extra trappings unwise. Maybe she was hiding the fancy stitching across the toe of the boot. The woman's clothing didn't make sense.

Trish wasn't like other women he'd known. His mother and sister were both genteel ladies of the South although they'd not been strangers to work. Zelda, though not refined, certainly enjoyed the softer side of life. Honest work, whether in the house or the fields wasn't what Zelda relished. Lucinda, Albert's wife, wasn't a complainer. She dealt with living in the rough cabin for the past year with a loving, even doting affection for Albert. They all needed defending at some point, but not this one.

Trish was different, and spirited -- just like her stallion. He liked a spirited horse. He'd trained many of them. They made the best mounts, even in a cowpony. Spirited animals worked hard and would give a man their last ounce of strength.

The log in the fire dropped, sending sparks into the air. Trish stirred, turning over but didn't wake.

Birds chirped heralding the coming of morning. Steam rose from the heating coffee pot. At last she awoke.